They brought the ultimatum under black silk.
The runner's hands shook so hard the seal rattled against the lacquered floor like a caged beetle. The herald unrolled the strip with the caution of a man defusing thunder. Gold paint flashed where the characters thickened: Golden Dragon Army—Wu Kang's banner, once our pride, now our warning.
The court held its breath while the words were read.
Wu Kang demanded to be crowned Lord Protector of the Realm. He named me traitor and sorcerer; he required my execution by public blade. He named Wu Jin "whisperer of poisons" and required his jailing until "Heaven remembered whose voice was clean." If we complied, he would "restore order" and return the Emperor to a throne whose shadow he had already measured. If we refused, he would bring the Golden Dragon to Ling An, grind our gates into bone-powder, and slaughter "all who wear silk before they wear scars."
The hall went from silence to noise in a heartbeat, as if someone had dropped a jar of hornets.
"Parley," one minister barked, tripping over his robe. "Send the rites-master, the high abbot—something to cool the iron—"
"Arm the northern wards now," a general countered. "Every hour we nauseate ourselves with words is an hour he fattens at Huailing."
The Lord Protector said nothing at first. Illness tugged at the corners of his mouth, but when he straightened, the room remembered why roofs do not fall on command. "Let the hall calm," he said at last. The command was not loud; it did not need to be.
"Send envoys," urged the rites minister, sweat shining like oil at his brow. "If we name him traitor, the South will claim the Mandate has cracked and come as 'physicians' to bleed us. Let us call him misguided. Let us make a path back for him."
Wu Jin spoke then, soft as silk drawn through a ring. "The rites minister speaks with prudence. Words cost less than graves. We delay with courtesy and prepare with iron. One hand to the sleeve, one to the sword."
I felt the silence under my ribs lean toward the scroll as if scenting an old wound. Shen Yue's gaze had already hardened into that winter clarity that means she is finished forgiving the day. Liao Yun's fingers were at his belt, not for steel, but for the map folded there like a second skin.
The Lord Protector turned to me. "Well?"
I let the noise bruise itself against the walls a moment longer. Then I spoke.
"An ultimatum is not a question," I said. "It is a schedule. He has set the hour and expects us to arrive in chains. Parley is breath made into theater. While we bow, he digs. While we spill tea, he pours soldiers into Huailing and writes law with a captive hand."
The ministers flinched as if I had thrown the scroll back at them. Some looked at me as if my shadow scratched their throats. I am used to these looks. I do not eat them; I do not waste them.
"Prepare the city," Father said to the generals, each word an iron offered to the fire. "Ring the river with spears. Lay stones at the east gate; if you must open, open like a jaw that bites. The granaries—count again. Count until you are ashamed of your first count."
Liao Yun bowed. "We seal the skiff passages beneath the jade quay," he said. "The Huailing road will learn humility—scorched ditch on our side, and where it cannot be burned, salted argument. If he marches heavy, he will starve light."
"Do it," Father said.
Shen Yue stepped forward, palms together as if showing she held nothing but resolve. "My cohort drills under the inner eaves at dusk," she said. "We will not parade. We will be where panics tear. If he forces the gates, he will meet a shadow first."
"Good," Father said again, as if he could pay the day with that word.
The court, feeling a roof, began to breathe. Orders were written in courteous ink that smelled like threats. Bronze clappers were sent to barracks no one remembered had doors. The pigeon lofts woke like hive-boxes thumbed by an angry beekeeper. The Boundary stayed a line on the map but thickened in the throat when anyone said its name.
Wu Jin watched me while the room discovered tasks. If there is mercy in him, it rides behind his eyes like a coin that refuses to be spent.
He found me when the hall emptied. "Grave words," he said mildly. "Careful knives."
"Say what you came to say," I answered.
His smile was a thread pulled too tight. "He named you sorcerer. He named me whisperer. He named himself the only honest blade left. He believes—truly—that if he cuts us, Heaven will call it surgery."
"Then Heaven should learn which patient he holds," I said.
He glanced at the sealed scroll on the stand—a black snake pretending to sleep. "It is a pretty thing, an ultimatum. It saves the trouble of pretending you are loved." He bowed, polite as a curtain, and left.