The Swan Presentation was held in the Hall of Verdant Lotus, a marble amphitheatre open to the sky.
White silk banners rippled like water; court musicians knelt with zithers between their knees.
Every unmarried noblewoman of suitable age stood on the central dais—swans in embroidered plumage—while the court watched from tiered benches above.
Lan Yue stood behind the Empress Dowager's chair, exactly where Zhao Shen had placed her:
visible, armed, a blossom with steel at its heart.
Her robe was palest grey—half mourning for the scorched festival, half mirror for the wolf's banner.
A single silver phoenix pinned her hair; her sword hilt peeked above the sash.
To the envoy she would look like ornament; to the court she was unmistakably guard.
She felt the dragon seal warm against her ribs and tried to breathe.
Procession
Trumpets sounded.
Bai Feng, the Wolf's Fang, entered first, grey fur cloak brushing the floor.
Behind him six warriors—bone-beaded plaits, eyes scanning balconies for escape routes.
Last came the veiled woman in black, face still hidden, small black-jade wolf dangling from her sash like a key.
They bowed, not deep.
The Empress Dowager lifted one pale hand.
"Speak your king's wish, envoy."
Bai Feng's voice carried to the rafters.
"The Wolf King seeks peace through kinship. He offers grain—ten thousand carts—and vows to sheath the sword if a bride of imperial blood stands beside his throne."
A rustle of silk swept the hall: mothers tightening grips on daughters' wrists.
Zhao Shen rose from his seat beside the Dowager.
"Imperial blood is not grain to be bartered. Yet we honour courtesy. Present your candidates, envoy, and we shall weigh their merit."
Weigh their merit—like swans weighed for slaughter.
Yue felt every woman on the dais shiver.
The Choosing Dance
Protocol demanded the maidens circle the dais three times while musicians played.
Each girl carried a white feather fan; at the final note she would present it to the envoy.
If he accepted, the fan became betrothal token.
If he declined, she bowed and retreated—publicly rejected.
Music began—plucked strings like rain on tile.
The maidens stepped in measured spiral.
Wen Ruo moved among them, bamboo-green sleeves fluttering, face a porcelain mask.
Yue's gaze tracked the veiled woman.
Instead of joining the circle the woman drifted to the edge nearest Yue, head tilted as though listening to music only she could hear.
Third circuit—final chord.
Feathers lifted like small white flags.
Bai Feng smiled.
"Magnificent swans. Yet the Wolf King desires a bride who can share his burdens—one who understands both silk and steel."
He turned, arm sweeping toward the dais.
"May I test their mettle?"
Zhao Shen's eyes narrowed.
"Define test."
"A single question, put to any lady willing to answer. The one whose answer pleases me shall receive this."
He drew from his cloak a circlet of black jade—wolf fangs circling a single pearl.
Gasps rippled. The pearl was the size of a quail's egg, rumored torn from the Sea Queen's own crown.
The Dowager inclined her head. "Ask."
Bai Feng's gaze swept the maidens, then—unexpectedly—rested on Yue.
"Let the guard answer," he said softly. "She stands among swans, after all."
A hush fell, sharp as cracked ice.
Yue's heartbeat filled her ears.
Zhao Shen half-rose. "She is not—"
"She is present," Bai Feng cut in, polite steel. "And presence is participation. Unless the dragon fears her tongue?"
Every eye pinned Yue.
She felt the weight of protocol, of war, of a single wrong syllable.
She stepped forward, bowed.
"Ask your question, envoy."
Bai Feng smiled. "A wolf must choose: run alone and feast, or run with the pack and share the scraps. Which is wisdom?"
Silence.
Yue lifted her head.
"Wisdom is knowing when the pack is starving because one wolf hoarded the feast."
A beat—then muffled laughter swept the benches.
Bai Feng's smile did not falter, but his eyes glittered.
"Bold words for a swan in guard feathers."
"Truth often hides in plain feathers," she answered.
He tossed the black-jade circlet.
She caught it on reflex; the pearl was cold as moonlight.
"Keep it," he said. "A gift for the dragon's sharp tongue."
Zhao Shen's voice cracked across the hall.
"Presentation is concluded. Envoy, you have your answer—steel behind silk. We shall deliberate and send word before the full moon."
Trumpets sounded. Ceremony ended.
Bai Feng bowed, eyes never leaving Yue.
The veiled woman in black brushed past, whisper too low for others:
"Little wolf, choose your forest carefully."
Then they were gone, cloaks swallowing torch-light.
Aftermath — dusk
Yue stood on the empty dais, circlet heavy in her hands.
Zhao Shen appeared beside her, voice low.
"You just became the story every minstrel will sing tonight. Are you prepared?"
She met his gaze. "I spoke truth. Stories can't scare me more than arrows already have."
His mouth curved—pride, worry, something unnamed.
"Stories win wars before swords are drawn. Sleep armed tonight."
He left, boots echoing.
Wen Ruo emerged from behind a pillar, face pale.
"You stole the wolf's gift. Now every mother will hate you, every rebel will want your head, and every suitor will measure himself against your tongue."
Yue exhaled. "I didn't ask for pearls."
"No," Wen Ruo said softly, "but pearls ask for you. Guard your throat, little anomaly."
She walked away, green sleeves fluttering like bamboo in rising wind.
Rooftop — moonrise
Yue climbed to breathe. City lights flickered; somewhere a wolf howled—real or signal, she couldn't tell.
She opened her palm: black-jade fangs circling moon-bright pearl.
A crown for a bride who did not want it, a target for a war she had not sought.
Footsteps. She did not turn—already knew his scent of ink and winter pine.
Zhao Shen stopped beside her, eyes on the pearl.
"Wear it tomorrow," he said. "Let them think you covet it. Wolves hesitate to bite what they believe is already theirs—time enough for us to choose the battlefield."
She closed her fingers over the circlet.
"And if the battlefield is me?"
He faced her fully, voice quiet as snowfall.
"Then I will stand in the snow beside you. Roots heavier than wings, remember?"
The promise settled over her like armour.
Below, palace lanterns were relit—fewer than before, but still burning.
Above, the moon climbed toward full, indifferent to mortal deadlines.
Yue slipped the circlet into her sash, next to the dragon seal.
Two talismans: one of jade fangs, one of dragon breath.
Between them lay the next move—hers to make.
She lifted her chin. "Tell your mother the swan with steel wings accepts the wolf's gift—on loan until she decides where it bites."
Zhao Shen laughed—soft, startled, free.
"Sleep armed, little wolf. Dawn rehearsal is cancelled. Instead, we prepare the trap."
They stood in moonlight—guard and prince, blossom and blade—while the city below held its breath and the wolf-banner flapped somewhere beyond the walls, waiting for an answer that would decide who feasted and who starved.