5

The receiving hall had not changed. Its walls were still paneled in dark rosewood carved with mountain scenes, the screens still bore delicate paintings of cranes in flight, and the ancestral incense burner still stood centered before the long altar table, its dragon heads exhaling faint curls of sandalwood smoke. Evening light spilled through the southern windows, turning the floor into a mosaic of gold and shadow.

Feng Yan sat in a straight-backed chair beneath the painted screen, her posture flawless, the hem of her jade-green robe arranged in perfect symmetry around her feet. A low table before her held a fresh teapot of Osmanthus-scented green tea, two cups, and a simple dish of candied walnuts. She looked calm, modest, properly expectant—but every muscle beneath her sleeve was poised.

She had not seen Li Zhen in ten years. In her last life, he had returned to the capital as an exile, his name whispered in corridors and half-accusations. Rumor had painted him a monster—cold, calculating, brutal on the battlefield and worse in court. She had believed them, avoided him.

But late in her former life, she had learned differently.

He had not been the villain she had once feared. He had been the last man in the court willing to speak truth to power. The last to resist the rot swallowing the throne. And he had paid the price in silence and exile.

She had misjudged him.

And now he had arrived early.

The door slid open with a quiet scrape, and she rose to greet him.

He was taller than she remembered. His frame lean and hard, not built like the scholars or princes raised in jade pavilions, but like a man who had ridden long distances beneath harsher suns. He wore no ornamentation—just a dark indigo robe with silver trim and no sigil. His hair was pulled back in a simple knot, bound with black silk. Only the faint silver thread woven into his belt hinted at his status.

His face was difficult to read. Not harsh, but still. He had the kind of expression that invited others to underestimate how much he noticed.

Feng Yan gave a formal bow, her sleeves brushing the floor. “Your Highness honors my humble house.”

Li Zhen inclined his head but did not smile. “General Feng and I served together once. When I heard he was stationed here, I thought it proper to pay respects.”

She gestured toward the mat across from her. “My father regrets he could not greet you personally. He was summoned for council at the border outpost this morning.”

Li Zhen sat fluidly, folding his long legs beneath him without a sound. His movements were precise, efficient, without flourish. The servant poured tea silently, and Feng Yan waited until the room was quiet again before speaking.

“I’m surprised the court allowed you to travel so freely, Your Highness. The last I heard, the Second Prince had been named overseer of the southern campaign. I assumed they would keep all imperial blood close at hand.”

His gaze flicked toward her, sharp and unreadable. “I see your illness has not dulled your ear for politics.”

She smiled lightly. “Even sick birds listen from their cages.”

A long pause passed between them, filled only by the soft hiss of steam from the tea.

Then he said, “I had forgotten how clever General Feng’s daughter was.”

“Many did,” she replied, pouring for him. “But I remember everything.”

He took the cup, his fingers brushing hers. It was brief, but her skin tingled faintly at the contact. Not from warmth—but a strange, sharp cold, like a wind through a doorway left open too long.

She blinked and withdrew her hand.

Li Zhen sipped slowly. “Do you believe in omens?”

She hesitated. “That depends. Are we speaking of dreams, eclipses, or the behavior of crows?”

His lips curved—not a smile, exactly, but the faintest bend of acknowledgment. “A blood moon was sighted above the southern peaks last week. The astrologers have all gone silent. The Emperor refuses to discuss it.”

Her heart stilled. So it had begun already.

She met his eyes. “And what does Your Highness make of it?”

He set the cup down. “I make of it what I always do—when the sky turns red, someone is about to die.”

A silence stretched between them, longer this time. The wind outside stirred the branches of the camellia trees, their blossoms whispering against the wooden screens like secrets being exchanged.

“I wonder,” she said softly, “if the heavens are growing impatient with this empire.”

“Impatience implies mercy,” he replied. “I see only warning.”

Feng Yan shifted slightly, her posture still perfect. She studied him now not as a guest, but as a threat, a potential ally, and a question that history had not fully answered. There was something in the way he spoke that felt deliberate—not just cryptic, but probing, as if he were testing her surface to see what lay beneath.

She let her expression soften. “Then I shall light incense for calmer skies. And perhaps offer a prayer for safer paths—for you as well, Your Highness.”

He looked at her for a long moment. Then, very quietly, he said, “There are some paths, Lady Feng, that prayers cannot follow.”

He rose. She rose with him, bowing once more. As he turned toward the door, he paused at the threshold.

“I will return to the capital in three days,” he said without turning his head. “If your name is called for the Spring Selection, you may find that fewer people there remember your face than you expect. That can be dangerous.”

She did not flinch. “Then I’ll wear a new one.”

Li Zhen turned his head slightly, just enough for her to see the corner of his mouth curve. Then he stepped through the door and was gone.

The silence he left behind was not empty. It pressed in on her, thick with meaning.

He had not come to pay respects. He had come to see if the rumors about her illness were true—if Feng Yan, once marked for the inner palace, still had her wits and her tongue. And now he knew.

Good.

She sat again, alone in the flickering lantern light, her tea cooling before her.

The banquet had been simple, but the course was clear. Li Zhen was not her enemy—yet—but neither was he a fool. He would watch her carefully. Perhaps he suspected already that something had changed in her. Perhaps he had come to confirm it.

That meant she had to move faster.

The Spring Selection would come in weeks.

And when it did, she would step back into the palace not as a trembling girl, but as a spider threading her web.

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