The air inside the war pavilion held the bite of early snow, though no one dared comment on it. The brazier glowed near my side, but I didn't move closer. I didn't need its pitiful warmth. Not when the fire in my lungs was hotter.
I stood at the center of the southern war table, surrounded by ministers who still hadn't learned how to shut their mouths. Half of them were talking over each other, squabbling about Baiguang's use of disguise, the false Daiyu uniforms found on their corpses, the green silk sewn into enemy hems.
"It's treachery!" one barked.
"It's desperation," another muttered.
"They want to frame her—frame the Crown Princess—"
That much was obvious. But what they hadn't realized yet—what they refused to understand—was that it didn't matter.
I picked up a black lacquer stick from the table. A thin metal pointer, usually reserved for demonstrating troop movements. Then I slammed it down across the map.
The sound cracked through the room.
