They sent the first messenger at dawn, before the city remembered how to breathe.
His horse was already half-mad from the night—the kind of trembling that begins in the bones and spreads to the saddle. Wu Jin watched him kneel, hands bound around a lacquered scroll case stamped with the seal of the He Lian court. The case held what the South expected to hear: that Ling An still stood, that the bridge had not split, that their armies had withdrawn from the Hei with honor and with blood on their banners.
"The words must be calm," Wu Jin said. "Calm buys time. Panic costs us everything."
The messenger lifted his head. His lips moved, but no sound came out. Perhaps it was smoke in his throat. Or perhaps he had seen Wu An rise from stone the night before, and silence seemed safer.
A second scroll was brought out then. Smaller. Bound in pale cord. No seal of the He Lian Dynasty. Instead—dark wax, pressed with a sigil almost worn smooth: the old crest of the Lord Protector of Liang.
It was handed to the same messenger without explanation.
Wu Jin did not meet his eyes.
"Deliver this one only to the southern commanders," he said. "If you are captured, burn it. If you are dying, eat it."
"What does it say, Your Majesty?" a minister asked softly.
Wu Jin didn't answer.
Because he didn't know.
He had not opened it.
He feared that if he did, the words would already be waiting for him—written by a hand older than his decisions.
The messenger left with two scrolls: one for the South to read, one for the South to fear.
And still the city leaned toward the earth, listening for a heartbeat beneath its feet.
Wu Shuang found Wu Jin in the Lotus Hall long after the messenger's hoofbeats faded.
"You let them go south," she said.
"Ling An cannot hold two wars at once."
"You mean one on the river, and one beneath the palace?"
He said nothing.
She stepped closer. The false sun shone against her skin, washing it of color. Veins like pale gold traced the back of her hand—roots seeking something beneath stone.
"Did you really believe Father placed the crown on your head out of love?" she asked.
Wu Jin turned, slowly. "I crowned myself."
Her laugh was soft. Pitying. "You stood where he told you to stand. You spoke the words he taught you. You call it ruling—but you are still marching in his shadow."
He said, "Enough."
But in his hand, his fingers were white against the map table.
And he did not deny her.
I watch them from the practice yard.
I do not sleep anymore. When I close my eyes, the thing inside me dreams first.
Shapes. Rivers. A city folded into itself like a dying star.
Shouts echo from the palace. Soldiers running. Ministers whispering about omens in the well-water. Some have started calling Wu Jin "Son of Heaven." Others have started calling me "the one Heaven abandoned."
Both are wrong.
I am no savior. I am no god.
I am simply the first to admit the world is a lie, and I will burn its pages to find the binding.
A nursemaid in the street crossed herself when I passed this morning. Not in prayer. In apology.
They see me and hope I am their salvation.
They do not understand: the city will fall. The only choice is who stands on the far shore when the river closes.
And yet…
Sometimes, in the quiet between breaths, I wonder: am I the one choosing this path? Or did Father lay each stone long ago?
Or did the voice beneath my ribs choose him first?
At Hei Fort, the Lord Protector read the reply before it was even written.
He stood beside the burning brazier in his command tent, staring at a blank sheet of paper. His hand rested on the table beside it, fingers curled—not in hesitation, but in memory.
A scout knelt, blood dried on his collar.
"The messenger has departed, my lord. Two scrolls. One with He Lian seal. One with yours."
The Lord Protector did not look up.
"Good," he said.
"May I ask… what it says?"
"You may not."
The scout hesitated. "And General Wu An… does he know?"
The old man's jaw hardened—not with anger, but disappointment.
"My sons know nothing," he said. "They think themselves kings and bridges. But neither has yet asked who built the road beneath their feet."
He waved the scout away, then finally dipped his brush in ink.
Four characters appeared. Slow. Intentional.
再無天命
No more Mandate.
He let the ink dry. Then he folded the paper, sealed it again with his ring, and whispered:
"Forgive me."
Whether he meant Heaven… or his sons… no one knew.
At dusk, I moved through Ling An like a ghost that still remembered how to breathe.
Shen Yue found me by the northern wall.
"The messenger has left," she said. "But something is wrong. The soldiers who saw him ride out… said he carried two messages. One for the South. One sealed with your father's crest."
I closed my eyes.
She waited for me to speak.
When I didn't, she whispered, "Did you know?"
"I know my father only writes letters when they are knives."
"And to who?"
"To whoever holds the handle."
The wind blew cold. The city smelled of lotus ash and iron.
I turned my face south.
"Wu Jin thinks he wears the crown."
"And you?" she asked. "What do you think you are?"
I almost answered.
Then the bridge beneath my ribs pulsed once—not in pain, not in warning—but as if it were reminding me.
I am not alone in here.
And for the first time, I did not know if the thought was mine.
Far to the south, the messenger reached the first encampment before his horse died.
By then, frost had swallowed the banners.
He knelt before the Southern generals, gave them the He Lian scroll and said, voice shaking:
"Ling An stands. The bridge holds. Wu Jin wears the crown."
Only then did he whisper:
"And the second message… for your eyes only."
The general broke the old Liang wax.
He read.
His face went from confusion… to horror… to resolve.
He did not speak of what he saw.
He only said:
"Send word to the Regent. Tell them we march—but not yet."
"Why not?"
"Because…" The general's voice lowered.
"…someone in the North is already sharpening the blade for us."
Back in Ling An, Wu Jin dismissed the ministers and sat alone in the Hall.
He did not light the lamps.
He did not pray.
He simply stared at the empty throne.
As if, for one breath, he wondered…
Whose throne it truly was.