The eastern wing of the palace smelled faintly of sandalwood and ink, its corridors lined with bamboo screens and old, watching portraits. Ziyan's footsteps were soft against polished stone as she followed a page toward her new quarters—granted under her father's direct authority. Her name was freshly inked into the court registry, beneath a minor ministerial post—just high enough to whisper, but not high enough to shout.
Waiting outside the chamber was Wen Yufei, calm as a shaded lantern. He bowed with immaculate form, offering her a thin smile that did not touch his eyes.
"Minister Li has tasked me with assisting you during your adjustment," he said. "I've prepared records from the archives on the Grand Commandant's final week."
Ziyan studied him. That same stillness. That same voice smooth as lacquer.
"Thank you," she said carefully, accepting the scrolls. "How thoughtful of him."
They stepped into the chambers. The room was modest by court standards—one writing table, two ink slabs, and a cabinet of state histories that bore the faint scent of moth-repelling herbs. Outside the window, cherry blossoms clung stubbornly to twisted limbs. Spring came slowly to the capital this year.
Ziyan placed the scrolls beside her, brushing her fingers across the oldest wax seal. Her phoenix mark remained quiet beneath her sleeve—neither burning nor whispering. That, more than anything, unsettled her. When it slept, it often meant something was watching.
"Tell me, Yufei," she said softly, "what was your post before this?"
"I was a clerk in the Central Ministry. Reviewed audience petitions and compiled etiquette records for northern trade envoys."
"And now?"
"Now," he said with a faint bow, "I serve you. Under your father's watch."
Ziyan smiled—tight, unreadable. "Of course."
Elsewhere in the palace, Li Qiang stood in a courtyard where young soldiers trained beneath banners of Qi. A command examiner barked orders, but Li Qiang moved apart, observing quietly. His post—granted under a ceremonial military advisor's seal—was vague but useful. Officially, he was tasked with reviewing martial discipline among palace guards. Unofficially, he was watching troop movements and strategic notes on the Xia border.
He'd already noted three troubling things: imperial grain wagons delayed at the west gate, odd shifts in guard rotation schedules, and an unusually high volume of conscription edicts drawn for southern villages. The war was moving faster than the court let on.
He tucked away a parchment beneath his sleeve and moved again through the colonnade.
Lianhua had been placed in the Hall of Cultural Harmony—where court musicians, poets, and ceremonial artists gathered to prepare for seasonal rites. On paper, her duty was assisting in selecting festival performances. In reality, she combed through ancient songs, court records, and audience rolls, memorizing who had attended which ceremonies… and with whom. The brothel had taught her to read desire. Court taught her to read who desired power.
She watched silently as two noble daughters laughed over a new court ballad, too distracted to notice the scroll she gently lifted from a basket left unattended.
In her sleeve, the scroll whispered with the names of lords who had dined with Grand Commandant Zhao two nights before his death—one of whom now sat beside her father on the examination council.
Back in her room, Ziyan stared down at the record of Zhao's death. The official version was neat—too neat. Sudden illness after years of service. Private funeral. Ashes sent to his ancestral shrine in the north. But no one had seen the body. No physician's name was listed. No ceremony recorded at the Imperial Temple.
She looked up.
"Yufei," she said slowly. "Who signed off on Zhao's death report?"
"The Ministry of War," he replied promptly. "And the Chancellor. Why?"
"No one from the Ministry of Health?"
"No."
Her fingers tightened on the edge of the scroll. "Strange, isn't it?"
Yufei's expression didn't change. "Not particularly. Commandants often bypass civilian offices."
"But not when they die."
He tilted his head. "Perhaps you'd like me to request access to the private registry."
"No," she said. "I'll ask my father directly."
That evening, the trio returned briefly to their teahouse—newly placed under Wei's reluctant watch. He grumbled beneath his breath as he stirred a pot over the brazier, but Lian'er was resting peacefully in the side room, and the shadow agents from Xia no longer prowled the rooftops—at least not openly.
"I've seen the troop schedules," Li Qiang said, spreading inked notes across the table. "They're preparing for full engagement. A northern push, but something's wrong. The units are too light. It's like they expect more to arrive—something hidden."
Lianhua nodded, adding her own notes. "And the lords who visited Zhao? At least three of them hold merchant contracts with the southern supply lines."
Ziyan didn't speak for a moment. Then she leaned forward.
"My father's watching me. But he's letting the teahouse stand. For now. That means he needs us alive—but also close."
She tapped the scrolls slowly.
"There's something he knows about Zhao's death that he won't put in writing. And I intend to ask him why he humiliated me, banished me… only to summon me now."
The next morning, Wen Yufei led her to the Minister's private study. As before, Lianhua and Li Qiang waited outside—watching the passing court nobles who threw thinly veiled glares.
Inside, the room was dim, lined with books and sealed scroll cabinets. Her father sat by the window, fingers steepled.
"You've adjusted quickly," he said without looking at her. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised."
Ziyan didn't bow. She stood straight.
"I want to ask you something."
"Then ask."
"Why now?" Her voice did not shake. "Why drag my name through mud for years, exile me, and now—offer this? What changed?"
He looked at her for a long time.
"You did."
She stared.
"You survived. You adapted. You drew fire and made it burn those who cast it. I needed to know if you could last in this place… if you were more than your mother's pride."
Ziyan's nails bit into her palm.
"You didn't need to destroy me to find out."
"No," he agreed. "I didn't. But I did anyway."
Silence hung between them.
He turned back to the window.
"The war with Xia will devour us if we let it. The court is rotting beneath silk smiles. If I cannot fix it from the top, I'll plant something beneath. Something that burns slowly, unseen. Until it's too late to stop."
She felt her breath leave her chest.
He turned again, voice quieter.
"You may keep your teahouse. But step too far out of line… and you'll burn with it."
Then he rang a bell.
Wen Yufei stepped in.
"Escort her back."
As she left, Ziyan glanced once over her shoulder at her father — the man who cast her out, then summoned her back like a pawn set aside for later use. The shadows on his face told her one thing:
The game was still far from over.