Less than a week after the festival, a letter arrived sealed with a dark red sigil the villagers did not know. It arrived not by rider but by a messenger who wore the heavy purple cloak of a provincial retainer; his face was impassive, his eyes like flint.
Liu Shen unfurled a branch and read the marked paper with a slow sadness. The seal bore the mark of Runan: a clan lord of middling power and vast appetite. The letter was courteously cruel — an invitation wrapped in menace.
"The court of Lord Runan wishes audience with the Willow Child. We offer instruction, protection, and the chance for your prosperity to spread under his banner. Decline, and we will make the choice for you."
The villagers clustered in whispers. Fear is a spider that spins quickly in cramped rooms. The elder's knuckles were white as he tightened his grip on his staff. "We cannot submit," he said, voice small. "We are a village, not a court."
Shi Hao paced, restless as river water. He had stood before men like Runan in his wandering days — men who offered gilded cages. "Runan is trouble wrapped in silk," he said. "He will want more than children: he will want the soil, the guardians, the Seedbed. He will want our names written in his ledger."
Shi Yi, whose pride had been rattled by the festival and assailed by the world's attention, burned with a different heat. "Then we should answer him with a blade," he snapped. But the elder spoke up, a ring of sorrow in his voice. "A blade at a lord's gate invites a hundred more."
Liu Shen's leaves shimmered faintly. "We will not receive lordships at our door," she said. "But we do not make war with words. Prepare the defenses and strengthen our ties. Send envoys to the Phoenix clan. Speak to the hills. Let Runan know we are not a prize you can seize."
The system, listening to the current of choices, murmured its own warning.
[Alert: Lord Runan's Interest—classified. Probability of political harassment and resource claims: high. Suggested Action: Establish external alliances; prepare demonstration of non-submissive strength.]
A demonstration was needed. Shi Hao suggested they invite the travelers and minor clans who had come to the festival to a small, polite contest of art and cultivation — not a war but a show of unity. The idea was a different kind of defense: a refusal to be alone.
While plans were made and banners stitched, somewhere beyond the valley Runan's palace sat like a theory waiting to be proven. A man in fine robes stroke a small jade artifact, smiling thinly. "So the willow grows a child," he murmured. "The world curates its next big storm, does it not?"
Back in the village, Qingmu watched a butterfly ignore the formal treaty-work and flounced past freely. He clapped, delighted, oblivious to ledgered intentions or purple seals. For now his world was still small, stitched together from hands that loved him and the patient, ancient tree that cradled him. But the letter's shadow stretched long. The whispering court had begun its notes, and someone would soon be listening for the melody to play out.