That night, Shen Lian lay awake beneath thin covers, listening to the muffled snow fall outside her chamber.
The Crown Prince's voice echoed in her mind—not the words themselves, but the way he had said them. Calm. Detached. Like a blade hidden behind brocade.
He was more dangerous than she had expected. Not for what he said—but for what he didn't.
A knock interrupted her thoughts.
Three light taps.
Zhou.
She rose and opened the door. He slipped in like wind, his cloak still dusted with frost.
"There's movement in the southern archives," he whispered. "Late-night orders. Guards replaced. Someone's covering tracks."
Shen Lian's gaze sharpened. "What kind of orders?"
"Three names removed from the training registry. One of them was the guard who got framed."
"They're erasing him," she murmured. "Turning facts into fog."
Zhou nodded. "I also saw something else. A courier heading toward the West Wing. He wore no badge."
She stilled. "The West Wing belongs to the Second Prince."
A beat.
Zhou added, "The man carried a black pouch. Laced with cinnabar thread."
Shen Lian's eyes narrowed.
Cinnabar thread. Blood protection. Forbidden in peacetime.
Someone was preparing for war.
She turned to Zhou. "We'll give them a gift, then. Something small. Just enough to make them bleed curiosity."
He tilted his head. "What kind of gift?"
Her lips curved.
"One that whispers, 'I see you.'"