Tiles fall like a verdict.
My foot slips on loose dust.
I jump back.
The sound is a slap in the courtyard.
Silence holds for one breath.
"Li Mingyue!" a guard calls, voice flat.
"I'm fine," I say.
Short.
The archive door creaks shut.
I press my palm to the diary.
Ink rubs under my fingers.
The words stay.
"Read it again," Xiao Mei whispers, urgent.
"I read it," I reply. "Loud."
She kneels, face close.
"The Great Project," she repeats, voice breaking into pieces.
"Seven souls," I say.
Two words.
Hard.
"You're saying—" she starts.
"Ritual," I say. "Rite scheduled."
"Tomorrow," she gasps.
"Tomorrow," I echo.
"Who wrote it?" she asks.
"A clerk," I answer.
"Why write it?" she hisses.
"Because paper remembers," I say.
Short.
True.
"Then we burn it," Xiao Mei snaps.
"Can't," I say. "We copy first."
"Copy?" she repeats.
"Proof," I say. "Evidence."
She scrubs her hands over her face.
"You're reckless," she says.
"Maybe," I admit.
Two words.
"But reckless buys time," I add.
Slow.
"Money," she says. "We need it."
"Not for this," I reply.
"For leaving?" she asks, voice small.
"For the family," I say. "Li Heng moves them tonight."
She sobs, then breathes.
"You did that?" she asks.
"I did," I say.
"Why spend your coin?" she asks.
"Because I owe a life," I answer.
Short.
"To who?" she presses.
"To any who still breathe," I say.
Flat.
"You want to destroy the system?" she asks, raw surprise.
"No," I say. "I want to find who pulls the needle."
"How?" she asks.
"Ledger leads," I say. "Names on margins."
"Who helps?" she asks.
"Gao," I say. "He drops books. He watches."
"Why help?" she asks.
"Because he likes to be invisible," I say.
"Then what?" she says.
Urgency bright.
"We trace Clan Ling," I say. "Find who approved the project."
"Where?" she asks.
"In minor archives, county rolls, export lists," I say.
"Then go," she says. "Tomorrow is the rite."
"I go tonight," I say.
Short.
"Now?" she gasps.
"Now," I repeat.
We snatch breaths and move.
The merchant Li Heng waits in shadow.
He nods once, limp catching the light.
"Two weeks," he says, counting terms.
"Two weeks," I answer.
"Go," Xiao Mei insists, voice thin.
"I will," I promise.
The archive gate slides open.
Night smells of river and boiled lotus.
Lanterns sway like small moons.
Guards pace slow.
I move like a borrowed shadow.
My robe whispers on stone.
I fold the copied folio into oilcloth.
It rests against my skin, heavy and hot.
"Don't be seen," Gao warns.
"Don't be seen," I echo.
I slip into the county records building.
A clerk blinks at my hat and returns to stamps.
Paper presses like a held breath.
I slide a page free and find the mark again.
The sigil sits like a scar.
"Who marks ledgers?" I mutter.
"People with reach," Xiao Mei answers from behind.
"People with power," I finish.
We copy by candle.
My wrist cramps.
Ink smears across my fingers.
My head swims slow but holds.
"Stop if they come," she says, sharp.
"I won't," I say.
We work until dawn knifes the dark.
A bell tolls, low and certain.
I hide the copy inside a scroll tube.
My palms sweat salt.
"Tomorrow," I whisper.
"Tomorrow," she answers.
At noon the next day the archive hums louder.
Guards shuffle.
Voices float like paper birds.
A message arrives, sealed in red wax.
Gao takes it and cracks it with slow hands.
He reads once, twice.
His face doesn't move, but his eyes do.
"What is it?" I ask.
"An order," he says. "From palace channels."
"To the east pavilion?" I ask.
"Yes," he replies.
"Consort Li," I finish.
They move me later that day.
Silk that does not fit is draped around my shoulders.
They push me into the pavilion like a marionette.
Fans clap soft heat.
I sit on a low mat, hands folded.
"Tonight favors chosen," Consort Li announces, voice smooth.
"Especially those who... entertain," she adds, teeth unseen.
The Prince Merchant arrives like an honest shadow.
His smile is practiced.
His gaze skims the line and pauses on me.
"Skill sells," he says casually.
"Skill buys influence," Consort Li answers, soft.
They watch me like a clock.
I fold my hands, fingers stained by ink.
My wrist itches at the dried bite.
Xiao Mei stands behind, steady as a reed.
"Why did you save the scroll?" the Prince asks.
"Accident," I say.
Short.
"Or talent," he counters.
"Talent is dangerous," Consort Li observes.
"Will you perform?" a concubine snaps.
"Will you show us more?" another jeers.
"Enough," Consort Li says, like a matron ending a fair.
I stand.
I bow.
"Let me show penitence," I say, voice thin.
"Penitence?" Consort Li repeats, amusement cooling.
"Let me mend the scroll," I say. "If I fail, punish me."
Silence pins the room.
"Do it," she says, cutting like a blade.
They hand me a brush and a dish of ink.
The bristles prick my palm.
My hand remembers strokes it doesn't own.
A muscle in another life flares and guides it.
"Steady," Xiao Mei whispers.
"Steady," I tell myself.
Brush meets silk.
Ink flows.
A phoenix outline breathes into being.
Gasps thread the air.
Consort Li watches, eyes unread.
"Bold," the Prince says.
"Boldness hides cunning," Consort Li replies.
I finish a final arc and the shape becomes a phoenix.
They stare as if a curtain lifts.
"Penitence accepted," Consort Li declares, voice crisp.
I lower the brush, palms dusty with ink.
I fold the scroll tight and tuck it away.
"You're clever," the pearl-tooth woman says, leaning close.
"Practice," I answer, flat.
"Who taught you?" she asks.
"Silk merchants," I say.
Two words.
"Craft sells," the Prince offers, smiling.
"Skill sells," Consort Li repeats.
Orders come like knives.
"Bring the favored girls tonight," Consort Li says.
"They will be shown to my guest," she adds with sugar.
"Especially you," she murmurs, eyes cold.
I smile small and false.
I step back, heart practical and steady.
Night thins to teeth.
We prepare for the procession.
Lanterns bob like small suns.
Guards pegged with authority march slow.
My robe clings and rubs.
"Don't falter," Xiao Mei says.
"I won't," I reply.
We move to the courtyard by moonlight.
The carriage of the Prince lands soft.
Men in fine cloth descend.
They laugh, drink, look hungry.
"Who is favored?" someone asks.
"Tonight the Prince chooses," Consort Li says.
"He has a taste for skill," she adds.
He glances at the scroll again.
"An old verse," he murmurs. "Perfect."
My body tightens.
A tile thud makes me flinch.
I look up.
A slate falls, splinters into dust, lands inches from my foot.
Xiao Mei squeezes my hand.
"Promise you won't die," she whispers.
"Promise?" I ask.
"No," she says. "Not that. Return."
"Return," I repeat.
"What's our move?" she asks.
"Expose one name," I say. "One at a time."
"One name?" she echoes.
"Less noise," I answer.
"Are you alone?" she asks blunt.
"Not entirely," I say. "Gao moves shelves. Li Heng moves families."
"Who else?" she presses.
"The Prince watches merchants," I say. "He buys access."
"Then we bait him," she says, fierce.
"Bait?" I echo.
"Plant a ledger. A false date. Make them chase ghosts."
"It risks more," I warn.
"Choose risks that waste them," she says.
"Good," I say.
Short.
"Good," she repeats.
A guard whistles.
"Who is there?" he calls.
"No one," I answer.
"Move on," he grunts.
We sink the copy deeper in the scroll tube.
It sits like a heartbeat under cloth.
My fingers find the coin, cold and small.
I press it into the seam.
"If they cut deeper," Xiao Mei says, "they'll come."
"Then we cut first," I reply, low.
She stares at me.
"Cut then," she breathes.
Xiao Mei's breath stutters.
"We need a distraction," she says.
"What do you suggest?" I ask.
"Make noise at the market. Draw the eunuchs' attention away from the east gate," she answers quickly.
"Who starts it?" I ask.
"Li Heng can," she says. "He owes us small favors now."
"Fine," I reply. "He did as we asked."
"Are you sure the merchant won't fold?" she worries.
"He won't," I say. "Not for coin. For leverage he keeps."
"Leverage?" she repeats.
"Friends with the river smugglers," I explain. "They owe him small debts."
"Then we use those debts," she says, baring a plan like teeth.
"Yes," I agree. "We press them into service for an hour."
"An hour buys a lot," she murmurs.
"An hour buys a slip in a schedule, a guard rotation, a missed check," I say.
"Good," she smiles thin.
"Good," I echo.
We prepare for false trails.
We plant a forged manifest at a stall.
We smear a seal with coal to age it.
We switch two labels on export crates.
Small lies stack into a thin mountain.
"Will this bring men?" she asks.
"It will bring questions," I answer.
"Which is better," she says, "than being quiet."
"Exactly," I reply.
Gao nods when I tell him the plan.
"Create small noise, big smoke," he says, voice flat.
"Do not get noticed," I warn.
"Noted," he answers, eyes distant.
At dusk we move.
Li Heng slips into alleys and starts a rumour.
A shout, a quarrel, a pushed tray.
Guards leave a gate.
A patrol runs toward the market.
Small chaos blooms like a bruise.
We use the hour to move copies.
I trade a fake folio with a clerk who huffs and pockets coin.
Another man carries a crate with the wrong label.
The ledger we want sits a breath away from the east pavilion.
"Do you feel watched?" Xiao Mei whispers as we pass near the herb gardeners.
"Always," I answer.
"Then keep your head," she snaps.
We slip a note under a guard's mat.
It says: "Check south tower shipment at once."
He reads and curses, runs.
Timing is a fragile thread.
We tug at it and make openings.
A eunuch hurries past, distracted.
A guard changes post.
We reach the east gate, close as skin.
The gardeners are distracted by jingling coins.
We push a stool near the herb fence and pretend to tie a rope.
One hand in the dark reaches to steady me.
A palm, warm and quick.
I grip it, steady.
"Who?" I whisper.
"Friend," a voice says, clipped.
He hands me a scrap and disappears.
The scrap bears a simple word: "Wait."
I fold it into my palm and breathe.
"Wait," I whisper back, because waiting is also a weapon.
We step back into shadows, counting breaths until the hour is ripe.
Hold steady now.
A slate falls, splinters into dust, lands inches from my foot.