The door slid open without announcement.
Mingyu entered first, steps stripped of sound but not purpose.
He crossed to the low table where tea waited, untouched, and set a packet of sealed letters beside the pot as though delivering groceries, not a dynasty's obituary.
Xinying looked up from the cup she had been cradling but not drinking.
She had not moved from the couch since the five men left in the morning. She hadn't needed to. Their return was inevitable, like weather arriving exactly on schedule.
Yaozu followed behind Mingyu, his shoulders squared, and his expression calm in the way river stones stayed calm under storms.
He closed the door with the same care he gave to swords and to her, then moved toward the couch as though expecting to be told to rest and refusing to do so until she ordered it.
Deming came next, scrolls under one arm, edges neat even after corridors and lime dust.
