The morning after the Lantern Rite, the palace woke to two smells: river-smoke and fear.
Ash floated on the breakfast porridge; gossip floated faster.
"The Wolf King sent his envoy under a flag of truce."
"They say he wants a bride from the imperial cousins."
"They say if we refuse, the northern granaries burn."
Lan Yue heard it while oiling her bracers in the armoury yard. The leather was scarred from last night's sparks; the gossip felt the same—hot, clinging, impossible to brush off.
Drillmaster Han stomped past. "North-yard drill, half-bell. Bring your brain, not your ears."
She saluted, but her mind stayed on the rooftop: the prince's paper slip still hidden inside her sleeve fold, his question inked in midnight.
If the river carries my name tomorrow, will you still wade into the flames beside it?
She had whispered yes to the dark. Now daylight wanted details.
Inner Court, Sandalwood Hall — noon
Screens carved with cloud-dragon lattice could not muffle the Empress Dowager's whip-crack voice.
"We do NOT negotiate with rebels who torch our festivals!"
Minister Wen's calmer baritone slid under hers. "Your Highness, the Wolf King holds half the harvest. One more lost crop and the capital starves before the next moon-rise."
Zhao Shen spoke little, but when he did the air bent. "Then we take the granaries back, not gift them legitimacy."
Zhao Yuan lounged against a pillar, twirling an unlit pipe. "Or we drown the envoy in peach wine until he forgets his own king's name."
The Dowager's sleeve snapped like a banner. "Enough. Protocol first. We receive the envoy publicly—under palace law even wolves may sue for peace. Second Prince, you will host his retinue. Charm them. Learn what their tongues loosen."
Zhao Yuan bowed, eyes glittering. "With pleasure, Royal Mother."
Armoury courtyard — dusk
Yue balanced on a narrow beam, blind-folded, wooden sword in one hand. Han's newest cruelty: feel the strike before it lands.
A practice pole whistled toward her ribs. She twisted, parried, wobbled.
Laughter. "Your left foot still betrays you," Zhao Shen said.
She ripped off the blindfold. He stood below in plain training robe, hair tied back, unadorned. Without last night's crown he looked almost approachable—until you saw the calculation in his eyes.
She jumped down, saluting. "Your Highness shouldn't sneak up on armed women."
"I needed quiet," he answered. "The palace is... loud."
Silence stretched, filled by other recruits' clatter.
He spoke low. "The envoy arrives in three days. They claim the Wolf King wants a royal bride. My mother intends to parade every unmarried noblewoman before him—swans at market."
Yue's stomach twisted. "Including...?"
"Wen Ruo, yes. And a dozen others. All hostages in waiting." His gaze flicked to her bracers. "I need someone inside the guest quarters. Someone the wolves won't notice—because they still think guards must be men."
Understanding prickled. "You want me to spy."
"Listen. Learn faces. Mark accents. Nothing more." He produced a small jade token—dragon on one side, his personal character 辰 on the other. "Show this if caught. Even wolves hesitate before biting the dragon's mark."
She took it; the stone was warm from his hand.
"Why me?" she whispered.
A flicker of something raw crossed his face. "Because you leapt into fire to save musicians. Because you dropped your sword and picked it up again. Because the Wolf King studies my weaknesses—and you are not yet on his list."
He stepped back, voice returning to command. "Report to Second Prince tomorrow dusk. He'll place you as wine-server. And Yue—wear perfume. Smell like court, not parade ground. Anomaly survives only when disguised as inevitability."
Perfume — night
A palace maid attacked Yue with scented pomanders—jasmine, clove, white orchid—until her eyes watered.
"Less warrior, more willow," the maid clucked. "And your hair—like straw in a typhoon."
Braid undone, brushed, re-twisted with silver pins. A pale robe borrowed from a junior lady-in-waiting—sleeves long enough to hide bracers, neckline high enough to conceal sword-calloused collarbones. When she looked in the bronze mirror, a stranger stared back: cheeks powdered, lips tinted, eyes wide and fierce beneath kohl.
She whispered to her reflection: "Roots heavier than wings."
Then she slipped Zhao Shen's dragon seal into her sleeve and went to dine with wolves.
Guest Palace — banquet night
Zhao Yuan had turned the hall into a garden of temptation: low tables laden with spiced duck, lotus wine; courtesans plucking lutes behind gauze; lanterns shaped like wolves—iron teeth bared—hung beside dragon lanterns, artistically suggesting balance.
The envoy entered to a clash of cymbals.
Lord Bai Feng, called the Wolf's Fang, wore grey fur over armour, hair unbound in northern style, eyes the colour of winter lake. Behind him trailed six warriors—tall, plaits threaded with bone beads—and one woman veiled in black, eyes downcast.
Bai Feng bowed, not deep. "Greetings, dragon princes. The Wolf King sends gifts of grain and bride-price. He asks only that we speak of peace beneath a roof of courtesy."
Zhao Yuan smiled, raised a cup. "Courtesy flows here like wine. Drink, envoy. Tomorrow we count grain. Tonight we count songs."
Cups circulated. Laughter rose. Yue, dressed as serving girl, moved among tables pouring wine. Her ears strained:
"…the king favours a bride with jade wrists…"
"…prefers southern blood to warm northern furs…"
"…once wed, he will march south under banner of kinship…"
She memorised faces, scars, accents—some warriors spoke the palace dialect too well for common mercenaries.
Then the veiled woman lifted her eyes—and Yue froze.
Familiar eyes.
Where had she seen them?
The woman lowered her veil, but the image lingered—like a half-remembered nightmare.
Later, as musicians played, Bai Feng called: "Let us toast the noble ladies who may grace our king's tent!"
Zhao Yuan laughed. "Patience, wolf. Swans must preen."
But Bai Feng's smile was steel. "The full moon is deadline. A bride chosen, or the granaries burn. The Wolf King will not wait."
A hush fell. Zhao Shen, seated beside his brother, spoke at last: "Deadlines cut both ways, envoy. Moons wane—and wolves starve."
Bai Feng lifted his cup. "Then we both race the moon, prince."
They drank, eyes locked over rims.
Back corridor — midnight
Yue slipped out to fetch more jars. In the dim corridor the veiled woman appeared, alone.
"You dropped this," the woman said softly, pressing something into Yue's hand—then walked on.
Yue opened her palm: a tiny wolf carved from black jade, identical in craftsmanship to Zhao Shen's dragon seal—mirror and shadow.
Her blood chilled.
She hurried to find Zhao Yuan, showed him the token.
His face sobered. "A counterpart. They know you carry Shen's mark. They're inviting you to dance."
"Or warning me to step back."
He pocketed the wolf. "Either way, the music has started. Try not to lose your feet—little sister."
Rooftop — later
Yue climbed to clear her head. City lights flickered below; somewhere a wolf howled—real or signal, she couldn't tell.
Footsteps. She spun, sword half-drawn.
Zhao Shen emerged from shadow, wind tugging his cloak.
"Report," he said.
She told him everything—accents, deadline, the black-jade wolf.
When she finished, he stared across the rooftops toward the northern hills where rebel fires dotted the darkness.
"They mark you," he murmured. "Becoming a piece on both boards is dangerous."
"I can step off the board."
He turned, eyes fierce. "No. Once chosen, you move—or you're removed. The only path now is forward."
She lifted her chin. "Then teach me the next move."
For a heartbeat the prince and the guard stood in moonlight, equals on a roof, the city breathing beneath them.
He spoke softly: "Next move is the Swan Presentation—three days. You will stand behind the Dowager's chair, visible, armed. The Wolf wants a bride; we show them a blade dressed as blossom. Let them wonder which is sharper."
She smiled, fierce. "I can be both."
Wind carried his answer—almost a whisper:
"I'm counting on it."
Far away, another wolf howled, longer, hungrier.
Yue tightened her grip on the dragon seal in her sleeve and listened to the city prepare for a wedding that might never happen—and a war that must.