Morning in the Li estate had never felt so sharp.
The attacker's body was quietly removed before dawn. No servants were alerted. No questions were asked.
Li Yun didn't sleep. Neither did Lady Shen.
They both knew one thing now: this house was no longer just a place of secrets—it was a battlefield.
And silence would be their greatest weapon.
In the light of early sun, they sat across from each other in the quiet of her private garden.
A pot of tea steamed between them, untouched.
"He was one of my uncle's guards," Yun said. "You recognized him too."
Lady Shen nodded slowly. "He wasn't just a guard. He used to be one of the Pavilion Shadows—trained assassins from the inner court. Your father's old loyalty division."
Yun's jaw clenched. "So my uncle is still using them."
"Or someone is using him."
Yun's fingers tightened around the cup.
She reached forward, gently setting her hand over his.
"This isn't just about you anymore," she said. "It's about what your mother discovered. The Flame Sigil. And the people who want to bury it."
He looked into her eyes—calm, but burning.
"So what do we do?"
She smiled faintly.
"We lie."
The first move was subtle.
Yun returned to the estate halls with a bruised arm, claiming it was from training. He ate breakfast beside his uncle, exchanged words about martial practice and weather.
But he watched every blink.
Every twitch of the brow.
Li Chen remained unreadable.
But when he casually asked if Yun had slept well, and whether he'd visited the northern wing, Yun knew—he was being watched again.
That night, Yun and Lady Shen met in the incense storeroom behind the ancestral hall.
She had drawn the room's talismans by hand—silent barrier spells, old blood warding. No sound left the chamber.
"We can't confront him yet," she said. "But we can plant seeds."
Yun raised an eyebrow. "Seeds?"
"Doubt. Paranoia. A whisper in the wrong ear. A scroll left half-open. We make them think the sigil has been found—and that it's no longer safe."
Yun smirked. "And they'll panic."
"They'll move too quickly," she confirmed. "And expose themselves."
Yun stared at her in the candlelight.
Her robe was wrapped tightly, her sleeves pushed up. She looked different in this light—less like a noble lady and more like a strategist preparing for war.
"How long have you been playing this game?" he asked.
"Since the day I married into this family," she said. "And lost the only person who ever treated me as more than a tool."
She meant his mother.
Yun looked away.
"We do this right," he said, "we win."
She held out her hand. "Then let's make a pact."
He took it.
Her grip was warm.
And for the first time since his return, he didn't feel like a boy facing monsters.
He felt like a shadow in the dark… learning to strike.
The next day, a servant reported that one of the jade scrolls from the library had gone missing.
Li Chen personally led the investigation.
No one suspected Yun.
No one noticed the matching glyph drawn in faint silver chalk on the scroll room floor—a sigil hinting at the Flame Technique's first seal.
Later, that sigil was seen by a young kitchen boy—who whispered about it to another servant.
By evening, it had reached the ears of the inner house guards.
By morning, Li Chen doubled the guards near the scroll chamber.
Exactly as planned.
That afternoon, Yun stood on the balcony outside the estate's main hall, watching the storm clouds build in the distance. Lady Shen joined him quietly.
"They're scared," he said.
"Good," she replied. "Fear makes people sloppy."
He glanced at her. "You're different when you're not pretending to be gentle."
"I'm always gentle," she said, smirking. "Just selectively."
He chuckled softly. "You ever think of running?"
"Once."
"What stopped you?"
She looked at him. "You."
Yun looked away, pulse unsteady.
He didn't want to ask the next question—but it left his lips anyway.
"Do you regret marrying my father?"
A long silence.
Then: "I regret not saying no. But not for the reasons you think."
He turned.
Her eyes met his.
"Because I met you," she said. "And despite everything… I don't regret that."
The wind shifted. A soft breeze carried the scent of plum blossoms.
He held her gaze.
For a moment too long.
And in that pause—so quiet, so careful—the storm began to stir.
Not in the sky.
In his chest.