The air in Ling An's outer court had turned to frost. Not from winter's breath, but from fear—coiled, sharp, and searching for blood.
Word of my trial had spread like flame across silk. I had returned unburned. Not triumphant, not innocent—something worse. Something unpunished.
The ministers watched me now not as a prince, but as a thing that had survived what should have destroyed it.
And worse—thrived.
The Imperial Court, Noon
"My lords," barked Minister Shen Yuan, his voice brittle from age but heavy with calculation, "we must not allow chaos to erode our foundations. If any prince—any son—can spill blood in the shadows and walk free... then what justice remains?"
He didn't say my name.
He didn't need to.
I stood in the hall in full court dress, the color of mourning silk—black edged with silver. I wore no chains, bore no scars. Only my silence, sharpened to a blade.
Across the chamber, Wu Kang loomed like a broken statue—rigid, pride cracking along invisible lines. Beside him lounged Wu Taian, one boot slung over the arm of his seat, twirling a wine pin with two fingers.
His eyes flicked to me, all mirth and venom.
"It's a fair question," he drawled. "If our brother's hands are clean, then who killed Minister Yao Zheng in the alley behind the temple gate? Did Heaven strike him down for poor attendance?"
The chamber stirred with restrained tension—until another voice, smooth and cold, cut through the noise.
"Perhaps Heaven does strike the unworthy," said Liao Yun, stepping forward from the second row of ministers. He wore court grey, but the iron band at his wrist—symbol of an imperial legalist—caught the light like a blade.
"But Heaven rarely cleans its own house. That task, as always, falls to us."
The room stilled.
Wu Taian arched a brow. "Ah, the law's hound speaks. Tell me, Lord Liao, is it justice to slander your betters?"
Liao Yun smiled thinly. "Not slander, my lord. Merely observation. Minister Yao Zheng was preparing to testify against misappropriated tax funds linked to the Pavilion accounts. He named no names... but your steward was mentioned three times."
Taian's grin did not falter, but his wine cup cracked in his grip.
That night, chaos bloomed.
One of Wu Jin's informants was found drowned in the palace pond—his tongue nailed to his own palm. A servant girl vanished from my chambers, her empty robes later found arranged like prayer offerings beside a shrine.
Wu Taian, of course, hosted a banquet.
It was held in the Pavilion of Whispering Cranes—a silk-draped hall known for wine, pleasure, and controlled secrets. I did not attend.
Shen Yue did.
He returned bloodied and pale.
"They forced a clerk to confess," he whispered. "They knew he wasn't guilty. They stripped the skin from his back. Taian watched. He laughed. Said it was for Yao Zheng."
I poured him water, but it was Liao Yun who spoke next—emerging from the shadows of my study.
"The dead clerk's name was Bao Kun," he said, tone clinical. "He once served under Yao Zheng in the Ministry of Revenue. His family vanished from the Long Street apartments at dawn. Likely taken. Likely already disposed of."
Shen Yue looked up. "You've been investigating this?"
"I don't wait for permission," Liao replied, producing a scroll from his sleeve. "This is Yao Zheng's final petition. It was never submitted. But he gave a copy to Bao Kun. And Bao Kun hid it in his shoes."
He unrolled the scroll. "It names three nobles. One of them—Taian's cousin, Lord Wu Fei."
Two days later, I acted.
A writ was posted at the Western Gate, stamped with my seal. I declared an audit of the grain shipments, naming three ministers in league with the Eastern noble houses. One had recently gifted Wu Kang ten warhorses. Another had helped clear a path for Wu Taian's gambling dens.
By dusk, all three were arrested under pretext of theft and conspiracy.
By midnight, one had hung himself in his cell.
The war was no longer quiet.
At the Temple of Whispering Light, Wu Jin cornered me among flickering lanterns.
"You move too quickly," he warned. "They will come for your throat."
"I know."
He hesitated, gaze flicking toward the inner sanctum. "Then why do it?"
I turned to him. "Because ash does not kneel. It covers everything."
Wu Jin studied me long and hard, then said: "Then don't forget what fire feels like, brother. Or who still controls the torch."
That morning, a child's body was found outside the palace walls—face painted like a jester, fingers folded into a mock salute. A coin from Wu Taian's estate had been sewn into its mouth.
That same hour, Wu Taian arrived at court with a fresh scar across his jaw, grinning like he'd won a game no one else knew was being played.
"Was walking through the spice market," he said with mock cheer. "Some poor bastard tried to stab me. Said he wanted to avenge the ghost of a prince. Which one, I asked—there's so many."
No one laughed.
The Lord Protector still hadn't spoken. And that silence had become a weapon.
That night, I lit the lamps in my study with red wax—war candles. Shen Yue and Qu An entered without needing to be summoned.
"We have seven loyal officers in the eastern garrisons," Shen Yue said. "But Taian's men have begun collecting names of soldiers who wear your token."
"They plan a purge," Qu An added. "Quiet. Disguised as bandit-hunting missions."
I nodded. "Then we burn first."
They both hesitated.
"You mean to start open conflict?" Shen Yue asked. "Now?"
I met his eyes. "No. I mean to make it look like they already started it."
Three days later, fire tore through the Ministry of Civil Affairs.
Two records rooms. One treasury vault. All burned.
A masked figure was seen fleeing across the rooftops—cloaked in black and wearing a crest of red ink smeared into the shape of my seal.
I watched the flames from the rooftop of my estate.
A game, Taian had called it once. But games don't bleed.
They scream.
At court, Wu Kang struck first. He accused me of sabotage. Of rebellion. Of trying to overthrow the capital from within.
I listened without flinching.
Then I spoke, softly:
"I did not burn those records."
And then, louder:
"But perhaps you did. Perhaps you feared what was written in them. Or perhaps your brother Taian, who collects orphans and sells them to the southern temples, wanted to erase a name that knew too much."
Wu Taian stood.
The court held its breath.
He smiled, but the teeth beneath it were wrong.
"You speak boldly, little brother," he said. "But let me ask—if we tear you open, what ink will spill out?"
His fingers flexed.
For a moment, I saw something beneath his skin—a twitch, a ripple. Like something trying to get out.
The Emperor spoke, finally. A child in silk, his voice trembling behind ritual lines:
"All parties… will submit to an inquiry. The Lord Protector shall oversee it."
The court exhaled.
But I knew then: inquiry meant nothing.
The war was already here.
Wu Taian smiled at me across the chamber, but there was no joy in it now.
Only hunger.
Outside, the sky turned black not from night—but from smoke.
Ash drifted down upon Ling An like snow.
And I stood beneath it, eyes lifted, letting it coat my shoulders like a mantle.
I did not bow.
I would never bow again.
Beside me, Liao Yun adjusted his gloves, watching the smoke with quiet intensity.
"This city has seen many purges," he said. "But few have ended well for the one who starts them."
I looked at him. "Do you think I've started a purge?"
He smiled faintly. "I think you've stepped into one that was already underway. And I think Taian no longer cares who burns, so long as he can dance in the flames."