The air in the throne chamber had gone still.
My father stood at the head of the room like a statue carved from stone and storm. The firelight caught the edge of his black armor, and the scent of sandalwood and steel clung to the silence like smoke.
"Wu An?"
His voice was quiet—measured. But it carried the weight of a battlefield command.
I knelt.
"I gave you one order," he said, circling me slowly like a general inspecting a disobedient officer. "Defeat the Crimson Banner and Golden Mandate alliance. Contain. Return. That was it."
His tone did not rise. It didn't need to.
Behind me, my brothers dropped their gazes to the floor. Not out of reverence—but anticipation. I could feel it: their desire to see me broken, humiliated, put back in my place. To be once again the overlooked shadow, the spare son.
But I remained still.
"I am aware of your orders, Royal Father," I said calmly, "and I honored their intent. But I saw an opportunity—one too valuable to ignore."
He didn't interrupt.
"The Golden Mandate was already rotting from within. Cao Wen was vulnerable. Disunified. Had we left them, they would have regrouped. Instead, I struck when their back was turned. Their capital is broken. Their nobles are scattered. Their power… ended."
A pause. A flicker of tension rippled through the room.
Then—my father stopped in front of me.
The silence stretched.
Finally, he exhaled—sharp, almost amused.
"You disobeyed me, then," he said, his voice flat. "Took the war into your own hands. Wrote your own command letters. Sent your own spies. Captured their city."
He leaned in, close enough that only I could hear the next words.
"…Good."
I said nothing.
He straightened. His gaze swept across the hall to my brothers, still kneeling.
"But let it be known," he said louder now, so all could hear, "that no prince—no son—moves beyond the reach of my hand."
He turned back to me. His face was unreadable. His voice, calm as ever.
"You've proven yourself clever. Ambitious. Effective."
He stepped away, his cloak trailing like shadow behind him.
"But next time, Wu An… You will wait for my command."
And just like that, the storm passed.
But the thunder still lingered in the bones.
Lord Protector's Chambers
The door to my father's war chamber closed behind me like the lid of a tomb.
No courtiers. No scribes. Just stone walls, maps, and the faint smell of old steel and sandalwood. A brazier flickered low in the corner, its coals crackling like distant bones.
The Lord Protector stood with his back to me, hands clasped behind him, his shadow stretched long across the map table.
"You return to Ling An with a lot of noise," he said. "Trumpets. Cheers. Stories spreading faster than ink. Stories of you."
He turned, slow as a closing gate. His eyes—black, sharp, still—locked onto mine.
"You were sent north to end a war. Instead, you returned draped in triumph—as if you wore a crown."
I held my tongue.
"No congratulations," he continued. "No punishment, either. I don't waste time on theatre."
He moved to the map and pressed a calloused finger to a curled, cracked stretch of the western provinces. A city's name barely visible beneath the grime.
Longzhou.
"Floodplain city. Old trade node. Forgotten by most."
He unrolled a scroll beside it—stamped with cracked lacquer, the characters smeared from damp or neglect.
"The river swelled during last year's retreat. The irrigation collapsed. The crops failed. Refugees choke the roads. Famine brews in the bellies of would-be rebels."
He looked up. "You'll go there. You'll fix it."
A beat passed.
"You send me from war to rice fields?"
"I send you where the empire is weakest. And I watch what you do when no one is singing for you."
His tone didn't shift. His face didn't move. But the silence afterward felt like a trap waiting to be stepped in.
"No armies this time," he added. "No banners. No glory."
"And if it burns?" I asked.
"Then you'll burn with it."
He handed me the edict—sealed in imperial red, the wax unmarked by the royal seal.
"As far as the court knows, this is a gesture of trust. A gift of responsibility. But you and I know better. You'll hold Longzhou together, or you'll become its ash."
He turned again, dismissing me with nothing but his back.
But as I stepped toward the doors, his voice followed.
"There are already whispers in the court's corners. Everyone in court thinks that you're getting bolder. Even some thinks that I'm grooming you ahead of all your brothers."
He paused.
"I'm not."
That was the last thing he said.
But the doors didn't creak when I opened them.
Because she was already there.
Wu Ling.
Draped in crimson and gold, her veil thin as mist. Unmoving. Unblinking. A stillness that pressed against the bones.
She should have left with the others. Shouldn't be here. But she stood just beyond the shadow of the brazier, watching me.
The air around her smelled faintly of lotus root and old incense—familiar, but wrong.
She said nothing.
But in her silence, I felt something heavier than words.
Not suspicion.
Not fear.
Recognition.
Something in her eyes told me she knew what lay beneath the ruins of Cao Wen. That she had seen the same ancient dark curled beneath the world's skin. And unlike the rest of us—she did not look away.
Behind her, a monk stood in shadow, holding bone beads.
Neither of them moved.
And neither did I.