The throne hall had ninety-nine steps.
Feng Ye had counted them once, years ago, the day his father was dragged down all ninety-nine steps in chains. He had never needed to count them again.
Even at the height of summer, warmth never seemed to reach the imperial hall. Vermilion pillars rose like ancient trees, golden dragons coiling around them with claws bared and eyes fixed upon the court below. High above, narrow windows let in faint streams of sunlight that stretched across the stone floor, too pale to offer any warmth..
Twenty nobles knelt on silk cushions in two straight rows. Their robes were heavy with embroidery, and their sleeves were full of secrets. Nobody moved. Nobody coughed. Even the incense smoke rose in a single careful line, as if it feared to drift the wrong way.
At the very top of the ninety-nine steps sat the Emperor.
He did not speak. He did not need to.
He sat on the golden throne in robes the colour of fresh blood, with dragons stitched in gold thread across his chest and shoulders. One hand rested on the carved armrest. The other lay still in his lap. His face was calm, almost gentle.
That was the most frightening thing about him.
The silence grew. It filled the hall the way water fills a sinking boat, slowly at first, then all at once. It settled on every shoulder and pressed down on every bowed neck. Knees ached against the stone. Breaths grew shallow. Twenty grown men, rulers of great families, knelt there like schoolboys waiting for the cane.
Feng Ye knelt at the far end of the hall, beside the door.
The seat of honour, he thought. Closest to the exit, in case His Majesty wants me thrown out. How very thoughtful of them.
It was the seat for the son of a traitor, and everyone knew it.
The silence went on.
Near the front, an elder began to sweat. Feng Ye watched a single bead roll down the old man's temple, past his ear and into his collar. Then another followed it. The elder did not lift a hand to wipe them away. Wiping meant moving. Moving meant being noticed. In this hall, being noticed was the most dangerous thing a man could do.
That's the trick of this place, Feng Ye thought. It doesn't kill you. It just teaches you to stop breathing.
At last, the Emperor lifted one finger.
Only one.
Twenty heads bowed lower, as if a great wind had passed over a field of wheat.
"The Holy Lady," the Emperor said.
He did not raise his voice. He never did. The hall carried his words down the ninety-nine steps and laid them in every ear like a cold stone.
"Has the girl agreed?"
No one answered.
Each noble stared at the floor and waited for someone else to speak first. The first to speak became the one to blame.
"You all know," the Emperor went on, "that this Kingdom honours the wishes of its people."
Feng Ye's fingers curled inside his sleeves until his nails bit into his palms.
Of course it does.
In this Kingdom, people were free to wish for anything they liked. They were simply not allowed to get it.
Elder Zhang shuffled forward on his knees. He was a round man with a round face, and he moved like a sack of rice that had learned to crawl. He pressed his forehead to the floor until it made a soft thump, then lifted his head and smiled. His crooked yellow teeth leaned against each other like drunk men outside a tavern.
"Your Majesty, Miss Yin has accepted. Of her own free will. There was no pressure from our side. None at all. Not a word. Not even a little."
Four times he swore she wasn't forced, Feng Ye thought. At this rate, she must have been tied up and delivered in a sack.
Then the words sank in.
Accepted.
Cold sank into his gut. Heat rose to his throat. The hall seemed to tilt for a moment, the red pillars leaning closer, the golden dragons bending down to watch.
His face stayed perfectly blank.
Years of humiliation had made him an excellent actor. A pity no one ever paid to watch.
Miss Yin, they called her. To him, she had only ever been Yin Lan.
She hated incense and said it smelled like dead prayers. She laughed too loudly at bad jokes, as if the world might take her joy away if she held it in. Once, beneath a plum tree heavy with blossoms, she had rested her head on his shoulder and whispered that she wanted to see the sea before she died.
Holy Ladies never saw the sea.
They never saw anything again but palace walls.
High above, the Emperor's finger began to tap the armrest.
Tap.
Tap.
Elder Zhang's smile stiffened at the corners. The sweating elder near the front closed his eyes.
Tap.
""A Holy Lady," the Emperor said slowly, each word falling like a stone into still water, "surrenders her family, her past, her future and her name. From that day on, she belongs to the throne, body and soul, until the day she dies."
His gaze drifted down the steps. It did not hurry. It touched each noble one by one, and each one bowed a little lower when it passed, like candles flickering in a breeze.
"Such a thing should not be decided in haste."
His eyes reached the end of the hall.
For one moment, they rested on Feng Ye.
It was like being looked at by a mountain. There was no anger in it. There was no interest. There was nothing at all. Feng Ye felt very small, very cold and very aware of exactly how loudly his heart was beating. He was sure the whole hall could hear it.
"One week," the Emperor said. "Then I shall decide."
"Court is dismissed."
Nobody lifted their head until the last flash of red had vanished behind the golden screen. Even then, they stayed bowed a moment longer, just to be safe.
Then, all at once, the hall breathed out.
Spines softened. Someone's knees cracked loudly. Someone else muttered a prayer of thanks to every god he could remember. The nobles rose and hurried out into the imperial garden, laughing a little too loudly, like boys who had escaped a beating.
Feng Ye rose slowly. His legs had gone numb.
Excellent, he thought. If anyone tries to stab me today, I'll fall over first and save them the trouble.
He walked out last. He always did.
The imperial garden was everything the throne hall was not.
Sunlight poured over everything like warm honey. Plum trees stood in rows, heavy with pink blossoms that drifted down whenever the wind sighed. A clear stream wound beneath little arched bridges, and golden carp floated in it, fat, lazy and overfed, just like the nobles.
It was beautiful.
Feng Ye hated it.
In the throne hall, the nobles were afraid. In the garden, they remembered they had teeth.
He kept his head down and walked quickly along the edge of the path.
He made it past exactly one plum tree.
"Feng Ye! Come here, lad!"
There it is.
He turned, bowed politely and put on the smile he saved for funerals and elders.
Elder Zhang stood in the shade with three other nobles, a teacup in his hand. Beside him stood Elder Zheng, a thin man with a thin beard and a voice so soft that his insults sounded like blessings.
"Aiya," Elder Zheng said, looking Feng Ye up and down. "How you've grown. You look exactly like your father now." He patted Feng Ye's shoulder gently, almost lovingly. "Let's hope you don't end like him."
The elders laughed into their sleeves.
Feng Ye knew his place in this palace. He was a rusty stool in a golden hall, too old to be useful and too much trouble to throw away. People kicked it when they passed, just to hear it creak.
He smiled wider.
"Thank you, Elder Zheng. I'll try my best." He bowed again. "Though I hear your son looks nothing like you. Your family must be very grateful."
The laughter stopped.
Elder Zheng's smile froze. Behind him, one of the elders choked on his tea and turned it into a cough.
Feng Ye kept his face innocent.
Years of insults, he thought, and they still think I'll only ever smile and bow.
He would pay for that later. He always did.
It was worth it.
Elder Zhang stepped forward, his round face turning pink. "You ungrateful little—"
Then he looked past Feng Ye's shoulder, and his mouth snapped shut so fast his crooked teeth clicked together.
The garden went quiet.
Even the birds stopped singing.
The crown prince, Zhao Shan, was walking down the path.
He wore a plain black robe without a single dragon on it, and he walked as if he had nowhere to be and all day to get there. His face was calm, handsome and gave away absolutely nothing.
He looked like his father.
That was the problem.
He hadn't said a word, yet the air in the garden grew heavy, the same way it did in the throne hall. Everyone could feel the ninety-nine steps standing behind him.
The elders folded in half like paper.
"Greetings, Your Highness!"
"Greetings, Your Highness!"
Zhao Shan gave them one small nod. They had to share it among themselves.
Elder Zhang shuffled forward, beaming like the morning sun. "Ah, Xiao Shan! What brings you to the garden?"
Somewhere, a bird stopped mid-song.
Xiao Shan, Feng Ye thought. A pet name. For the crown prince. In front of witnesses. He almost felt sorry for the old man.
Almost.
Zhao Shan looked at Elder Zhang for a long moment, the way a man looks at a fly floating in his soup.
"This garden belongs to my father," he said. "So it also belongs to me. Must I explain why I walk in my own garden, Elder?"
Elder Zhang's smile cracked down the middle.
"Guards."
Four shadow guards appeared. One dropped from a plum tree. One stepped out from behind a pillar. One rose out of a flowerbed with a pink petal stuck to his eyebrow. The fourth was simply there, and nobody could say how.
"Yes, Your Highness!"
"What is my title?"
The four guards glanced at each other. It sounded like a trap, but they were honest men with honest faces.
"You are the crown prince of the Kingdom, Your Highness."
Zhao Shan nodded. "Good. At least someone here knows how to address me."
The guards glowed. Their master had never praised them before. The one with the petal on his eyebrow looked ready to weep with joy.
Elder Zhang's face turned the colour of old ink. He couldn't shout at the crown prince. He couldn't even frown at him. So he did the only thing left to a man in his position.
He coughed.
Cough. Cough.
"His Highness is absolutely right. Those who don't know their place should be punished. Those who try to flatter their betters—"
Zhao Shan walked past him in the middle of the sentence, the way water flows past a rock.
He stopped in front of Feng Ye.
"Oh," he said. "It's you, Xiao Ye."
Feng Ye blinked.
The whole garden blinked with him.
Xiao Ye. The crown prince had just used a pet name for the most hated man at court. They had never spoken before. Not once. Feng Ye wasn't even sure Zhao Shan knew what his face looked like.
Either he's mistaken me for someone else, Feng Ye thought, or I'm about to die in a very interesting way.
"I… am well, Your Highness."
"Good." The corner of Zhao Shan's mouth lifted. It wasn't quite a smile. "We should have dinner sometime."
Behind them, a teacup slipped from someone's fingers and shattered on the stones.
Every noble in that garden would have sold his own grandmother for that invitation. A few of them looked as if they were already working out the price.
Feng Ye bowed. "As Your Highness wishes."
"Tonight, then."
It was not a question.
Feng Ye's smile stayed on his face. It was the only thing that did. Everything behind it went quiet and cold.
Tonight.
This morning, they had sold Yin Lan to the throne. Tonight, he would sit across a table from the throne's son, pick at dumplings and talk about the weather.
What wonderful luck, he thought. Truly, the Heavens adore me. They just have a terrible way of showing it.
He couldn't refuse. A refusal would be an insult. An insult would be remembered. In this palace, everything that was remembered was eventually used.
"…I'll be there, Your Highness."
Zhao Shan turned and walked away without another word. His black robe brushed the fallen petals on the path, and the shadow guards melted back into the trees as quietly as they had come.
The moment he was gone, every eye in the garden turned to Feng Ye.
They didn't laugh now. They stared. Cold, hard, calculating stares, the kind men give a dog that has suddenly learned to talk.
Ah, Feng Ye thought. So that's how it is. Yesterday I was a rusty stool. Today I'm a threat.
He wasn't sure which was worse.
He bowed to them all, perfectly polite and perfectly empty.
"Elders. Enjoy your tea."
He turned and walked away, past the plum trees and over the little bridge, past the stream with its fat golden fish, towards the gate.
A single plum blossom drifted down and landed on his sleeve. He looked at it for a long moment.
She would have laughed at this, he thought. At all of it. Too loudly.
He brushed the petal away and did not look back.
Behind him, the chatter started again, loud and bright and cheerful.
High above, at the top of the ninety-nine steps, someone was watching the garden through a narrow window. Someone who never needed to raise his voice to be heard.
The Emperor let the curtain fall.