Ling An was too quiet for a city at war. The bells had rung themselves hoarse the night before and now refused to speak. The air hung thick with incense and river fog. Somewhere, a temple drum tried to remember its rhythm and failed. Rumor reached faster than horses: the Southern army had crossed the marsh, the Emperor himself marched behind their white banners, and every whisper at every well carried the same curse — Wu An bleeds the realm while the gods crown another.
Within the northern quarter, soldiers dragged shut the merchant gates, iron screeching against stone. Smoke bled from the granaries; ministers fled toward the Lord Protector's estate beneath banners that pretended to be loyal. Eunuchs scattered between ministries, clutching scrolls whose ink was still wet and wrong. The palace courtyards smelled of rain that hadn't fallen. Beneath the city, the old cisterns breathed.
In the western garden, Wu Shuang sat beneath a magnolia that had long forgotten spring. The branches were brittle, the earth pale and cracked from drought. A cup of tea cooled in her hands. Its surface rippled though there was no wind. She did not look up when footsteps entered the pavilion. Wu Jin came without guards or ceremony, as men do when they are not sure which shadow to fear more — their own, or the one waiting for them.
"War reaches the walls," he said. "Your brother burns the South while the court burns itself. Ling An eats its own name."
"Good," she murmured. "Names rot faster."
He studied her face. "You are calm for a woman the gods have armed."
"The gods do not arm," she said. "They awaken."
Her voice was even, her eyes steady, but the cup in her hands began to hum against the table. The tea turned inward, ripples folding upon themselves until they formed a spiral that did not end. Wu Jin's breath caught. "And what have they awakened in you, cousin?"
"The question that ends language."
Above them, thunder cracked — not in the sky but in the vault where the Lord Protector kept the imperial banners. The painted dragons writhed as though remembering movement. Guards swore the silk had caught fire without touch. Below, soldiers shouted orders that came back to them warped, half-echo and half-mockery: Hold the gates. Seal the gods.
By the time riders reached the main bridge, their horses refused the river. One man wept because the water had begun to lean toward him.
Wu Shuang's lamp guttered once and steadied. The flame bent forward as if listening. "Do you know why your brother fights?" she asked.
"To keep roofs standing," Wu Jin said.
"No," she whispered. "To keep himself from drowning."
She stood. The magnolia creaked as its bark split in thin seams. Pale roots pushed through the ground, writhing like veins remembering their shape. The air trembled. Somewhere deep beneath the palace, something vast turned in its sleep. "When they sold me south," she said, "the monks taught me that the body is a door. The South only forgot to close mine."
Wu Jin's eyes widened. "You would unleash it here?"
"Here is where it was born."
The light swelled. The magnolia's shadow burned itself into the wall behind her, its branches stretching wider than the garden. The soil cracked open with the slow patience of awakening. Wu Jin's hand twitched toward the hilt at his waist, but he did not draw. His fear was too intelligent for that. "You'll bring down the roof," he said.
"That is what weapons are for."
Outside, the streets turned into corridors of smoke. Soldiers fled their posts to join looters; courtiers locked their gates and called it loyalty. The peasants dragged idols into the gutters and drowned them in wine. The Lord Protector's council split apart — half demanded retreat, half demanded blood. No one noticed the ground breathing beneath their feet.
Wu Jin climbed the upper terrace in time to see the garden blaze white. No fire, only light, a column that rose straight into the sky like a pillar holding up a god's patience. He dropped to his knees, not from reverence but survival. "The weapon is awake," he whispered.
The bells began to toll again, though no hands touched them. Each note deeper than the last, until the air itself rang like metal struck underwater.