The Grand Hall had been transformed from ceremonial austerity to decadent splendor. Long lacquered tables stretched the length of the chamber, each one laden with delicacies — braised abalone, swan eggs in gold-leaf broth, glazed pork ribs with plum sauce so fragrant it teased the senses. Lanterns painted with red phoenixes bathed the hall in warm light, and musicians plucked zithers and pipas from a raised dais, their melodies mingling with the low hum of conversation.
To any outsider, this was a celebration.
To Meng Qingzhou, it was a battlefield.
He was seated at the highest table, to the Empress's right, in a position of honor that also made him a target. Every minister's eye found him sooner or later — some curious, others openly disdainful.
The Empress raised her cup and toasted the court. "Today marks a new chapter in the dynasty's prosperity. Drink!"
The guests obeyed, the air filling with the clink of porcelain.
Qingzhou lifted his own cup with unhurried grace. The wine's aroma was strong — Shaoxing, aged twenty years. He sipped, but his mind was elsewhere.
From the far end of the table, a man rose. He was tall, with the roguish air of a military general who'd seen more battles than banquets. "Your Majesty, if I may," he said, voice dripping with the kind of politeness that precedes an insult.
The Empress's expression didn't change. "General Wei?"
"I have heard," the general continued, "that His Majesty's new husband is without cultivation… yet possesses remarkable fortitude. A rare trait! Surely, such fortitude could withstand a modest drink from the Cup of Brotherhood?"
A servant appeared instantly, carrying a vessel shaped like a dragon's head — a drinking cup so large it required both hands to lift. Tradition dictated that accepting it meant consuming the entire measure in one go. Refusal meant public shame.
The court murmured. This was no friendly toast. The wine was likely spiked — not with deadly poison, but with something to loosen the tongue or unsteady the limbs. Enough to make a mute slip… if he were truly mute.
The Empress's gaze flicked to Qingzhou. She did not speak, but her stillness was a warning.
Qingzhou accepted the cup with the same serenity as if he'd been offered a blossom. He tilted it back.
One breath.
Two.
The hall held its breath with him.
When he set the empty cup down, there was not a bead of wine on his lips, not a tremor in his hand. His eyes met General Wei's with polite indifference — and did not look away until the general dropped his gaze first.
The musicians struck up a livelier tune, as if to cover the tension. But the watching ministers saw it for what it was: the first skirmish of a war without swords.