The capital greeted dawn with the smell of fresh rice-bread and the sound of iron shutters rolling up—merchants ready to haggle over the first convoy of northern grain.
Lan Yue rode beside the lead wagon, white armour dulled by road-dust, eyes scanning every alley for the flicker of a red lantern.
Behind her, Zhao Shen kept one hand on his sword-hilt and the other on the reins of the spare horse he'd vowed to return "only when she's safe behind palace walls."
They were still two streets from the central granary when the trap snapped—not with steel, but with silk and parchment.
The Warehouse District – second bell after sunrise
A herald in vermilion robes blocked the convoy, flanked by clerks with ink-stained fingers.
"By decree of the Imperial Grain Guild," he proclaimed, "all foreign cereals must be inspected, weighed, and sealed under guild seal before distribution. Carts will follow me."
Han muttered, "Red Lantern owns this guild. They mean to switch tally sticks and blame spoilage on the north."
Yue dismounted. "We have imperial warrant—grain travels under palace seal, not guild."
The herald smiled, produced a scroll—wax black, not vermilion.
"New edict, countersigned by Lord Minister of Revenue last night. Palace seal endorses guild oversight."
Zhao Shen's eyes narrowed. "My uncle signed this?"
"His chop is plain," the herald said, unrolling it.
The minister's seal indeed pressed beside the Emperor's childish cipher—ink still fragrant.
A palace coup on parchment, Yue realised.
If the grain vanished inside a warehouse, famine would follow, prices would triple, and the Wolf King would be blamed—treaty shattered.
She bowed politely. "Of course. We accompany the carts to ensure every sack is accounted for."
The herald's smile faltered—he had expected easy surrender.
Red Lantern Warehouse – inner yard
Iron gates slammed.
Inside, clerks swarmed like ants, brushes poised to re-mark weights.
Sacks were already being shifted into shadowed corridors.
Yue signalled Chen Wei—he nodded, slipped a chili-sulfur pellet into a nearby brazier.
Grey smoke billowed, acrid; clerks coughed, eyes streaming.
In the confusion she drew the folded fan Wen Ruo had given, flicked it open—white swan skimming storm—used the painted edge to slice open a sack.
Grain poured—but it was millet mixed with sand.
Proof.
She raised the fan overhead, shouted: "Imperial inspection! Halt all movement!"
Han's guards formed a ring, crossbows levelled.
The herald paled. "You dare draw steel on guild ground?"
Zhao Shen stepped forward, voice cold. "I dare draw steel on fraud against the realm. Stand down or stand trial."
From the upper gallery a new figure appeared—Lord Minister of Revenue himself, silk robes embroidered with tiny lanterns.
"Nephew," he greeted Shen, tone smooth. "Such theatrics over a little chaff."
Shen's jaw clenched. "You would starve the capital to line your coffers?"
"Markets self-balance," the minister shrugged. "Grain rises, coin flows. When chaos peaks, the strong harvest." His gaze flicked to Yue. "The swan should understand—some birds feed on carrion."
Yue felt the jade splinter burn against skin.
She snapped the fan shut, pointed it at the minister. "You signed a false edict, adulterated relief grain, and conspired to fracture a peace treaty. That is not carrion—it is treason."
She turned to Han. "Seal the gates. No one leaves."
The minister laughed. "You have eight guards. I have thirty clerks—each a blade beneath his abacus."
As if on cue, clerks dropped brushes, drew short swords.
The Counting-house Battle
Chen Wei kicked the brazier—sparks and chili smoke exploded.
Crossbows sang; clerks fell.
Shen engaged two attackers, blade flashing like silver writing.
Yue vaulted a crate, landed beside the minister—fan edge to his throat.
"Call them off or taste paper-thin death."
He sneered, unafraid. "Kill me and you'll hang for striking royalty."
"I'm already the realm's scapegoat," she answered. "One more horn on the head?"
But she hesitated—killing a prince's uncle in public would doom the very treaty she protected.
In that heartbeat a small knife slipped from the minister's sleeve—thrust upward toward her ribs.
A crack—crossbow bolt** buried in his wrist.
He screamed.
Across the yard Han lowered his weapon, eyes cold.
Guards swarmed, disarming wounded clerks.
The minister clutched his ruined hand, rage turning to fear.
"You'll beg for mercy."
Yue exhaled shakily. "I already did—on a bridge of ice. Today the realm collects."
Aftermath – palace cells by sunset
Imperial investigators found ledgers in hidden chambers: names of ministers, generals, even eunuchs on Red Lantern payroll.
Grain stores across the city had been systematically diluted for months—famine engineered, not feared.
The Emperor (prompted by Dowager) signed a real edict:
Minister of Revenue stripped of title, estates confiscated, Red Lantern guild dissolved, assets redirected to famine relief.
Zhao Shen's uncle would live—under palace arrest—a concession to family honour, but his political throat was cut.
Moon-view Pavilion – night
Paper lanterns floated above the lake like low stars.
Palace musicians played gentle zither—not victory music, but requiem for trust betrayed and mended.
Yue leaned on the railing, still smelling chili and blood in her hair.
Zhao Shen arrived with two cups of warm plum wine.
"To uncles who underestimate nephews," he toasted, voice dry.
She clinked. "And to fans that prove paint can cut deeper than steel."
They drank.
After a silence he asked, "Did you consider it—the killing stroke?"
"Yes," she admitted. "But the realm needed a live traitor more than a dead martyr. Bridges again."
He nodded, eyes on the lanterns. "I'm learning your arithmetic: one life weighed against thousands, weighed against tomorrow."
She touched the new white stone at her neck. "Tomorrow always collects interest."
Rooftop later – city asleep
They climbed for quiet, sat beneath curved eaves.
Below, guards marched patterns; above, the moon rounded toward full—the same moon that once glared at Ice-Lock, at warehouses, at every choice.
He spoke softly. "The council will name you Protector of Grain Routes—a bigger target than envoy. Refuse if you wish."
She considered. "Targets shine. Someone must be the lamp."
A small laugh. "Then let's polish the glass."
He pulled a slim object from his sleeve—a second strip of black cloth, twin to the one still knotted at her wrist.
"For the next hunt. And the next."
She tied it beside the first—two shadows now, fluttering when she moved.
They sat until moonset, sharing silence like bread—two conspirators learning the shape of governance, one gilded trap at a time.
Far below, the first honest grain since winter began poured from palace granaries into public pots—a small victory, but the city breathed easier.
And somewhere in the dark, former Red Lantern agents counted coins and sharpened knives, while northern scouts noted every weakness greed exposed.
War postponed again—a chess clock ticking, pieces rearranged.
But for tonight, on this rooftop, the swan and the dragon kept watch together, and the capital slept beneath their folded wings.