Seven Stones wasn't like the rest of Daiyu.
It never pretended to be.
If the Imperial Court was all echoes and etiquette, Seven Stones spoke in smoke and coin, its alleys paved in market dialects, its air thick with spice and the low hum of wagers laid under breath.
No one here looked up when they passed.
Mingyu walked in plain robes without crest or title, Deming beside him in the unmarked silk of a man who had learned long ago that power sharpened best in quiet. Yizhen strolled as if the whole quarter belonged to him—which, in a way, it did. Longzi stayed close enough to be useful without blocking sightlines, his eyes sweeping roofs, shadows, doors.
Xinying moved at the center of them, not hidden, not flaunted, simply… there. The still point around which everything else turned.
Yaozu slipped in and out of the narrow mouths of side streets like he'd been born to them.
Seven Stones noticed none of it.
Or more accurately, it pretended not to.
