The Eastern Garden – Two Days After Court
Wu Kang did not eat.
The table before him overflowed with gilded fruit, river fish, veal glazed in red wine and powdered pearl. Everything he had once devoured with appetite. But today, it tasted of ash.
He poured wine anyway.
Poured. Drank. Smiled.
Because he had not lost.
Not yet.
The ministers whispered already — about Wu An's poise, his restraint, his quiet return to power. But that was noise.
Wu Kang knew the court. Knew its breath, its bleeding. A single misstep in tone, and they'd turn on Wu An just as quickly as they now leaned toward him.
All Wu Kang needed was a new shape. A counterbalance.
And as if summoned by thought, the doors creaked open.
Laughter preceded him.
Loose robes. No crown. Boots dirtied from travel.
Wu Taian — the third brother.
The useless one.
Or so people believed.
He entered without bowing.
Plucked a grape. Sat uninvited.
"You're brooding," Taian said.
Wu Kang said nothing.
Taian smiled wider.
"You're losing."
Wu Kang poured him wine.
"You came for coin?"
"I came for opportunity."
Taian leaned in.
His voice dropped.
"You want Dongxia. You want the South. You want to hang Wu An and turn his bones into strategy scrolls."
A pause.
"I want to help."
Wu Kang narrowed his eyes.
"Why?"
Taian grinned.
"Because I like war. And because I want your left hand."
"Meaning?"
"Second in command. Openly. Formally. When we win."
Wu Kang considered. "You've never shown interest in command."
Taian's smile flattened. "That's why I still have a future."
Taian brought more than charm.
He had allies — mercenaries from the inner ports, smugglers from the Drowned River, failed scholars turned propagandists. A grey army that lived in the folds of empire.
And they had been waiting.
Waiting for a prince with reach.
Wu Kang drank again.
The wine no longer tasted of ash.
The Palace of Longevity – Nightfall
A scroll had arrived for Wu An earlier that day — folded three times, sealed with soft grey wax. No imperial crest. No formal command.
The invitation had no signature.
But the message was clear:
"The Empress invites all who share blood to a night of reflection and harmony."
"Your attendance is expected."
I arrived before the second bell.
The hall had been cleared of guards.
The incense burned in slow, deliberate coils.
The guests were seated not by title, but by unspoken arrangement: proximity, allegiance, suspicion.
The Empress wore white, as she always did, her face veiled — as if she were still a bride.
She did not speak.
Not yet.
The feast began without proclamation.
No ritual toast.
No drums.
Just bowls of salted meat, unripe plum wine, and a single empty seat — left for one who had not come, or had already died.
I sat at the end of the table.
A monk lit the last lantern, which flickered once and went out.
No one moved to relight it.
I did not ask why.
Wu Kang sat opposite.
His face was expressionless.
But his left hand tapped the table rhythmically — the habit of a man tracing a speech he hadn't decided whether to give or hold.
Wu Taian sat to the side, slouched, wine in hand, watching everything with the gentle interest of a man at a cockfight.
The Empress finally raised her head.
"I am pleased," she said quietly, "that the family can share bread again."
A pause.
"This city forgets, but blood does not."
No one answered.
Not because it was a threat.
But because it didn't need to be one.
Everyone in the room already understood.
I said nothing through most of the meal.
I counted gestures.
Catalogued glances.
Measured silences.
At one point, Taian offered me wine. Not ceremonially. Casually. Like a joke.
"Drink with me, brother. One toast for each war we didn't start."
I touched the cup, but didn't drink.
He laughed and drank for both of us.
Near the end of the feast, Shen Yue appeared beside me — silent, robed in grey, hair pinned high in ceremonial style.
She whispered nothing.
She only stood close enough to cast a second shadow beside mine.
I saw the Empress glance at her.
Just once.
Then look away.
The ritual concluded.
The dishes were cleared.
The servants bowed.
A thin bell rang from the high chamber.
And that was all.
No speeches.
No accusations.
No formal decisions.
But as I stood to leave, the Empress's voice came again.
Not commanding.
Just… there.
"The palace has deep foundations."
I stopped.
"Some of them were laid long before your name was chosen."
A pause.
"Be careful, brother. Even the gods do not always survive what is buried here."
I nodded, just once.
But said nothing.
And walked from the hall.
Alive.
For now.
Later that night,
A courier slipped into the southern shrine by the herbal district.
Inside the prayer box was a waxed seal marked with the character for "silence."
When opened, it read:
"The Feast is done. He did not drink. Begin the slow unbinding."
It was unsigned.
But it bore the scent of lotus, ash, and dried plum wine.