The Peony Pavilion was a goddamn fever dream tonight.
Gold lanterns swayed from the carved rafters like drunken fireflies, casting a flickering, honey-colored glow over a sea of faces I'd learned to despise. The air was a thick, suffocating blanket—a cloying mix of expensive sandalwood, spilled Osmanthus wine, and the sour sweat of men who had far too much silver and far too little shame.
I sat on the main stage, my fingers dancing over the cold zither strings. To the sea of leering officials and merchant lords, I was 'Ning,' the untouchable prize of Jinling.
In reality? I was just a woman trying to keep my ledgers straight and my neck out of a noose.
Plink. I hit a sharp note, watching Merchant Lord Qin—the man who basically owned the Jinling docks—laugh as he spilled wine down his silk front. Disgusting. My mind was already drifting toward the cellar, toward the jars of fermented plums that smelled of vinegar and secrets.
The Ledger of Peony was my insurance.
In this city, truth didn't save you.
Blackmail did.
It was a coded map of every bribe, every affair, and every missing girl that Jinling's elite wanted to bury. If anyone found it, the 'Ice Queen' wouldn't just melt; she'd be ashes by dawn.
Then, the world shattered.
BAM!
The heavy oak doors didn't just open. They groaned and splintered as they were kicked off their hinges, a thunderclap that swallowed the music whole.
"Magistrate's office! Nobody move or you'll lose a limb!"
The shout cut through the pavilion's perfume like a butcher's knife through fine silk. Panic hit the room like a physical wave. Silk robes rustled frantically as the "noble" men scrambled under tables like cockroaches caught in the light. Wine cups shattered, the red liquid spreading like bloodstains under the lantern light.
I didn't move. I kept my hands pressed against the zither strings, feeling the lingering vibration die down into a hollow silence. My heart was doing a frantic little tap-dance against my ribs. Stay cool, Ning. Breathe. It's just a raid.
But then I saw him.
Walking through the drifting incense smoke was a man who looked like he'd been carved out of a block of winter. Lu Yanchi. The "White Blade."
He was dressed in the stark, minimalist robes of the City Magistrate, looking impossibly clean for a place this filthy. His gaze was surgical. Cold. It scanned the room with a terrifying precision that made the hair on my arms stand up.
He stepped over a shattered vase and stopped right at the foot of my stage.
Of course he was handsome. The universe always gifts monsters good bone structure—just to make it personal.
"Shen Yuening," he said.
His voice wasn't loud, but in the silence of the raided hall, it sounded like a death sentence. It was deep, smooth, and lacked even a shred of human warmth.
I forced a tiny, practiced smile—the one I used when I wanted to make a man feel like he was the only person in the room while I was secretly counting his pulse. "Tuan Magistrate. To what do I owe the honor? Did we run out of tea at the office, or did you just miss the music?"
He didn't blink. He just stared at me, his dark eyes evaluating me like a puzzle he was about to take apart.
"You're coming with me," he replied.
"And the charge?" I asked, my mind racing. Did they find the shipment? Did Qin sell me out? "I'm quite sure my 'entertainment' license is up to date."
Yanchi stepped closer, his presence suddenly overwhelming the scent of my own perfume. He leaned in until the tip of his scabbard brushed against my silk hem.
"Information," Yanchi murmured, his voice dropping low. "Your name is written in a file that shouldn't exist, in a department that doesn't acknowledge your Pavilion."
A cold shiver raced down my spine. This wasn't a standard raid. He wasn't here to harass the guests.
He was here for me.
He knows, my internal voice screamed. He knows I'm the one holding the strings to the city's throat.
"I prefer to do my talking over a meal, Tuan Magistrate," I said, my voice steady. "The Back Kitchen makes a congee that can settle even official nerves."
Yanchi's hand reached out, his fingers closing around my arm. His grip wasn't brutal, but it was absolute.
"You'll have plenty of time for congee in the holding cells," he said coldly.
As he pulled me toward the door, my eyes caught a glimpse of the scroll he was holding. It was an official seal, but as the light hit the paper, I saw a flash of red ink. There, in a jagged circle, was my stage name: Ning. It was circled in the exact same shade of red ink I used in the Ledger to mark the names of people who needed to die.
I was being pulled into a game where the board was already set, and I was the piece meant to be sacrificed. The doors of the Peony Pavilion closed behind us, snapped shut—by the only man in Jinling I couldn't buy.
And the worst part?
He wasn't here to arrest me.
He was here to take my only weapon.
"A raid shatters Peony Pavilion—and the city's coldest magistrate calls my real name like a death sentence."