The palace gates did not open for them.
They parted.
The difference was in the silence — no fanfare, no herald, just the heavy scrape of bronze doors yielding to an uninvited heir.
Xie Lan stepped through first, the Lunar Bone Sabre at his hip catching the torchlight in a pale flash. Yao Qing followed two paces behind, the weight of her chain coiled and ready. Court whispers flitted like moths along the colonnade, scattering whenever his gaze passed.
"Your Highness returns from Huayin," the Emperor said at last. His voice carried easily in the vaulted hall, every word a ripple across still water. "And brings… guests."
"They are witnesses," Xie Lan said, his tone even. "Huayin burned, not by rebellion, but by royal command."
The Crown Prince's gaze drifted lazily toward the survivors gathered just beyond the hall's edge. "And yet I heard the city rose in open defiance. My men saw it with their own eyes."
"Your men," Xie Lan repeated, letting the words rest between them like baited hooks.
The Chancellor stepped forward, bowing low. "If Your Majesty permits… I will see to the dispersal of these witnesses, for their own safety. Such scenes are not for the delicate constitution of the court."
Xie Lan's eyes narrowed. "You mean to silence them."
The Crown Prince spread his hands in mock surprise. "Do you accuse me, brother?"
"I accuse the one who sent assassins into Huayin's smoke," Xie Lan replied, his voice as calm as the sabre's hum.
A flicker passed across the Prince's gaze, too brief for most to see. The Emperor's fingers, resting on the dragon armrest, curled once, then stilled.
From the far pillars, silk rustled. A woman stepped forward — the one from the aqueduct, her white sleeve still faintly stained with soot. She bowed low to the Emperor, but her eyes never left Xie Lan.
"Your Majesty," she said sweetly, "if the Prince has proof, let us see it. If not…" Her smile deepened, almost playful. "…perhaps the court should decide whose word holds weight."
The court murmured, voices like shifting sand.
Xie Lan didn't turn his head, but the sabre's hum sharpened, a faint, metallic pulse under the chamber's incense haze.
It would only take one word to turn this hall into a killing ground.
And he was not yet certain if he wanted to give it.
---
The chamber held its breath.
Somewhere high in the rafters, a single droplet of water fell from the carved dragon spout into a basin — the sound sharp against the stillness.
Xie Lan stepped forward, his shadow spilling up the jade steps like a creeping tide. "My proof walks on two feet. It bleeds. It saw your Crown Prince's orders carried out with fire and steel."
The Chancellor chuckled softly, though there was no warmth in it. "Witnesses can be mistaken. Frightened eyes see what they are told to see."
"And frightened tongues can be bought," Yao Qing said from behind him, her voice low but carrying.
The Chancellor's gaze slid to her, but she didn't flinch.
The Crown Prince let the pause stretch before answering. "I have fought for this Empire while you wandered mountains chasing… fairy tales. I defended our borders when you vanished without word. And now you return with accusations."
Xie Lan's golden eyes caught the torchlight like a predator's. "I return with truth. The difference between us is you fear it."
A faint intake of breath ran through the hall. Even the Emperor's gaze shifted slightly — not toward the Prince, but toward the survivors waiting under the guards' watch.
The woman in white stepped closer, her silk whispering along the polished floor. "Perhaps," she said, "we should hear from them. If only to put this to rest."
The Chancellor frowned. The Crown Prince's jaw tightened, just enough for Xie Lan to see it.
A court herald moved toward the witnesses. One of the guards at their side — an Imperial elite — laid a hand on his sword.
The Emperor's voice cut through the moment, quiet yet absolute. "Let them speak."
It was not a suggestion.
The first survivor, an old monk with bandaged hands, stepped forward. His voice shook, but his words did not. "The fire was lit by soldiers. Not by us. We heard their captain swear by the Crown Prince's name before the first torch fell."
The murmurs became sharper, less controlled.
The Prince's smile returned, thin and dangerous. "A dying monk's words. Convenient."
Before Xie Lan could reply, the woman in white tilted her head, her eyes locked on the Prince. "Convenient for whom?"
For a fraction of a second, the court's focus shifted off Xie Lan and onto the rift now visible between the Prince and this unknown courtier.
Xie Lan did not waste it. His voice dropped to a razor's edge. "You tried to bury Huayin in smoke and silence. But the wind has changed."
The sabre at his side thrummed once, faint but clear — a heartbeat in the stillness.
---
The Crown Prince didn't look away. "You speak as though you know what truth is, little brother."
The Emperor raised one hand. The chamber quieted instantly. "The Crown Prince commands the eastern legions for a reason. You were not sent to challenge his strategy."
Xie Lan inclined his head, though his golden eyes didn't lower. "I was sent to protect the Empire. The order to burn Huayin — was it yours, Father?"
The air in the hall seemed to tighten.
The Emperor's gaze drifted — not to his youngest son, but to Xie Yan. "Every command given in my name carries my will."
That wasn't an answer. But it was enough for everyone here to hear where favor leaned.
---
A servant knelt, presenting a silk-wrapped scroll to the Emperor. He accepted it, his thumb brushing the seal before passing it — not to the court scribes, but directly to the Crown Prince.
Xie Lan saw it. The smallest shift of weight from hand to hand, the implicit trust in who could carry the Emperor's words.
In that instant, the silk was louder than any decree.
Yao Qing's eyes flicked to him, her expression unreadable. She had seen it too.
---
The Emperor rose. "Enough. The matter of Huayin is closed. My sons will not quarrel in my hall."
He turned to leave, court officials bowing low as he passed. The Crown Prince followed, the silk scroll tucked under his arm.
Xie Lan remained standing as the hall emptied.
When only Yao Qing lingered beside him, he spoke without looking at her. "They think I'll come at them in daylight. But shadows cut deeper when no one's watching."
Yao Qing gave a slow, sharp smile. "Then we'll be the shadow."
---
The palace wing given to Xie Lan was far from the Dragon Hall, tucked in the quiet curve of the northern courtyard. It had once been a scholar's retreat — narrow, wood-latticed windows that opened to a still pond, a low writing table inlaid with black lacquer, shelves lined with scrolls that smelled faintly of cedar.
It was a place designed for study and contemplation. Not for warriors. Not for him.
Yao Qing closed the door behind them, the sound of the latch soft but final. The noise of the court faded, replaced by the muted rustle of evening wind through bamboo.
She unbuckled her armor first, setting the jade-green plates on the stand by the door. The faint scrape of metal over leather was the sound of a day finally ending.
"You didn't bow," she said.
"I didn't kneel, either," Xie Lan replied, setting the Lunar Bone Sabre across the table. The blade caught the lamplight, its pale surface faintly veined like frost on glass. "If the Emperor favors him, it's better I stand apart than pretend to kneel beside him."
Her mouth curved faintly. "You enjoy making enemies."
"I prefer to see who they are," he said.
---
Yao Qing stepped closer, her fingers brushing the edge of his sleeve. "You're bleeding."
"It's nothing."
"It's on my carpet," she said, voice flat.
He sighed, allowing her to draw the fabric back. A shallow cut along his forearm, half-clotted from the chase in Huayin, dark against pale skin. She fetched a cloth from the basin and cleaned it, her touch careful but firm.
"Huayin isn't going to fade quietly," she murmured.
"That's the point," he said. "If the Crown Prince wants the story buried, we'll make it echo."
Her hands stilled for a heartbeat. "And if it echoes back to you?"
He met her eyes. "Then I'll be ready to answer it."
---
Later, they sat on the veranda that overlooked the pond. The moon's reflection swayed in the water, disturbed now and then by the slow glide of koi. Somewhere deeper in the courtyard, a night heron called.
Xie Lan rested his sabre across his knees, fingers tracing the carved runes along its spine.
"Do you ever think about before?" Yao Qing asked quietly.
"Before what?"
"Before you carried that blade. Before you wore a name people spit as much as they whisper."
His gaze stayed on the water. "I think about what it cost. And whether I'll be able to pay the rest when the time comes."
She didn't press. They sat in silence, the kind only earned by people who had bled together.
---
The quiet broke with a single, deliberate knock on the outer gate. Not the hurried rap of a servant, but the slow rhythm of someone who expected to be admitted.
Yao Qing rose instantly, her hand on her chain. Xie Lan's sabre was already in his grip before the second knock fell.
When she slid the gate open, the courtyard beyond was empty — except for a folded scrap of silk lying on the stone.
He picked it up. The fabric was black, embroidered in silver thread with the sigil of the Hall of Stars.
The same hall the palace guard in Huayin had whispered about before dying.
Xie Lan's mouth tightened. "It begins."
The silk was cold in his hand.
Black, threaded with silver — the sigil of the Hall of Stars gleaming like frost in the lamplight.
Xie Lan turned it between his fingers. No seal. No name. Only the weight of what it implied.
"The Emperor dead at your feet."
The guard's dying words in Huayin pressed against his mind like a bruise he couldn't stop touching.
Yao Qing watched him from the doorway, her eyes sharp in the half-light. "It's a warning."
"It's an invitation," he said, slipping the scrap into his sleeve. "And it came from inside the palace."
Her jaw flexed, but she said nothing. She lingered for a moment, then stepped outside to make a slow patrol of the courtyard. The latch clicked shut behind her.
The room seemed too still.
The koi beneath the pond barely moved, their pale bellies ghostlike under the rippling water. Bamboo rattled in the night breeze like bones in a shrine.
Xie Lan poured wine.
Once.
Twice.
By the third cup, the Emperor's voice was there — not the words themselves, but the doubt buried beneath them, the shadow of a father's silence tilting toward another son.
He drank until the edges of the lamplight blurred, until the taste of the wine deepened into something bitter.
"If the Emperor favors him, it's better I stand apart…"
The words he had spoken to Yao Qing hours ago now rang hollow.
The fourth cup sloshed over his fingers. A crimson drop slid down his knuckle, catching the light like fresh blood.
The knock came again. This time softer. Almost hesitant.
When the door slid open, Yao Qing stepped in — not in armor now, but in black silk, her hair unbound and spilling down her back. The faintest trace of jasmine smoke clung to her.
"You've had enough," she said.
"Not enough," he murmured, raising the cup. The wine swayed dangerously close to the rim.
She came to him and took the cup from his hand. He let her, but his gaze didn't leave her face.
"Do you know what it's like," he asked slowly, "to fight for someone's trust… and find their eyes already turned to another?"
Her voice was quiet. "Yes."
The wine on his tongue tasted heavier now. He reached for her wrist, not roughly, but with a weight that pulled her closer. Her knees brushed his as she stood before him.
For a long moment, neither spoke. The night sounds — bamboo, koi, distant bells — filled the silence.
Then he rose. The movement brought him close enough to catch the faint tremor in her breath.
His hand came up, tracing the loose fall of her hair before his fingers slid into it. His other hand cupped her jaw, thumb brushing the pulse there.
She didn't pull away.
The air between them thinned, thick with the scent of wine and the quiet heat of bodies standing too close.
When he kissed her, it wasn't gentle. It was the kind of kiss that carried too many unsaid things — anger, defiance, the ache of something long denied.
She answered it, her chain-calloused fingers curling in the front of his robe. The silk whispered apart beneath her hands.
The room's cool air met heated skin.
Her mouth was warm, her breath uneven. His hands slid to her waist, drawing her flush against him.
They found the low couch without quite remembering crossing the room. The lamplight spilled gold over the curve of her shoulder, the shadows pooling where his fingers traced along the inside of her arm.
Wine blurred the edges of thought, but not the vividness of her — the faint salt on her skin, the rough-smooth contrast of her warrior's hands against the silk.
Somewhere in the breathless tangle of movement, words slipped from his mouth — unmeant, but shaped by old memory.
"Li Meiyan…"
Yao Qing froze.
Her body went still against his, breath caught between them.
She pulled back just enough to look at him. The hurt in her eyes was sharp and clean, like glass under the skin.
"You should finish your wine," she said, voice low but steady.
She stood. Smoothed her hair back. Gathered the folds of her robe without looking at him.
The door slid shut behind her, leaving the scent of jasmine smoke and the echo of her absence.
Xie Lan sat there, the weight of her departure pressing harder than any battlefield wound.
The cup was still on the table. He lifted it, drained it, and let the wine take him under.
---
The morning light was pale when Xie Lan woke.
It pressed against the latticed windows in narrow bands, painting thin gold bars across the cedar floor. The wine's heat was gone from his blood, leaving only the dull ache behind his eyes and the sharper one beneath his ribs.
The robe over his shoulders was half-loosened, one sleeve slipped to his elbow. The other half of the couch was empty, though the hollow there still held the faintest trace of warmth.
For a moment, he didn't move.
The scent lingered — jasmine smoke, faint but distinct — until it mingled with the cedar and dust of the old scholar's retreat. It was already fading, and he knew it would be gone entirely by nightfall.
He sat up slowly, hands braced on his knees. The low table before him still bore the black scrap of silk from the Hall of Stars. The silver-threaded sigil caught the light like a shard of frost, cold and unyielding even in the morning sun.
He reached for it, running his thumb over the embroidery.
The thread was smooth, the weave too fine for common use. This had been carried by a hand that did not fear the palace guard's notice — or perhaps one that had their blessing.
The knock at the inner door was soft, deliberate.
When it slid open, Yao Qing stepped inside.
Her armor was back in place, hair tied high into the warrior's knot. The only sign of the previous night was the calm that clung to her — not cold, but measured, as though she had already decided which memories to keep and which to set aside.
She carried a tray with a clay pot of tea and two cups. Without speaking, she set it on the table and poured. The steam curled upward, smelling faintly of bitter ginseng.
"Drink," she said simply.
He accepted the cup. The tea was sharp on his tongue, its warmth pulling the fog from his mind.
Neither spoke of her leaving the night before.
Neither spoke of the name he had whispered.
When the silence stretched too long, she poured him a second cup.
"If you mean to disappear into these walls," she said at last, "tell me before you do. So I can guard the door."
The corner of his mouth shifted — not quite a smile. "You think I'll need guarding?"
"I think someone will come looking," she replied. "Better they find me than you."
---
He didn't leave his quarters that day.
When Yao Qing was gone, the silence grew heavier, broken only by the scrape of his brush against parchment as he wrote and rewrote the same names.
On one sheet: Huayin – survivors.
On another: Hall of Stars – known members.
The lists overlapped in ways that should have been impossible. He burned each page after reading it twice, the smoke curling up through the open window into the pale winter air.
By the third day, the koi in the pond seemed to know him — their pale bellies flashing briefly as they turned in slow arcs beneath the water. He fed them in the mornings, watched their movements as though the pattern of their swim might reveal something the palace scrolls could not.
At night, he lit no lamps unless working. The darkness made the room feel larger, though sometimes he thought he could hear the faint creak of footsteps beyond the outer wall. Yao Qing said nothing of it when she brought his meals, but her armor was always on.
---
On the sixth night, the wind shifted.
It brought the smell of rain and the distant ring of temple bells from the southern quarter. Xie Lan stood by the window, watching the first drops scatter across the pond's surface.
A single candle burned beside him. Its flame bent toward the open window, as if bowing to something unseen.
He turned the black scrap of silk over in his hands again.
In the candlelight, the silver thread caught fire, gleaming like the stars it claimed to represent.
The guard's dying words in Huayin returned — "The Emperor dead at your feet."
No matter how many times he set them aside, they found their way back.
In that quiet, he decided that seclusion was not retreat. It was sharpening the blade before the strike.
And when he emerged, the Hall of Stars would be the first to feel it.