The Hall of Clear Judgement was colder than the winter outside. Its walls swallowed voices, its floor gleamed with jade that seemed to reflect nothing but suspicion. The morning assembly had been called earlier than usual, and the courtiers who arrived knew why: Lord Gao had carried something in his sleeve.
Li Ziyan entered with her head high, though the snow still clung to the hem of her violet robe. Li Qiang walked two paces behind, his face carved into stone. Wei kept to the shadows, hands tucked into his sleeves as if he were nothing more than a weary attendant. Only Zhang Jinrui's steady nod at the door reminded her she was not standing entirely alone.
Prince Ning occupied the dais. His crimson sash was drawn tighter than usual, his expression unreadable. To his right sat Grand Secretariat Zhou, lips pressed thin. To his left—Lord Gao, who wasted no time.
"Your Highness," Gao said, rising, "the court has long suffered uncertainty about Minister Li Ziyan's loyalties. Now that uncertainty may be resolved. At dawn, a steward of my household received a packet delivered from one of her kin—Li Cheng, son of her uncle. Inside lay this."
He produced a lacquered case, the ribbon still damp with frost. He unrolled the ledger within, spreading its pages like a net before the ministers. "A record of concessions to Xia. Grain routes shifted, border patrols thinned, ceremonial allocations diverted. Written in Ziyan's own hand, carrying the weight of her family's ink."
Murmurs spread like fire through dry reeds.
Ziyan did not blink. She stepped forward. "And yet that same dawn, the Censorate's night box received a different ledger—also in my hand. One that shows the truth of Qi's strength, not its weakness."
A Censor stood, confirming the deposit. He laid the second ledger beside Gao's. At first glance, they were near identical. But in the margins of Gao's copy a small discrepancy bloomed—columns reversed, allocations unbalanced, the kind of error an untrained eye might miss, but an Education Ministry clerk would note instantly.
Ning's gaze swept the hall. "Two ledgers. Both bearing Minister Li's brush. One must be false."
Ziyan inclined her head. "Yes, Highness. The false one came from hands too eager to guide mine."
Lord Gao's eyes flashed. "Convenient words. How will you prove them?"
Ziyan lifted the ledger from the Censorate. She turned it toward the hall, her voice clear. "Every page I write bears a habit only a true scribe notices. In the left margin, near the tally strokes, I leave a hair's breadth of space—half the width of a thread. My father once beat the habit from me with a rod. But habits do not bleed so easily."
She placed both ledgers side by side. "One has the thread. One does not."
The ministers leaned forward. Some whispered. Others frowned. At the edge of the hall, Li Wenxu, Minister of Education, sat unmoved. He did not confirm. He did not deny.
Gao's jaw tightened. "A child's trick."
"A phoenix's feather," Ziyan replied softly. She tapped the margin of the true ledger where the faintest shimmer of diluted ink formed the shape of a feather if one knew to look. "The false copy bears a cicada, not a feather. My family would know the difference."
A silence heavier than any accusation settled.
Prince Ning leaned forward at last. "So your claim is this: the false ledger left your house, carried by your kin, into Lord Gao's hands."
"Yes," Ziyan said.
"And your father?" Ning asked, his eyes sharp.
Ziyan's chest tightened. She forced the words out evenly. "My father sent my cousin to assist me. What he chose to carry from my desk was his decision. What reached Gao was his doing."
For the first time, a flicker crossed Wenxu's face. Not outrage, not denial—only the faint curl of amusement, as if the game had unfolded precisely as he expected.
Gao bristled. "Your Highness, you would take the word of a girl against the honor of a Bureau head?"
Ning's reply was mild, but carried the weight of iron. "I take the word of ink. And ink says two stories were written, but only one reached the box meant for judgment. That is enough to muddy your river, Lord Gao."
Gao's face flushed, but he bowed, unable to press further.
The hall exhaled in cautious relief. But Ziyan felt no victory. Her father's silence had spoken louder than Gao's rage.
When court adjourned, Jinrui walked at her side until they reached the outer gate. His tone was low. "You set a trap. You caught a fish. But the river itself belongs to your father."
Ziyan did not answer. Snow clung to her lashes like ash.
That evening, in the teahouse, Li Qiang and Wei waited by the brazier. Wei's eyes flicked to her face. "It worked?"
"It worked enough," she said, though her voice lacked triumph. "But Gao is not the enemy. He is only a knife. My father is the hand that guides it."
She sat, pressing her palms against the warmth until it hurt. "And I do not know how long Ning will let me keep breathing. He tests me with silence as much as words."
Li Qiang leaned closer, his voice rough. "Then we stay at your side. Let him test us all."
Wei gave a crooked smile. "And if we fail?"
Ziyan closed her eyes. "Then I will learn how much of me can burn before only ash remains."
The brazier cracked, sending sparks upward. In their glow, her doubts loomed larger than her enemies. Family, prince, ministers—every face a mask. Every promise, a chain.
But the feather still marked the true ledger. And the cicada had sung for the false.
In that small distinction, she held the only proof she needed: that truth was still hers to wield, if not to own.
Outside, snow fell again, quiet and unending, as though the heavens themselves were erasing the footprints of the day.