The Ling estate gates creaked as they were shoved open. Black-clad soldiers flooded in, boots thumping against the weathered stone. Each wore the Regent's sigil—a silver wolf carved across their chestplate, fangs bared in mute threat.
Leading them was a scarred-cheeked officer who stood tall as the spikes on their helmet. His voice was weighted with authority.
"By the command of His Highness the Regent—medicines and grain tribute shall be gathered immediately. Delay is treason."
The Ling family steward shook with fear and stumbled forward, bowing so deeply his forehead almost touched the ground. "S-Sir, our Ling house has endured drought and disaster… the treasury lies bare… we implore the Regent's mercy—"
"Mercy?" The officer snarled, drawing out his saber with a hiss. The blade shone icy under the declining sun. "The Regent spares no one. Tribute is law. Without it, your Ling clan will suffer."
A group gasp spread through the servants. Ling Xue held her silk sleeves, her face pale with fear, while the steward fell to his knees.
Ling Yue, though, said nothing at the courtyard's border. Her gaze was unruffled, even when soldiers pulled crates and barrels from storage rooms—emptied, hollow, nothing of value inside.
A soldier kicked the steward to the ground with a cruel laugh. "Pathetic. Not even one coin worth sacrificing? Does your family want to die?"
The officer's eyes swept across the courtyard, then rested on the sisters. His stared too long at Ling Xue's shaking form, a smile twisting his lips.
"The Regent does not accept failure," he spoke slowly. "But he does value. loyalty. If your clan is unable to pay with silver or grain, then they can offer service. A couple of pretty girls might calm His Highness's anger."
Ling Xue's breath caught, her face going pale.
The servants broke into whispers, some pitying, others eager to distance themselves from blame. The once-proud Ling family had fallen so low they were no better than chattel to be bartered.
Ling Yue lowered her lashes, concealing the storm flickering in her eyes.
So this was the mortal world's cruelty—weakness meant being trampled.
The officer pointed his saber at Ling Xue. "Take her."
Two soldiers advanced, their armored hands outstretched. Ling Xue screamed, gripping the pillar next to her. "No! You can't touch me—I am the legitimate daughter of the Ling household!"
"Legitimate?" The officer laughed viciously. "The legitimacy of a fallen household is less than dust."
The servants recoiled, not daring to intervene. The steward sobbed into his sleeves.
Nothing but Ling Yue's calm, unfaltering voice cut through the tumult.
"Wait."
The soldiers hesitated. All heads turned.
Ling Yue moved forward, her simple robes shimmering softly in the breeze. Though she was gaunt, her back straight as a plank, her demeanor unruffled—as if she confronted no human soldiers, but specters.
Her eyes met the officer's, steady as a drawn blade.
"If it is tribute you want…" she whispered, "then maybe I may have something to offer you."
The courtyard was plunged into shocked silence.
Ling Yue's lips curled slightly, yet her gaze was keen as ice. Spiritual energy wound in her sleeve, straining to break free.
She had no desire to hand her sister over to wolves—nor herself.