The next morning, Ziyan returned alone to the southern wing of the Hall of Records, where the old stone lions crouched like half-awake sentinels. No banners hung here. No musicians played. Only a handful of guards stood under the shade, unmoving as carved spears. She was ushered through a side door by a silent attendant — not the main gates reserved for full officials. Not yet.
The corridors were hushed and spare, their silence punctuated only by the occasional scrape of slippers against polished stone. At the far end of one such hall, she was made to stop. The door before her was simple: paper paneled and unmarked, guarded by two court scribes who said nothing but opened it as if summoned by an invisible nod.
"Only you may enter," one said. "Your companions must wait beyond the garden."
Ziyan gave a slight bow, heart slow and loud behind her ribs. She stepped into the chamber.
Inside, Minister Li sat alone at a long table, the early sunlight filtering through the window lattices onto scrolls arranged in precise stacks. He did not look up immediately, but his hand hovered over a document, poised with a brush still dripping fresh ink.
"Sit."
She obeyed.
Long moments passed. Then he spoke without glancing at her.
"You did well. More than I expected."
Ziyan folded her hands in her lap. "Is that why I'm here?"
He finally met her eyes. "You are here because brilliance is no longer optional. The Empire needs more than obedient sons of noble lines. It needs people who can survive wolves in silk."
Ziyan held his gaze. "Then why was I banished?"
The question hung like smoke between them. A slow silence. Outside, a single mynah bird cried out once, then went still.
Minister Li leaned back, steepling his fingers.
"You were a threat."
"Because I asked questions?"
"Because you were not afraid of the answers."
His voice had no softness. Just a cold admittance. She waited for an apology, some gesture of guilt, but it never came.
Instead, he nodded toward a stack of parchment near the table's end. "You will be assigned a minor advisory post. Quiet. Limited reach. Enough to observe. Not enough to disrupt."
Ziyan's eyes narrowed slightly. "And the teahouse?"
He allowed the ghost of a smile. "It may remain. So long as it does not become a breeding ground for sedition. Or spies."
A shadow passed behind his gaze, as though he already suspected what kinds of secrets passed between those walls. Perhaps he did.
Ziyan sat straighter. "You're not doing this just for Qi. You're watching me."
He didn't deny it.
At a gesture, the door opened again — this time revealing a thin, soft-footed young man with large round spectacles and a scholar's ribbon too large for his plain robe.
"This is Wen Yufei," Minister Li said, without warmth. "He will serve as your junior assistant. You may find him irritating. He is thorough. And loyal."
The small mandarin gave a jittery bow, clutching a case of documents nearly his own height.
"I-I'm most honored, Senior Li Ziyan. I look forward to learning from your… um, unconventional insights."
Ziyan arched a brow. "Do you speak like that to all women or just the ones you were warned about?"
He blushed crimson. "I—I wasn't warned, I swear—!"
Her father waved a hand and the boy silenced himself instantly.
"One more thing," Minister Li said, gaze returning to Ziyan. "You will not speak of what occurred during the examinations. Not of the punishment. Not of the names."
Ziyan's voice was steady. "Even though it was the truth?"
"Especially because it was."
Then he stood. The meeting was over.
She rose, offering a final bow that was neither servile nor defiant. As she stepped out, Wen Yufei scurried after her, already mumbling notes about court procedure, audience etiquette, and what days the archives allowed candlelight.
Ziyan barely listened. Her thoughts churned, unsettled.
Waiting outside the garden wall were Lianhua and Li Qiang. They turned as she approached, and Li Qiang's jaw tightened at the sight of the small mandarin.
"Who's the rat?"
"My assistant," Ziyan said drily.
Lianhua smirked. "Better than another noble brat. At least he looks harmless."
They left the palace by the eastern exit, winding back toward the city's merchant quarter. But before they reached the main road, a large carriage passed them — lacquered green, crested with the emblem of the Li family.
Inside were three women.
Ziyan didn't need to look hard to recognize them. Her stepmother, resplendent in embroidered satin, looked down through a half-drawn curtain with a gaze sharp enough to flay. On either side of her were Ziyan's half-sisters — elegant, whispering, their lips curved in practiced disdain.
The carriage slowed briefly, just long enough for one of them to speak.
"Oh look," one sister said sweetly. "It does walk upright after all."
The other laughed behind her fan. "Careful. If you speak too kindly, it might start thinking it belongs again."
Ziyan didn't flinch. But she saw Wen Yufei stiffen behind her, shocked. Li Qiang looked ready to strike the wheels off the carriage. Lianhua simply stepped forward and bowed — too low, too formal — then rose with a smile that didn't reach her eyes.
"You'll forgive us," she said softly, "but we've been busy earning our place."
The carriage rolled on.
Ziyan stood in the wake of its shadow, breath calm, her pulse not.
Minister Li wanted her back in court — not as daughter, not as heir, but as something else. A pawn? A weapon? A watcher no one had expected to rise again?
The truth could wait.
For now, she would observe. Let them think her a quiet feather drifting back into place. Let them forget she was born under fire.
Because the phoenix had returned — not to burn, but to learn where the kindling was hidden.