The wedding began with silence.
Not the silence of reverence, but the silence of men who hold their breath, waiting for the walls to fall.
The court gathered in crimson rows, ministers in silk, guards in lacquered armor. Incense curled through the hall in pale threads. Musicians plucked the opening notes, brittle as dry reeds.
Shen Yue walked to me veiled in red. Her step was steady, her gaze clear beneath the cloth. I took her hand. Cold. Firm. Together, we bowed before Heaven's tablets, before the Lord Protector's shadow, before the dragon throne.
The vows began.
The sabotage struck at the second cup.
The Minister of Revenue, a thin man with ink still stained into his nails, raised his wine and drank. His lips purpled before the vessel left his mouth. He coughed once, twice—then blood sprayed across his silks.
The hall erupted in gasps. The music faltered. Guards surged forward. Ministers recoiled, some dropping their cups, others clutching their throats as though poison might leap from cup to mouth.
The minister fell, his body shuddering on the floor, eyes rolling white.
The wedding veil had not yet been lifted, and already it was stained by panic.
Across the hall, a shadow moved.
Wu Kang.
He had not been seen for weeks, yet now he entered in full armor, his blade at his hip, his face pale with grief, sharpened with rage. His presence alone drew whispers like knives across the silk-lined walls.
He did not bow. He did not kneel. He took his place in silence, eyes fixed not on me, not on Shen Yue, but on the corpse that lay twitching at the floor.
Shen Yue's hand tightened in mine. Through the veil, her voice was a whisper only I could hear. "He chose his moment."
"Yes," I said. "And so will we."
The Lord Protector rose, his shadow stretching across the dais. "Order," he commanded, his voice steady as stone. "Guards, seal the doors. No one leaves."
But fear spread faster than command. Ministers scrambled, some pleading innocence, others demanding justice. The air stank of wine and blood, of incense curdled by panic.
Wu Jin stood at the edge of the chaos, his arms folded, his face unreadable. His gaze darted from Wu Kang to me, and back again, as if tallying ledgers no one else could see.
I looked to him, then to my strategist at the hall's edge.
I nodded.
The move was made.
Shen Yue lifted her veil as the hall roared around us. She did it without trembling, without hesitation. Her face, bare before the ministers, was pale as porcelain, her eyes bright as steel. She raised her cup but did not drink.
"Let them see," she said softly.
And they did.
The ministers froze, their fear caught between two poles: the blood at their feet and the woman unveiled at my side.
Wu Kang's eyes found hers. For the first time since Wu Ling's funeral, his lips moved.
"You replace her," he said. His voice was hoarse, raw, breaking. "You dress her ghost in red silk and call it loyalty."
I did not answer. The silence beneath my ribs stirred, deep and patient.
Shen Yue answered for me. "No," she said. "I stand where no one else dared."
Wu Kang's hand fell to his sword. The hall held its breath.
The Lord Protector's hand lifted in warning. "Enough."
But his son did not hear.
The body of the minister still twitched. The wine cups lay shattered. Fear and ambition tangled in the rafters like smoke.
I stepped forward, my voice carrying through the chaos.
"This is no ghost," I said. "This is no poison that can strike us. This is the court's sickness laid bare. The North will not fracture. The house of Liang will not bow. Shen Yue stands beside me, and through her, the roof will hold."
The words cut through the din, not loud but sharp. The silence in my chest pressed outward, filling the hall, bending the lamps as though listening.
Even Wu Kang stilled, though his blade remained half drawn.
Wu Jin's smile flickered, faint as a knife-edge in shadow.
The ceremony did not end in harmony. It ended in fear, in blood, in silence.
But it ended.
The ministers bowed low, whether in obedience or terror, I could not tell. The guards dragged away the corpse. The musicians lowered their instruments, hands trembling.
And when the final rites were spoken, Shen Yue and I stood, unveiled, together.
The hall did not cheer. The hall did not celebrate.
But the hall obeyed.
When night fell, I stood at the high window with Shen Yue at my side. The city lay restless, its lights flickering like stars ready to die.
"Today was not a wedding," she said.
"No," I agreed. "It was a beginning."
Behind us, the bells tolled once.
In the east, Wu Kang's shadow stretched long, his blade still thirsty.
And the silence beneath my ribs did not rest.