The iron gate creaked open with the weight of old silence. Mihir stepped inside first, his eyes adjusting to the dimmed courtyard. Shadows stretched long beneath the eaves, broken only by the sun falling in sharp lines through carved lattice.
Zhang Zheng followed.
The courtyard was large, enclosed by high walls dressed in faded red paint and creeping moss. A plum tree stood at the center, its blossoms long gone, branches bare. It felt like walking into a painting left unfinished.
Footsteps echoed.
A figure descended the main steps of the house — tall, dressed in layered indigo silk, his hair tied high with silver pins. His face was carved like marble: fine cheekbones, narrow eyes, lips set in a line that knew restraint. He was beautiful in a way that demanded silence.
Zhang Zheng bowed stiffly.
"Stepmother," he said.
The man's expression did not change. He looked at Zhang Zheng as one might study a distant mountain — no hatred, no warmth, just presence.
"You've returned," he said.
His voice was quiet, but clear, like water poured into a bronze cup.
Zhang nodded.
"And you bring a foreign scholar," he added, eyes flicking to Mihir, who bowed politely. "I see Tibet has not changed your appetite for trouble."
Before Mihir could speak, soft laughter came from the right corridor. Three more figures appeared — the concubines. They wore silks in pale hues, their hair adorned with fresh flower pins and jade beads. They moved like mist, graceful and rehearsed.
Behind them came two boys — one tall and lean, the other younger, eyes sharp. Zhang's half-brothers. Their faces bore the same sharp jaw, the same shadow in the brow. But they looked at him like strangers.
Mihir noticed it at once:They had been waiting.
Waiting to see if the prodigal son would return.
Waiting to see what shape he wore now — weak, defiant, broken.
"Where is Father?" Zhang asked, steady.
The stepmother glanced toward the upper wing of the house.
"Resting. He rarely rises before the evening now. But," he said, eyes narrowing, "he knows you are here."
A pause. Then, soft enough to be missed if one did not listen closely:"You should not have come, Zheng'er."
Zhang said nothing. Mihir could feel the muscles in his arm tighten.
"But since you are here," the stepmother continued, turning, "you may stay. One of the old rooms by the west wall is still empty. The children too, if they behave."
With that, he walked away, robes trailing behind him like dusk falling.
The others followed — the concubines with measured steps, the half-brothers with silent smirks. One looked back once, at Mihir.
Then they were gone.
Mihir turned to Zhang."They fear you," he said.
"No," Zhang replied."They fear what I remember."
And in the quiet that followed, even the plum tree seemed to listen.
Night in the Zheng estate was thick with unspoken things. The silence of the house was like silk stretched too tight — beautiful, but ready to tear.
Mihir walked alone through the western corridor. Shadows clung to the old pillars, and paper lamps glowed like amber ghosts.
He had just left the children asleep in their room. Zhang had gone to speak with the steward, leaving Mihir to wander, curious and quietly watchful.
A soft sound broke the stillness — the flick of a fan. Mihir turned.
One of the half-brothers stood beneath a hanging lantern. The elder one. The tall one. His hair was unbound, robes loosely tied, exposing part of his collarbone. A silk fan moved slowly in his hand, more for rhythm than air.
"You are the foreigner," the boy said, voice smooth, almost lazy."The one my brother brings home like an offering."
Mihir met his gaze. Calm. Unmoved.
"And you are the one who thinks a house built on silence can last forever."
The boy smiled faintly. "Sharp tongue, for a monk."
"I left that life behind," Mihir replied, stepping closer.
"Good," the half-brother said. "You'll need sharpness to survive here."
He tilted his head, eyes gleaming.
"I wonder," he said softly, "what my father will make of you."
Later that night
Zhang Zheng did not return until late. Mihir sat in the small room given to them — bare, cold, but clean. The moonlight spilled through the window like silver ink.
Then a knock.
Not Zhang.
A servant bowed low.
"The Master wishes to see you."
Mihir followed, guided by candlelight, through silent halls until they reached the upper wing.
The room was warm, lit by hanging lanterns and the scent of burning agarwood. The door opened without sound.
And there, reclining on a couch of dark wood and embroidered cushions, was Zheng's father — Zheng Qingshan, the Crimson Hawk of the South, once feared, now forgotten.
He was beautiful in the way stars are beautiful — distant, cold, and impossible to touch.
His hair was long, like molten obsidian, brushed smooth and cascading over one shoulder. His face was pale, but not sickly — a deliberate pallor, like fine porcelain glazed with years. His eyes were slightly hooded, framed by lashes too long for a soldier. His mouth… too soft for a man who once commanded armies.
But what struck Mihir most was this:He looked like time had kissed him, but not aged him.Like ruin had come, but worship followed.
A single silk blanket covered his legs. Beneath it — twisted silence. The rumors were true: Zheng Qingshan had not walked in years. But he sat like a man who still ruled something — even if only the memories of others.
"So," he said, voice low and smooth, like plum wine aged in the dark."You are the one my son chose to return with."
Mihir bowed deeply.
The crippled warlord studied him, eyes unreadable.
"You wear the robes of a foreign scholar," he said, "but your spine is not bowed. You speak like a monk, but your gaze is too direct."
He paused.
"My son has always brought back strange things. Wounded birds. Dying soldiers. Poems. Now you."
Mihir lifted his head."I am not here to take anything."
Zheng Qingshan smiled — the kind of smile that could slice open a throat or save a dying man in the same moment.
"You already have," he said. "My silence."
The room stayed still for a long moment.
Then, almost gently, he added:"Tell me, Mihir of the southern lands… why do you think my son was allowed to live