The screams echoed down the stone halls like songs for the dead.
Wu Taian stood bare-chested, blood spatters across his arms, whip in hand. Before him, the eunuch collapsed against the pillar, flesh flayed open in ribbons of red. The servants who watched dared not breathe. The others who had failed—scribes, guards, even junior officers—waited in chains behind him.
"You forgot my instructions," Wu Taian said, his voice calm, almost curious. "Not once. But twice. You do know what that means, don't you?"
The eunuch gasped through broken teeth. "Mercy… Your Highness… mercy…"
Wu Taian smiled. It was thin and slow, like something peeling itself open.
"That word means nothing to me."
He raised the whip again.
It cracked like thunder.
The next man screamed.
To Wu Taian, this was not punishment. It was refinement. Pain revealed truth. In pain, men showed their loyalty, their worth, their final use. A man who could survive torment and still serve—that was a tool worth keeping.
And those who broke?
Ash.
He walked the rows of chained officials like a gardener inspecting roots. Their eyes dropped. Their bodies trembled. He savored it. Power unspoken was power absolute.
Then the doors opened.
The light changed.
Wu Ling stepped into the hall like a ripple across still water. Draped in vermilion and silver, her veil brushed the floor, the golden thread woven into her sleeves catching only the shadows.
Wu Taian turned slowly. The blood was still wet on his hands.
"Sister," he greeted, without shame. "To what do I owe your scent?"
"You're making a mess of silk and noise," Wu Ling said. Her voice was quiet, but it did not need to rise. The room bowed to her presence.
"Men who fail should suffer," he said.
"Men who fail should be used," she corrected. "Terror burns fast. Use them while they still fear you. Or did you forget your own father's lessons?"
Wu Taian wiped his hands slowly, staring at her.
"You didn't come to lecture me. What do you want?"
Wu Ling stepped closer, her veil barely touching the stone.
"You were about to make a reckless move," she said. "I heard. You meant to stage an incident at the grain depot. Draw attention. Stir up unrest."
"It would have forced Wu An to divide his efforts."
"It would have burned too many eyes on you," Wu Ling said, stepping past him. She brushed her fingers lightly along the column beside the tortured eunuch, and the man whimpered as if her presence alone scalded him.
"Listen to me, brother. There is a better way."
Wu Taian arched a brow.
Wu Ling smiled faintly.
"Marriage makes him vulnerable."
Meanwhile, Wu An sat beneath the lacquered beams of the Ministry of War's eastern annex. The air stank of ink, sweat, and the faint rot of bureaucratic rot.
Liao Yun knelt beside the war table, sleeves rolled to his elbows, eyes burning with calculation. Once a minor legal aide, now a rising advisor with a voice the court had begun to respect—and fear.
"You moved the garrison titles," Wu An said. "Shen Yuan will take notice."
"Let him," Liao Yun replied. "He'll interpret it as a gesture of good faith. Besides, with your marriage to Lady Shen Yue moving forward, his interest is secured."
Wu An leaned back, fingers steepled. "She made a request."
Liao Yun looked up.
"She wants to rule beside me," Wu An said. "Not as wife, not as ornament. As Empress. Co-sovereign."
"Ambitious," Liao Yun murmured.
"Yes. But she also said this: she will be mine, wholly, eternally, so long as I never cast her aside. Her ambition is not personal glory. It is permanence."
The silence that followed was not discomfort. It was awe.
"She understands," Wu An said, "that to stand beside me is to court damnation. But she welcomes it. And she will be the blade I sheath inside court chambers."
Liao Yun gave a slow nod. "Then I will begin shifting the rite schedules. Make her presence visible. Let the people see a future they will not dare question."
Later, Wu An stood in the shadowed inner garden where the moon touched only the corners. Shen Yue waited, leaning against the stone balustrade of the koi pond. She wore no veil tonight. Her robe was crimson, embroidered with the phoenix in gold thread—but her eyes were darker than the water.
"They think I'll soften you," she said without turning.
"They think many things," I replied.
She turned, and for a moment, she looked almost fragile in the moonlight—a woman too young to carry the weight of a kingdom. But when she stepped closer, the illusion broke.
"I will not be caged in brocade," she said. "I will not be spoken through. I will sit beside you when the empire kneels, or I will not sit at all."
"Good," I said.
"And I will be yours," she added, voice quieter now. "However you wish me. In public or shadow. In state or in silk. Forever. But I will never be discarded. Do you understand?"
I nodded.
She stepped even closer, eyes meeting mine. "Do you believe in loyalty, Wu An?"
"I believe in control. And I believe in fate."
She smiled, slow and deliberate. "Then let me be your fate."
Our hands touched. No ceremony. No witness. But I felt something coil tight around my heart—not love. Not warmth.
Bond.
We would rule as twin blades, back to back. No illusions between us.
Only purpose.
The bells tolled twice that night.
Once for a noble's death.
And once, though no one knew it yet, for a new covenant forged in the dark.
Wu An returned to his study, and the ink on his scrolls shimmered subtly beneath the lamplight—curling into symbols not yet written by mortal hands.
And in the corridors far away, Wu Ling whispered into Wu Taian's ear.
"If we strike his shadow, we can sever his crown."