They travelled light and quiet.
The roads south of the river wound through fields that stretched empty and gold beneath the summer sun, but none of them took comfort in the beauty. Li Qiang's hand rested often on the hilt of his short sword, his eyes sharp. Feiyan led with silent certainty, shoulders still stiff from half-healed wounds. Even Shuye, usually quick with a murmur or jest, moved through the days brooding.
At night, they spread their thin mats near the coals of small, smokeless fires. Lian'er slept nestled against Ziyan's side, one small hand always curled in the fabric of her robe, as if afraid Ziyan might vanish like a dream.
"We'll rebuild our circle in Nan Shu," Ziyan said quietly one evening, stirring a kettle of willow bark tea. "Rulan left us more than coin and ledgers — she left us frightened allies who will come, if we promise them a chance to live without kneeling."
Feiyan gave a short nod, tracing the blade across her knee. "It's a start. But we'll need more than promises and old bribes if we're to stand against whatever killed Zhao."
Ziyan's hand slowed. Her phoenix mark flared faintly under her sleeve, warm where it touched her heart. "We'll find it. Or it will come for us."
Nan Shu emerged from the dust as if born from the earth itself — low houses, tired rice paddies, small market stalls hung with drying peppers and fish. But even from a distance, something felt wrong. Too still. Windows shuttered that should have been open to the breeze.
They found Grand Commandant Zhao behind the old tax hall. His body was slumped in the weeds, back propped grotesquely against a fallen cart. His head had been severed so cleanly it might have been done by a ritual blade. Blood had only just begun to crust at the edges. Flies hovered, but no maggots yet stirred.
Feiyan crouched down, breath hissing through her teeth. "Whoever did this, they wanted it known. No attempt to bury it. No signs of looting."
Shuye knelt on the other side, careful not to disturb the dirt. "Or they didn't fear being followed."
Beside them, Lian'er whimpered. She clung to Ziyan's leg, her face buried in the fabric. Ziyan ran a gentle hand through her tangled hair, feeling the girl's small body shudder.
"It's alright," she murmured, though the lie tasted bitter. "No one will harm you."
Li Qiang moved methodically around the corpse, searching the grass. It took only moments before he lifted something between two fingers — long, dark, with a faint oily sheen.
A feather. Black as pitch. Too large for a crow. It shimmered almost blue in the light.
Ziyan took it. Her mark pulsed hot beneath her skin. "The same cult that left their signs on Rulan's ledgers. The same markings carved on that ghost monastery's altars."
Feiyan stood, hand tightening on her hilt. "Then we're not just chasing conspiracies and greedy officials anymore. We're treading on a faith older and crueler than any throne."
Lian'er whimpered again, her hand clutching Ziyan's tighter. Her eyes were wide, almost wild. "Don't let them find us," she whispered, her voice high and fragile. "They have many mouths. They listen through the earth."
Ziyan knelt and gathered her close, holding her until her trembling eased. Above them, the wind stirred the dry grass, carrying away the scent of blood — but not the dread.
That night, they made camp at the village's edge. Li Qiang vanished into the dark, tasked with finding any who might know more. The hours dragged by slow and heavy. When he returned, his eyes were harder.
"Nothing," he said flatly. "The villagers are terrified. They saw masked figures on the roads two nights ago, but no one dares describe them. Some are even packing to flee east."
Feiyan shook her head. "Cowards. Or smart. Hard to tell which."
Ziyan laid Lian'er down on her blanket and covered her gently, brushing a lock of hair from her cheek. Then she stood and held out the black feather. It felt wrong in her hand — cold, as if it didn't belong to any living bird.
"We leave at dawn. Back to the capital," she said. "Whatever cult killed Zhao left this as a message, not a warning. They're emboldened. And if they're moving openly now, it means they've found something — or someone — that makes them believe they're untouchable."
Feiyan's eyes narrowed. "Or that they're ready for the final game."
Shuye's voice was hoarse. "What about Nan Shu? The villagers we promised—"
"We keep our word," Ziyan cut in gently. "We'll send coin. Food. Quiet support. But we can't stay. Not until we've carved out enough leverage to protect them from shadows wearing human faces."
Far to the east, in the heart of the capital, the teahouse was nearly empty. Evening light slanted through the wooden slats, catching on delicate cups stacked to dry. Lianhua sat at the back table, ledger open, brush moving in careful strokes. Her fingers were ink-stained, her sleeves rolled high against the warmth.
It was becoming almost comfortable — the rhythm of quiet profit, the slow repair of what Zhao's chaos had broken. The memory of Duan Rulan still lingered in the air, like a faint ghost.
The bell over the door jingled. Lianhua didn't look up right away, thinking it was just another vendor come to peddle overpriced tea bricks. But then she heard the measured steps. Too controlled. Too soft. Her stomach dropped.
When she finally looked, her breath caught.
A man stood in the doorway dressed in court silks of pale grey. The color was subtle, costly in its understatement. His hair was bound back in a jade clasp, shot through with dignified silver. His hands were empty, but carried themselves like they should be weighed with scrolls and decrees.
Li Ziyan's father.
The Minister of Education.
"Your establishment is pleasant," he said calmly, his eyes drifting over the neat tables, the stacked jars of dried chrysanthemum. "Unpretentious. Almost… honest."
Lianhua rose slowly, her pulse loud in her ears. "We are closing soon, my lord. If you wish to purchase tea—"
He stepped forward. Not quickly, but with a certainty that made her flinch anyway. His gaze found hers, cold and distant.
"You mistake my purpose. I am not here to buy tea. I am here because I must see for myself what grows in the cracks my daughter left behind."
Lianhua's throat tightened. She said nothing.
He moved closer still, eyes flicking to the ledgers, to the ink that stained her fingertips. "Tell Ziyan, when next you write your careful letters, that her family watches. We have always watched. And we will decide whether her rebellion is something to prune… or something to let bloom."
He smiled faintly — not warmth, but habit. "Good evening."
And just like that, he turned and left, the door swinging gently closed behind him.
Lianhua stood frozen for a long moment. Then she reached under the table, where Feiyan's old dagger waited hidden among spare ledgers.
She didn't draw it.
But she rested her hand on it, feeling its cold promise.
At the same hour, back in Nan Shu, Ziyan sat by the dying fire, Lian'er curled trustingly against her side. The girl's breath was warm, but her dreams seemed troubled, small murmurs escaping her lips.
Ziyan's phoenix mark pulsed once, a soft warning. She looked up at the dark sky, stars wheeling like watchful eyes.
"Let them come," she whispered, more to herself than anyone. "Let them try to twist you, little lotus. I'll be there. Always first through the door."
Beside her, Feiyan turned in her sleep, hand gripping her sword even in dreams. Shuye snored gently. Li Qiang stood at the camp's edge, eyes on the road.
Waiting. Watching. As they all would, for whatever tomorrow chose to send.