The Martial Gate rose ahead — broad, lacquered in vermilion, its heavy beams engraved with dragons that seemed to crawl in the shifting light. Rows of palace guards flanked the stone avenue, spears tipped with steel so polished they reflected every movement like thin mirrors.
At the top of the steps waited my father, the Lord Protector, swathed in layers of dark official silk. Beside him stood Wu Kang, his shoulders thrown back in lazy confidence, rings glittering on each hand. Wu Jin watched quietly a step behind them, eyes hooded, mouth set in a faint, careful line.
And there — half shadowed by a jade screen — was Wu Ling. Her hair coiled high with pearl pins, face smooth as poured wax. Even at this distance I felt her regard slide across me like a thin blade.
The puppet Emperor sat upon a traveling throne, small and delicate, robes of golden gauze fluttering in the wind. His eyes were large, slightly too bright — a doll dressed for slaughter.
I dismounted. The hush of hundreds waiting pressed around us. The Black Tigers stood like statues at my back, banners sagging in the faint breath of morning.
My father stepped forward first. His gaze swept over me, lingering on my gaunt cheeks, the cold flare of my eyes. Then his mouth twisted up into a smile — all teeth.
"You return to Ling An in victory, Fourth Prince," he said, voice carrying easily down the stone court. "The southern armies broken. Bù Zhèng secured. The empire owes you its gratitude."
His words were for the crowd. His eyes, when they met mine, were wary — as if trying to gauge how much of me had returned from that marsh, and how much had stayed behind to haunt it.
Wu Kang stepped forward next, rich with cologne and quiet contempt. "A glorious triumph indeed," he drawled. Then his gaze snapped to where the bound generals stood behind my lines, heads shaved, faces bruised. "Though I wonder what lesson Ling An is to take from seeing so many of its honored commanders dragged back like stray dogs."
I did not look at him. I looked at Wu Ling instead. Her lips were faintly curved, hands folded within her long sleeves. A tiny nod — there, then gone. Support for Wu Kang's words, given like a faint scent on the air.
My father's hand twitched at his side. "This is a matter we will weigh carefully," he said, voice tightening just enough to cut. "For now, these men will be held under palace arrest. The banquet is prepared tonight to celebrate the restoration of Bù Zhèng. It would not do to stain it with accusations before all the ministers."
Wu Kang's nostrils flared. His eyes darted to Wu Ling, who inclined her head just so — offering subtle counsel he was too foolish to read fully. Wu Jin simply stood silent, studying me with that same soft frown, hands clasped behind his back.
The prisoners were led away. The Black Tigers stayed close to ensure no whisper of rescue would bloom into foolish violence. Shen Yue and Han Qing flanked me as we mounted the wide steps together, passing under the painted beams of the Martial Gate.
Inside the palace court, the air was cool, almost damp. Great panels of carved wood rose around us, each inset with jade dragons that seemed to twitch when the lanterns swayed. Ministers in layered robes pressed forward with stiff bows, their mouths dripping congratulations like honey gone sour.
One elder official, beard so long it brushed his belt, approached with small careful steps. "Your Highness," he wheezed, "it brings peace to the Empire to see you returned so swiftly. The people rejoice. Tribute flows again. Such harmony…"
His eyes flicked nervously to the side, as if checking who might be listening. I could see the calculation already: how long until this Fourth Prince overreaches? How many favors must we quietly prepare to shift when the wind changes?
Another minister bowed so low I thought he might crack. "We thank the gods — and Your Highness — that Liang stands united. Bù Zhèng's fields will be sown again next spring."
Yes. Sown with the blood I spilled there. I smiled faintly, and he recoiled as though struck.
As we walked deeper into the palace, Shen Yue leaned close. "Do you feel it? The way they speak so sweetly — but each smile checks the shadows behind it."
"I do," I murmured. Because under my ribs, the cold was purring, as though pleased by the tension. Every glance from the courtiers seemed to feed it. I almost thought I heard faint voices threading through the pillars — old voices, dripping like water down a well.
That night, the banquet spread across the imperial hall. Great lanterns floated on high chains, bathing everything in a bruised gold. Servants moved like ghosts, pouring rice wine, bearing platters of roasted duck and honeyed lotus. Musicians plucked zithers until the air hummed.
The puppet Emperor sat on his throne at the head of it all, eyes bright, lips parted in a small delighted smile that never reached deeper than painted lacquer. Wu Kang sat nearby, speaking in low, easy tones with high generals who only half listened, watching me instead.
Wu Ling reclined on a couch of pale silk, stroking the head of a small white hound that shivered under her hand. When our eyes met, she smiled — not warm, not cruel. Merely curious. Like someone testing the edge of a new knife.
Ministers came in pairs and trios to offer me shallow toasts. Some pressed small boxes into my hands — jade combs, little scrolls of silk painted with poems. Gifts meant to buy a corner of mercy if the storms brewing finally broke.
Han Qing stood behind my chair, face hard as carved stone. Shen Yue was at my left, speaking little, eyes darting to every motion among the courtiers.
"This is not victory's feast," she murmured once. "It's a gathering of crows waiting to see which corpse will feed them best."
She was right. The war in Bù Zhèng was over. But here in Ling An, the war was only quieter — fought with whispers, poisons in lacquer bowls, quiet nods in dark hallways.
Under it all, the thing inside me stirred again, pressing up against my ribs like a lover's hand. Each time someone bowed too low, each time a minister stammered in the face of my eyes, it grew stronger — whispering without words, telling me how easily I could snap all their delicate strings.
I drank deep from my cup, the wine bitter. And smiled. Because soon enough, they would learn the same lesson Bù Zhèng had — that mercy was only a pause in the slaughter.