The Palace of Harmony
I wore my ministerial robes in purple and silk, the sleeves long enough to hide a dagger. My wusha hat sat rigid upon my head, its wings casting thin shadows on the stone.
My footsteps echoed — soft, deliberate — as I entered the Hall.
On the left: the civil ministers, rows of red-robed officials with skin like dried parchment, eyes that refused to blink. Most had never left the capital. But they knew blood. They had written too many decrees of quiet death to be innocent.
On the right: the generals, broad-shouldered, thick-fingered, most of them scions of dynasties more dangerous than their swords. They sat stiffly, some bored, others watching me like dogs weighing a wounded animal.
I bowed deeply.
"I, Wu An, Commander of the Southern Watch, Lord of Dongxia and Fourth Son of the Lord Protector of the Realm, bow in respect to Your Imperial Majesty and the Lord Protector."
At the center sat the Emperor, Lizhong — mid-thirties, soft-featured, silken-robed, and nearly transparent. He was a man whose soul had long since emptied out of his mouth in sighs.
He said:
"Please rise."
I thanked him. And my father.
Then, of course, the voice that truly mattered.
The Lord Protector, my father — still iron-backed despite age, face unreadable, voice steady.
"Wu An. Do you know why you've been summoned back?"
I did.
But truth is a weapon that dulls when revealed too early.
"I assume," I said carefully, "that the court seeks clarity. On Dongxia. On the Pale Valley incident. And perhaps… on what remains of its envoys."
A murmur passed among the ministers like a breeze through dry wheat.
The court was baiting me.
I smiled politely.
Let them.
The session dragged forward with court formality.
Paper scrolls were read.
Theories whispered.
Wu Kang did not appear.
But his agents did — three ministers who used to bow to him as a brother now praised him with titles that dripped oil.
They asked questions.
Measured. Calm. Veiled accusations.
And I answered with elegance.
I praised the discipline of the Southern Watch.
I described the plague's spread in crisp logistics.
I listed grain storage, death tolls, even ratios of salt in preserved rations.
But I never once denied blood.
Only framed it as necessary.
Then came Minister Han.
Old. Sharp. Eyes like razors. Wu Kang's man for twenty years.
He raised his sleeve and pulled forth a torn scrap of paper, burned at one corner.
"We found this," he said, "in the wreckage of the envoy caravan. It bears your seal, Lord Wu An."
The scroll fragment was indeed mine — a decoy planted for just this occasion.
I didn't blink.
"Yes," I replied. "I left it behind so whoever raided the caravan would believe they'd struck gold."
"You admit to deceiving the Empire?" Han asked.
"I admit," I said, "to surviving."
"You admit to deceiving the Empire?" Han asked.
"I admit," I said, "to surviving."
Silence.
Tight, expectant.
They were waiting for the court to snap shut like a trap.
Across the marble, Minister Han straightened his spine. His voice sharpened.
"Survival is not above scrutiny, my lord. Especially when it ends in the death of Imperial servants and the Empress's seal left to burn in the dirt."
There it was — the accusation.
Not formal.
But loud enough to be heard.
Loud enough to be repeated outside this hall.
Another minister leaned forward — Zheng Rui, ally to Wu Kang's eastern clique.
"Lord Wu An, did you act under authority? Was the decision to intercept the envoy yours alone? Or were you advised?"
It was the second blade.
Treason in disguise.
They wanted to divide me from my allies.
See if I'd throw someone under the wheels.
I let a long silence stretch.
Not out of uncertainty.
But because I was watching the trap close.
Then, calmly, I bowed my head.
"There was no time for counsel. The caravan carried no formal seal. The roads had been corrupted by plague and sabotage. I took initiative — and responsibility."
A pause. The weight of my words lingering in the cold.
"If that was a mistake… then I welcome the consequences."
I raised my eyes.
And let them see what was behind them.
Not fear.
Not ambition.
Something more dangerous:
Clarity.
The court remained quiet.
Too quiet.
Even the Emperor had not spoken in minutes.
His face blank. Eyes fixed ahead.
Like a doll carved of pale wood.
Behind him, Wu Ling's screen stood drawn, unbroken.
She had not appeared.
Not physically.
But I felt her.
Somewhere in the room — behind the wall, beneath the floor, folded into the dark — her presence coiled like incense-smoke in the lungs.
Then the Lord Protector cleared his throat.
And just like that — the air shifted.
His voice rang like iron in water.
"The matter will be reviewed by the Ministry of Justice. No formal charges will be made without consultation from the Southern Court and the Empress herself."
It was a neutral command.
But it closed the gate before Han or Zheng could bite again.
I bowed again — shallowly.
Enough to show respect.
Not enough to submit.
The court dispersed.
I walked through the lacquered columns of the Harmony Hall alone.
Footsteps echoed behind me.
Then a figure brushed past — too close — and for a heartbeat, I tensed.
Shen Yue. Disguised in low servant's robes. She did not speak.
She did not need to.
She passed something into my sleeve — a thin slip of paper, soft and damp with sweat.
No words.
Just a single symbol: a circle with a missing edge.
Our code for second escape route confirmed.
Outside, the bells began to ring for dusk.
One of the bronze lions at the gate had cracked during the court session — quietly, but just enough for the split to catch light as I passed.
A bad omen, some would say.
But I knew better.
The gods were only shifting sides.
That night, I stood in the chamber that once housed the Emperor's grandfather's war maps.
The old banners had rotted. The scrolls had been replaced with portraits.
But I stood beneath them, watching the painted faces of men long dead, and I whispered:
"The princes have begun to move."
A pause. "So I will move first."
Far away, in a western fortress, a black flag was raised without signal.
In the temple quarter, the red ink on a monk's scroll began to swirl and rearrange itself.
In a brothel in the merchant district, a girl with a burn across her cheek opened a sealed message and smiled without joy.
And at the base of the southern mountain, a forest that had not grown in fifty years began to turn green again — in spirals.
The capital did not sleep that night.
And neither did I.
Because war no longer lived on the border.
It had come home.
And its name was mine.