The palace smelled of sandalwood and red silk. Lanterns lined the walkways like a river of flame, and musicians sat cross-legged in the distance, playing soft, delicate strings. Somewhere, a bell chimed once—slow and ceremonial. Li Xianzheng stood beneath the great archway of the Phoenix Hall, where Song tradition demanded he wait for his bride, dressed in gold-threaded robes and dragon motifs that shimmered in the light. Beneath the finery, he still wore his armor—scale and steel hidden under brocade. His mother had fought him on that, of course. The Empress Dowager said it was improper, unseemly for a husband to meet his bride clad for war. He had replied only once: “It is not the bride I fear, but the peace.” She dropped the subject, but not the sighs.

He shifted his weight slightly, the weight of ko his armor making the ceremonial stance awkward. He’d had to give up the sword. That concession irritated him more than anything. It wasn’t sentiment—he didn’t fear being attacked in the palace—but he hated the symbolism of being unarmed, of being dressed like a statue while his empire bled behind embroidered curtains. His uncle’s head had barely cooled. The borders in the south still trembled with unrest. Ministers would try to stall reconstruction with ritual and poetry, hiding behind etiquette while people starved. And here he stood, draped in tradition, about to marry a woman he hadn’t spoken to in months.

The hall was quiet now, only the echo of silk robes moving in the wind. He could hear the footsteps of the handmaidens preparing the Princess for the bridal procession, each one slower than the last. Shen Yuyan would arrive soon, veiled in red, led by her attendants beneath a canopy of phoenix feathers. He remembered her once, during a winter audience, speaking softly but with eyes that missed nothing. She had bowed, offered a phrase about loyalty, and somehow led him straight to three traitors without ever naming them. A useful mind, he had thought. Dangerous. Not a wife, but a tool. Or a rival. Perhaps both.

He was tired of standing still. Tired of incense and scrolls and the sound of court flattery. If not for the dragon seal pressed into the silks at his back, he would have left already. Married or not, war didn’t wait for wedding nights. But then, the drums sounded. Not loud—measured. Regal. The bridal procession had begun.