The hall still trembled with the last notes of zithers when my father rose. The courtiers sank low, robes pooling like bruised shadows around them.
The Lord Protector stood there in his layered silks, hair bound with the dark clasp he had worn since his first campaigns — a plain mark of power that needed no gold to burn. He studied me, his gaze lingering on the hollows under my eyes, the thin curve of my mouth that had forgotten how to be warm. Then he smiled. A careful arrangement of lips and teeth, neither hostile nor loving. Only precise.
He lifted his cup.
"Fourth Prince. Wu An. My son who rode with me through marsh and ruin. Who broke the southern armies at Bù Zhèng's gate. This empire breathes easier for the iron of your will."
The words were for every ear in the hall. But his eyes were only on me, sharp and watchful — as if measuring how much of his son had returned from that battlefield, and how much had stayed to haunt it.
Then he set his cup down with ritual care and let his gaze slip sideways — across the wide lacquered floor to where Minister Shen stood among his sober-clad aides. Shen Yue's father held himself as still as an old pine, thin lips pressed into a line so calm it was almost cruel.
It was a small gesture. Just a glance, a silent request for assent before the court — an old dance of deference between two of Liang's greatest houses. Even though we all knew the answer before it was given.
Minister Shen inclined his head by the smallest fraction, no more than the shifting of wind in a banner. Not agreement — simply acknowledgement that duty would be done. That he would surrender his daughter as easily as any other offering to the dragon throne.
My father's gaze rested on him for a breath longer, then returned to me. "So let it be finished. The wedding, contracted by ink before war, shall be realized in blood and ceremony. Three months from this day."
The hush that followed was sharp, thin as wire. Somewhere a scribe's brush paused, the ink bead trembling.
Wu Kang leaned back in his chair, a lacquer fan half-open before his mouth, eyes glittering above it. He looked pleased — or at least entertained. Wu Jin stood behind him with a faint, inscrutable frown, fingers tapping lightly against his sleeve. And Wu Ling, lounging on a couch of pale silk, turned her face slightly as if savoring a sweet scent. Her long nails traced the fur of the small white hound on her lap, which shivered each time she touched it.
At my side, Shen Yue stood straight, breath shallow. Her eyes were locked somewhere beyond the hall's high screens, as though she could flee there by will alone.
I inclined my head. "As my father commands. The wedding will stand. Three months from today."
The courtiers seemed to breathe again all at once. Ministers glanced at each other, mouths twisting in small speculative smiles. In that single exhale, I felt a hundred new promises spark and writhe like snakes — each one calculating how best to tie their future to the black tide they thought I might soon become.
But beneath it all lay the quiet knowledge that this was no gift. The marriage was a snare spun of silks and old treaties — a delicate trap waiting to tighten the moment my steps grew unsteady. And they would keep smiling as it closed.
When the first courses were cleared, the hall darkened slightly. Stewards led forward the bound traitor generals, stripped to plain robes, their bruised faces set in grim masks. They knelt on the cold jade floor, heads bowed, iron collars chained to rings in the marble.
The eldest of them lifted his battered face, voice cracking like old bark.
"Your Majesties… I served this realm since I could bear a blade. Rode under a dozen banners in loyalty to this throne. But I saw what your son did at Bù Zhèng. I saw the fires lit to roast men alive for the crime of speaking out. I saw prisoners bled to break the spirit of their kin. This was not war — it was the feast of a beast wearing a prince's skin."
A sharp gasp rippled through the court. Even the puppet Emperor on his low throne flinched, small hands gripping the arms so tight the painted gold leaf crinkled.
Wu Kang let out a soft, delighted laugh behind his fan. "Well spoken, even if from traitor lips. Tell us, Fourth Prince — do you deny your hands reek of more than common slaughter?"
I met his eyes, slowly. "I deny nothing that brought us victory. I deny nothing that kept the streets of Ling An clean of southern steel. I deny nothing that left our coffers swollen and our borders intact."
Wu Kang's smile sharpened, a thin bright line. "Then you admit it — that your triumph is built on horror."
Wu Ling's voice drifted across the space between us, a faint sigh touched with something almost tender. "Fear is a keen knife, brother. But knives turn in careless hands. They slip — they cut. Often the flesh nearest."
My father's eyes slid between us all. His knuckles drummed once on the throne arm, a hollow sound that seemed to echo in every listening chest.
"This is a feast of victory. Not a tribunal. The generals will be held under guard in the West Tower until a full council sits to hear their charges."
A flick of his fingers, and guards in dark lacquered armor stepped forward. The generals were dragged away, their curses smothered by the thick carpets.
Wine was poured anew. Platters replaced. The musicians hesitated — then plucked trembling notes that failed to hide the deeper quiet settling over every table. The ministers still came, bowing low, offering shallow toasts. But their eyes were busy elsewhere, already whispering to themselves what games might be played in the shadow of a wedding and a trial.
Shen Yue stood close. Her mouth brushed my ear, voice little more than breath.
"You see it. The marriage. The tribunal. They're not strings of garlands — they're cords meant for your throat."
"And yet they keep weaving," I said.
Because under my ribs, the cold thing was near purring. Every sideways glance, every faint tremor in a minister's voice fed it, made it swell warm and thick in my lungs.
It almost hummed to me: Let them. The more cords they spin, the richer the feast when they tighten
Later, alone on a balcony above the lantern-lit courtyards, I watched small processions wend home through the palace gates. Peasants lit floating candles on the narrow canal, their soft prayers for the empire rising like fragile smoke. I wondered if any dared pray for me.
When Shen Yue joined me, her silhouette was stiff against the lantern glow. "Will you stand for this tribunal's mockery? Let them weigh your blood as if it were spoiled wine?"
I turned to her. For just a breath, the thing inside me seemed to lean forward — peering out through my eyes. Her breath hitched.
"I will stand," I said. "I will wear the crown of their fears. Let them pull tight every snare they can craft."
My mouth curled, slow and cold.
"It only makes it sweeter when the silk cuts them first."
Below, the drums still pulsed — rehearsals for a wedding that would stitch empires together. Each beat hollow as a skull, echoing back on itself.
And under my ribs, the cold thing laughed. Because it already smelled how rich this feast would be. How sweet their hearts would taste when the banquet finally turned.