The bells rang soft and high across the palace courtyard, their notes like drifting silk. It was the ceremony for Qi's newest appointments—those who had survived the spring examinations and emerged with rank. Crimson banners fluttered above the marble walkways, each bearing the sigil of the Ministry of Rites. Gold powder was swept across the entry path like fallen stars.
Ziyan stood with the other top candidates beneath the shadow of the Grand Pavilion. Her robes had been freshly pressed, a modest violet hue that stood out among the silk blues and reds of the noble sons and daughters flanking her. Lianhua and Li Qiang were not far behind, standing among other appointments granted positions suited to their skills. But Ziyan's eyes were drawn to the dais ahead—where the Emperor would soon arrive.
Wen Yufei remained close by her side, ever watchful. He said little unless prompted, but she could feel his attention like a thread pulled taut. It made her phoenix mark stir with a faint, uncertain warmth.
Trumpets sounded.
A procession entered the pavilion—first guards, then ministers in high form, followed by the Imperial family. The Emperor walked beneath a layered canopy, his robes embroidered with nine golden dragons. Though his face held the weight of age, his eyes were sharp—watchful, not weary. The Empress followed with quiet grace, her expression unreadable behind a fan of white jade. The concubines came after, each in embroidered gowns, their smiles thin and elegant as blades.
Ziyan bowed deeply with the others, holding the pose until the Emperor signaled for them to rise. When she looked up again, his gaze was already upon her.
"Li Ziyan," he said aloud, his voice calm but commanding. "Daughter of the Minister of Education. Top-ranked candidate of the spring trials."
The murmurs rippled outward like water disturbed.
The Empress tilted her head slightly. "We remember your name. Once cast out. Now returned with glory." Her tone was mild, but Ziyan felt the weight beneath it.
One of the concubines, draped in pale green silk, added lightly, "A phoenix falling to ashes, only to rise again? How poetic. We must hope her wings are not too sharp."
The nobles laughed politely.
Ziyan bowed again, keeping her voice measured. "I serve by merit, not miracle."
The Emperor's eyes narrowed, just slightly. Then he smiled.
"You'll serve in the Eastern Bureau under your father's appointment. A modest post. But for those who endure storms, even shallow waters may hold deep currents."
She bowed again. The crowd clapped politely, but she could feel their eyes—judging, comparing. Li Qiang's expression remained unreadable. Lianhua simply stood with her hands folded, silent and still.
After the ceremony, Ziyan returned to the teahouse with her heart pounding.
Inside, Wei waited—leaning back against the doorframe, arms crossed. His usual disdain had softened just a little, as though watching the ceremony from afar had amused him.
"You looked very grand up there," he muttered. "Almost convincing."
Ziyan raised an eyebrow. "Almost?"
"You wear court silk like it chafes." He tossed her a rolled letter, sealed with red wax. "My report. Read it when the walls feel quiet enough."
She took it, brows furrowing. "Anything dangerous?"
Wei shrugged. "Always. The Grand Commandant's allies in the border garrisons are pulling back—too cleanly. Someone's scrubbing old loyalties. And a name came up. General Yun of the Eastern Front. He vanished five days before Zhao died. No official record. But his seal was found in a burnt field near Linjiang."
Ziyan exchanged a look with Li Qiang, who had just entered behind her.
"That means someone's tying off loose ends," Li Qiang said darkly.
"Or preparing for something worse," Wei replied.
Lianhua stepped in from the side room. "And court artists are receiving sudden requests for war ballads again. Not defensive odes—victory anthems."
Ziyan sat down at the low table, Wei's report heavy in her hand. "Something's about to break."
"That's the rhythm of Qi," Wei said quietly. "Build ceremony before blood. Paint honor before conquest."
Later that evening, Ziyan was summoned once more—this time to her father's private study.
Wen Yufei walked her there in silence. His presence still felt like glass—clear, reflective, and impossible to see through.
As before, Lianhua and Li Qiang remained outside the outer corridor. Inside, Minister Li stood alone, a scroll open before him and a single lamp casting long shadows across the walls.
"You performed well today," he said, not looking up. "Even in front of snakes."
"Thank you," she replied stiffly.
He set the scroll aside. "Qi must present strength in every aspect. Military, yes—but also poetry, literature, governance. That is what they forget. A true empire does not pause for war. It composes through it."
Ziyan said nothing. The light flickered. Her phoenix mark remained cool.
Her father turned to face her. "You will continue your post quietly. Do not provoke the court. But remain watchful. Zhao's death was the first unraveling thread."
"You knew he was murdered," she said, almost a whisper.
"I suspected." His voice did not change. "But evidence must be curated in silence. Screaming truths in court is how fools die."
She stepped forward. "Then why summon me back?"
He studied her for a long time. "Because you're clever enough to see what I cannot. And bold enough to say what I won't."
She felt her breath catch.
He walked past her toward the window. "Keep the teahouse. Keep your spies. But tread carefully. When power shifts, the first to rise are also the first to burn."
She nodded once and turned to go.
Outside, Wen Yufei fell into step beside her. For the first time, she thought she saw the faintest crack in his composure—an unspoken question in his eyes.
She said nothing.