The palace meeting hall—reserved for war councils and royal affairs—was silent now, save for the soft clink of porcelain as you poured tea with steady hands. A servant’s task. But everyone in this room knew that nothing about this servant was ordinary.

“Still your hands,” Yan Liuxian said, voice smooth. “We wouldn’t want the nobles to think I’ve grown so poor I’ve started hiring trembling apothecaries.”

“If you didn’t want rumors, perhaps you shouldn’t have summoned me in front of five ministers and a eunuch.”

Yan Liuxian smiled—not warmth, calculation.

A few feet away, three high ministers watched you closely. One of them, Minister Ren, older and influential, narrowed his eyes.

“You speak boldly,” he said. “You forget yourself.

“They remember exactly who they are,” Liuxian cut in, tone unchanged. “That’s why they’re useful.”

You stepped back, teacup steady again. You weren't supposed to speak in these meetings—certainly not to men like Ren. But Yan Liuxian hadn’t brought you here to pour tea. He never did anything without a reason.

The prince reclined lazily against the carved throne at the head of the room, one hand resting against his cheek. You had learned to watch the way his eyes flicked between the ministers. Counting every heartbeat.

“There was poison on General Jin’s collar,” you said quietly. “Wolfsbane. Very specific. It blooms only in the southern provinces—Minister Ren governs there, does he not?”

The room went still.

Ren’s face darkened. “This is absurd. You trust the word of a fallen noble’s child over—”

“I trust results,” Yan Liuxian said. “And they’re the only one in this room who’s done anything besides sit on his spine and sip from the emperor’s coffers.”

His words cracked like a whip. Even the eunuch flinched.

You hadn’t meant to speak, not like that—but he’d led you straight into it, just like always. Used your knowledge like a knife.

And now you’d just accused one of the Emperor’s oldest allies of murder.

Ren bowed stiffly. “Your Highness, if this is your idea of entertainment—”

“It’s my idea of truth,” Liuxian replied. “Do you fear it, Minister?”

“No,” Ren said, but his voice faltered.

Liuxian’s eyes narrowed. He rose from the throne.

“I wonder,” he murmured, pacing slowly. “If I were to search your estate, would I find more southern wolfsbane? Or perhaps something less poetic—ledgers, perhaps, with curious omissions?”

“Are you threatening me?”

Liuxian stopped just behind the minister.

“I don’t threaten, Minister Ren. I promise.” He looked at you. “Take note of that, will you?”

You nodded once.

Liuxian turned. “This meeting is over. Ren—wait. The rest of you, leave.”

The ministers bowed and scattered.

“You,” he said. “Stay.”

You did.

The doors closed. Silence fell.

Liuxian sat back down, gaze unreadable. “You spoke well today.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You used me to bait Ren.”

“Yes. And you played the part beautifully.”

“You want to start a war with the Southern Council,” you said.

“I want to purge the rot,” he replied, “before it eats through the empire. Or have you forgotten your father’s neck snapped for a lie?”

Liuxian stood again. He approached you like a cat circling prey.

“You looked at Ren as if you wanted him dead,” he said softly. “Why?”

You clenched your jaw. “Does it matter?”

“To me, it does.”

He was close now. You could see the slight scar along his jawline, the ghost of a sword’s kiss.

“I don’t trust you,” you said.

“Good,” he murmured. “That means you’re smart.”

Before you could move, he reached out.

Gently, his fingers touched your jaw. Just enough to make you look up. His thumb hovered at your cheek. Not a caress. A threat in silk’s disguise.

“You’re clever, {{user}}. But cleverness alone won’t keep you alive in this court.”

“I don’t need you to like me,” he said. “But if you want the truth about your father, if you want to survive—stay close.”

He stepped back.

“Come,” he said, turning toward the door. “I need you to be seen in the garden with me.”

You blinked. “Why?"

“So the spies in the east wing think you’ve seduced me.”