Snow fell in gentle spirals over the forest as night returned, but the silence was no longer empty.
Ye Qingran's senses sharpened as they left Red Valley. The presence she had felt near the grave—that unnamed watcher cloaked in ash and wind—was closer now. She couldn't see him, but her blood whispered it: they were being followed.
The blind Songstress said nothing as they moved down the slope, her fingers brushing the bark of trees to feel the earth's vibration. Zhi Lan kept close, her fingers occasionally touching the hilt of her dagger, sensing the same tension curling in the air.
"There's something about this place," Zhi Lan murmured. "It's watching us."
"No," Qingran said calmly. "He is watching us."
By the third bend in the mountain path, the trail narrowed, and the wind began to howl through the stone like a whispering serpent.
Qingran stopped.
"Zhi Lan," she said without looking, "Take the Songstress ahead. There's a hunter nearby. I need to speak with him."
Zhi Lan hesitated. "You'll be alone."
"I won't be for long."
Zhi Lan nodded. She took the Songstress's hand and guided her carefully through the snow ahead.
And the moment they vanished into the next curve of the trail, Qingran turned sharply toward the mist-draped slope.
"Come down," she said. "You've followed us long enough."
For a breath, there was only silence.
Then came the soft crunch of boots on frost.
A man stepped out from behind a dying pine tree, cloaked in ashen gray robes, his face half-hidden behind a bone mask carved like a dragon's jaw. The other half of his face was smooth, elegant—unscarred, but cold.
His eyes were pale gold. Serene. Unreadable.
"I wasn't sure if it was really you," he said at last. "The last time I saw General Li Xueyan, she was bleeding beneath an imperial banner."
Qingran's fingers twitched. "And you watched."
He tilted his head. "I was ordered not to interfere."
"Was it the Emperor's order?" she asked coolly. "Or your own cowardice?"
His eyes flared slightly at the insult, but his voice remained calm. "Still as sharp as ever."
She stepped closer, studying him now.
"You don't move like a killer," she said. "But your presence... it's trained. Controlled."
He gave a small bow. "I was once trained to be his shadow. A blade without name."
"A royal executioner?"
"No." His voice dropped. "A crownless prince."
Qingran's breath stilled.
He removed his mask slowly, revealing a face that could have belonged to any noble family—sharp jaw, soft mouth, a scar just beneath the left eye. But it was his eyes that told the truth.
He had the Emperor's gaze—golden and heavy with secrets.
"My name is Ji Shentao," he said. "The seventh son. Conceived by a war concubine, erased from court records the day I was born."
Qingran narrowed her eyes. "Then why follow me now?"
"Because I remember what you did at the Southern Wall," he said softly. "You saved my mother's people. You chose to fight without ever knowing who I was."
"And now you think I'll spare you?"
He smiled faintly. "No. I'm not here to be spared. I'm here to offer a name."
She hesitated.
He stepped closer, golden eyes burning.
"The Emperor's Empress—the first wife—is the one who gave the order to erase Lady Bai Yan. Your name was on her list before the Emperor saw you."
Qingran's breath caught.
"All this time I thought it was his betrayal."
"Perhaps it still is," Ji Shentao said quietly. "But she moved first. She feared your strength. Feared the prophecy Lady Bai Yan whispered on her deathbed. The one about a woman born to burn the court from within."
"And now she's preparing another purge," he added. "Of every surviving daughter tied to Bai Yan's bloodline."
Qingran clenched her fists. "Then we'll strike first."
Ji Shentao tilted his head.
"I can help you reach them before she does. But I won't fight as a prince. Only as a ghost."
Qingran considered him for a long moment.
Then, slowly, she extended her hand.
"Then let the ghosts rise."
Their hands clasped in the still air, the first snowstorm of winter beginning to fall around them.
Far away, deep inside the capital, the Empress stood before a polished bronze mirror, watching as dark lotus petals drifted through her reflection.
She turned to her maid.
"Send word. We purge the bloodline before the new moon. The dead are beginning to stir."