Snow had not yet come to Long Zhi, but the chill in the air carried the promise of its arrival. The trees outside YongShen Hall stood in eternal stillness, their pines rustling only when the wind passed like an unseen messenger.
Within the estate, life stirred quietly but never aimlessly. Servants polished copper urns and prepared ceremonial robes. Guards patrolled with solemn steps. The crackle of wood in braziers echoed faintly through the outer halls.
Lianhua spent her mornings in study and observation—reading scrolls on Tiānguó's local customs, sketching architectural designs in the guest courtyard, learning the unspoken language of nods, bows, and silences. Life in Svarṇapatha had been louder—more expressive, more forgiving. Here, everything had edges.
Trouble, though still distant, had begun to whisper.
At midday, Wei An reported that a grain caravan meant for Long Zhi had been found looted—its escorts missing, the guards' arrows turned inward, not outward.
"A dispute?" Lianhua asked.
"Perhaps," the steward said carefully. "Or perhaps someone knew the patrol's path too well."
By late afternoon, Commander Zhao had doubled the sentries near the outer gates. Horses were kept saddled. Liwei met with his officers behind closed doors.
Later that evening, Lianhua wandered to the garden where the pond lay half-frozen under thin ice. A single orange maple leaf floated still atop its surface.
There she found Nanny Mei, arranging flower offerings by the ancestral altar beside the eastern corridor.
"Is that incense for the ancestors of YongShen Hall?" Lianhua asked.
Mei nodded. "The Lord honors them, though he rarely shows it in presence."
"Has he always been like this?" Lianhua asked gently.
The old woman paused, her hands resting on the carved tray of offerings.
"No child is born cold," she said softly. "But some are left to winter too long."
Lianhua waited, sensing the Weight behind those words.
"When his mother fell ill, there was little kindness left for her. And less for the child she bore."
"She died?" Lianhua asked.
"Not suddenly. Which is worse?"
The wind rustled through the pine branches above. Mei didn't say more, and Lianhua didn't press. But something inside her shifted—like snow cracking underfoot.
That night, when she returned to her chambers, she found a small lacquered box waiting on her writing table. It bore no note, but the seal on the ribbon was unmistakable—Liwei 's.
Inside was a hairpin—not extravagant, but finely made. Silver twisted in the shape of a curled plum blossom, with a single stone of jade inset at its base.
She lifted it gently, running a finger over its Weight. Not a court gift. Not a political token. A personal one.
He did not say a word.
He did not need to.
She wore it the next morning without announcement.
At the strategy meeting in the council hall, Liwei 's eyes passed over her once briefly, unreadable—but they did not move on immediately.
Malati, observing from a distance, whispered to An Jing, "He noticed."
An Jing raised a brow. "He notices everything. That's the danger of men like him."