They burned the servant's body before the sun could touch it.
No name was spoken. No mourning scroll recorded.
But every minister who saw the corpse before the fire remembered the same three things:
The spiral carved behind the ear.
The tongue folded on his chest.
The wax seal clenched in one stiff hand — marked with the inverted lotus.
They called it suicide.
But the court knew better.
It was not a message to the dead.
It was a message to the living.
Han Qing stood where the servant had died, the stone still dark from where the blood had soaked deep.
He crouched. Silent. Watching the wind.
His eyes swept the palace wall, the archway above, the narrowing corridor beyond — a place designed for the unnoticed.
"Whoever did this," he murmured, "didn't want to hide. They wanted it found."
Shen Yue joined him, her voice clipped.
"And they got exactly what they wanted."
By noon, the court had turned poisonous.
Wu Kang stormed the Hall of Rites, demanding an inquisition.
"A servant dead in the Emperor's shadow? Who next? A prince? A general? The rot must be cut."
Ministers shifted, murmured, glanced in my direction without ever saying my name.
Three defected from the neutral bloc by nightfall.
One sent a scroll to the Emperor:
"The Fourth Prince's conduct has turned cold. Inhuman. He commands loyalty, but not trust."
Wu Ling made no public statement.
But two of her women visited the wives of key noble families — all of whom had land close to the Southern Kingdom's border.
By morning, a new prayer had spread among the court's servants:
"Let not the fourth-born rule. For shadows answer his name."
Even the palace priests would not remove it.
They said the ink would not wash.
Princess Lianyu's movements were quieter, but no less sharp.
She made no alliances.
But trade routes shifted.
A Southern silk merchant bought a home near the central grain district — overpaying in silver. A retired scribe was offered 100 gold to write letters for "private clients." Temple donations increased.
And beneath it all, whispers spread:
"The Southern Kingdom no longer sleeps."
"The South does not fear war."
"The South already walks among us."
In the war room, I stood alone.
Liao Yun brought news. Shen Yue brought rumors. Han Qing brought his blade.
"They're surrounding you with silk and suspicion," Liao muttered.
"You're bleeding allies faster than we can replace them," Shen Yue added.
"Give me a name," Han Qing said, "and I'll silence them."
But I said nothing.
Because it wasn't just the court turning on me.
It was the city.
Then came the summons.
The Hall of Stone Mandates.
No throne. No ceremony.
Just the Lord Protector, in steel-trimmed robes and a gaze like whetted iron.
"You've shaken this court," he said.
"I spoke no lies."
"You said nothing," he growled. "And that silence made them fear you."
He tossed a scroll at my feet — unsealed, unsigned.
But it bore my name.
"Accusation: Disruption of Order. Allegiance unknown."
"You've made too many enemies," he said.
"So have you."
He stared.
Then he said:
"If war breaks out… no one will protect you."
That night, I returned to my quarters to find imperial guards posted outside.
Not arrest.
Not yet.
Observation.
Han Qing closed the doors behind me without a word. Liao Yun laid out intercepted letters. Shen Yue stood by the window, watching the incense smoke curl in slow spirals.
"They're going to move," she said.
"So will I," I replied.
"With what army?" Liao asked bitterly. "You have no soldiers left."
I didn't answer.
Because they were wrong.
Far away, beyond the northern mountain roads, the Black Tiger Battalion remained stationed in Cao Wen.
Tired. Feared. Dismissed.
Forgotten by the court.
But not by me.
Thirty-seven veterans — split, scattered, wearing no banners — had been sent into Ling An months ago under the guise of trade guards, scribes, even monks.
No one saw them arrive.
Because they never arrived all at once.
And they never used their names.
That same night, a coded message was passed through five hands.
A black thread sewn into the hem of an empty grain satchel, delivered to a teahouse no one noticed anymore.
Inside, a word stitched in faded red:
"Awaken."
The city bells rang once.
Then twice.
A fire broke out near the Southern Gate.
Then shouting.
Not loud.
But coordinated.
A test.
A whisper of invasion.
And suddenly, the ministers who had accused me hours ago were nowhere to be found.
The Southern Kingdom had begun its first stroke.
Not war. Not yet.
Just a knife to the city's ribs.
And the guards looked to me.
But none of them trusted what they saw in my eyes anymore.
That night, Shen Yue found me alone.
"It's begun," she said. "They want you to fall."
I didn't respond.
Because I had already made the decision.
Not to win.
Not to survive.
But to burn first.
So I could choose what rose from the ashes.