The attempt came during the one hour of the day Jian had always considered safest: his private morning practice in the eastern training yard, a ritual so consistent that even the guards assigned to watch it had grown, over the years, into a routine so predictable it barely registered as a precaution anymore.
That predictability, Yuan would realize later, had been exactly the point.
He arrived that morning to watch, as he often did now, settling onto the low stone bench along the yard's edge with a cup of tea he had no real intention of finishing, content simply to observe Jian move through the familiar forms of his sword practice, controlled and precise despite weeks of accumulated strain. It was, in its own quiet way, one of the few moments in their days that still felt untouched by the shadow hanging over the palace.
