The map hadn't changed overnight. The land still lay stretched and vulnerable beneath the weight of too many eyes and not enough soldiers. But something in the air had shifted—like the space between the inhale and the exhale before a blade falls.
I stood at the head of the war table, shoulders square, boots planted firmly on the woven rug that had once belonged to some southern nobleman. Now it served a better purpose: muffling footsteps and blood alike.
The pavilion buzzed low with morning tension. Lords and commanders filed in, some with creased brows, others with wine-thick eyes from the previous night's indulgence. They bowed or didn't. It didn't matter. Respect wasn't owed—it was taken. And I'd taken it.
Mingyu entered last, with his mother, the Empress beside him and Yaozu just behind. Longzi was already here, leaning against the far wall like a shadow with steel in his spine.
I let them all settle before speaking.
