The air in the courtyard was unnervingly still, as though the world itself had paused to listen. Lanterns flickered faintly in the breeze, their light trembling across the polished tiles. Somewhere beyond the garden wall, a nightingale's song threaded through the quiet, fragile as spun glass.
Yueqin stood beneath the old camphor tree, her fingers curled around the folds of her robe. She wasn't shivering from the cold — the summer night was warm — but from the way her thoughts knotted in on themselves. The moon was pale tonight, its light spilling over her face, silvering the curve of her cheek.
She could hear the faint echo of footsteps. Slow. Measured. Each one was deliberate, as if the walker wanted to give her time to gather herself before they arrived.
When he finally appeared from the shadow of the covered walkway, she almost wished he hadn't.
Liang Wei's figure was framed by the lantern glow, his robes darker than the night around them. He stopped a few paces away, his gaze steady on hers.
"You came," he said simply. His voice was low, unhurried — but something in it held an undercurrent, like a river pushing hard beneath a calm surface.
Yueqin's lips parted, but no words came. She should have been prepared for this. She had rehearsed countless things to say on the way here — sharp words, cold refusals, polite evasions. But standing before him now, all of it felt clumsy, too brittle to fit the moment.
"I wasn't sure you'd keep your promise," he continued. "The court is… a dangerous place for oaths."
She almost laughed, but the sound would have been too bitter. "And yet you've built your life on them."
He tilted his head slightly, the corner of his mouth lifting, though not in amusement. "Some oaths are worth the risk. Others… become chains."
Silence hung between them for a long moment. Somewhere in the darkness, a gust of wind stirred the leaves overhead, sending a faint scent of camphor through the air.
Finally, Yueqin asked, "Why call me here? It's late, and we both know the Empress would—"
"—suspect," he finished for her. "She already does."
The words hit like a slap. She clenched her hands, nails pressing into her palms. "Then why—"
"Because," he interrupted, stepping closer, "there are things I cannot say under her watch. Not in the Hall, not during the day, not even in the company of our so-called allies. Only here."
Her breath caught as he moved within arm's reach. She could see the faint sheen of sweat along his hairline, the crease between his brows — not from the heat, but from the weight of what he carried.
"You've been keeping something from me," he said quietly. "From all of us. I can see it in the way you speak, the way you move. You're playing a game, Yueqin, and I need to know which side you're really on."
She forced herself to meet his eyes. "And if I told you that my side is my own?"
He didn't flinch. "Then I'd ask you what you hope to gain, walking alone in a palace full of wolves."
A faint, almost imperceptible sound broke the stillness — the scrape of a sandal against stone. Yueqin's eyes flicked toward the shadows near the garden gate. Nothing moved. But the prickle at the back of her neck told her someone had been there. Listening.
Liang Wei's gaze followed hers for a moment, then returned to her face. "We don't have much time. The Grand Chancellor is moving faster than I thought. By the end of the month, half the court will be under his thumb."
She frowned. "And the other half?"
"Too afraid to act. Or already bought."
Her thoughts raced. She had known the Chancellor's influence was growing, but if Liang Wei was this certain… it meant the danger was closer than she'd feared.
"And where do you stand in all this?" she asked.
He smiled faintly — not with warmth, but with the resigned sharpness of someone who knew the ground was shifting under his feet. "I stand where I must. But I can't stand there alone."
A night insect buzzed near the lantern, circling the flame in restless spirals. Yueqin's chest tightened. She knew what he was asking without him saying it outright. He wanted her trust. Her alliance. Perhaps more than that.
But alliances in the palace were like paper boats — they sailed for a moment, then sank the instant the water turned rough.
She stepped back, breaking the closeness between them. "You're asking for something I can't give."
His jaw tightened. "Can't, or won't?"
"Both."
For a long moment, neither spoke. Then Liang Wei nodded once, sharply, as though filing away her answer for later. "Then I won't ask again. But remember this, Yueqin — the day will come when you'll wish you had an ally who understood what you're willing to do."
He turned and started toward the covered walkway. But just before stepping into the shadows, he paused, without looking back. "And when that day comes… I may not be here."
The echo of his footsteps faded into the distance, leaving her alone beneath the camphor tree.
Yueqin stood motionless for a long while, her mind churning. She had told herself she could navigate this web alone. That she could outthink the Chancellor, the Empress, and even Liang Wei if she kept her own counsel.
But the truth was a whisper she didn't want to admit:
The palace was shifting, and she was standing in the middle of the quake.