The Hall of Autumn Lattice was not meant for murder. Yet when Li Ziyan stepped inside at dawn, the snow still clinging to her sleeves, the silence felt as if the walls had already judged her guilty.
Prince Ning stood at the far end, pale against the carved cranes, hands clasped behind his back. His stillness was its own weapon, a reminder that patience can kill more than haste.
"You came alone," he said, though his gaze flicked briefly to the shadows where he knew she kept watch.
Ziyan did not bow. Her fingers curled around the sleeve where her iron pin rested. "You left me no choice."
"And yet you always make one." He tilted his head. "Have you come to bind yourself, or to burn me?"
Her breath was steady. "Both."
She moved. Not reckless, not desperate—measured, like the brush stroke that ends a ledger. Her pin flashed in her grip as she closed the space. Guards shouted, but Ning did not flinch. His hand lifted, not in defense, but almost in welcome.
Then the arrow came.
It struck from above the rafters, a black shaft that found his chest before her pin could. Blood spread across his crimson sash like a seal forced open. Ning staggered but did not fall immediately; his gaze found hers, and his mouth shaped a word she could not hear.
The hall erupted. Ministers shrieked. Guards rushed. But all eyes turned to her—the woman already holding a weapon at the prince's side.
"Assassin!" Lord Gao's voice cut like a whip. "She kills him before us all!"
Ziyan dropped the pin, but it clattered against the jade like proof. She spun, searching the rafters. Another arrow hissed down, meant for her this time. Li Qiang surged from the shadows, blade flashing, deflecting it into the pillars. Wei tore across the hall, knife ready, his face pale as the snow outside.
"Ziyan, go!" he barked.
The guards closed in. Hands seized her sleeves. Another arrow grazed her cheek. She twisted free, ducked under a halberd, and ran. The cries of "Traitor!" followed her out like wolves.
The corridors blurred. Ministers pressed themselves against walls as she fled. Her heart pounded not with guilt but with the terrible clarity that Gao's trap had closed perfectly: Ning dead, and she the knife left holding the silence.
A squad of soldiers cut off the outer court. She veered into the garden, breath sharp with frost. Snow broke under her steps. The archers followed—shadows with bows raised, determined to end the phoenix before the storm could lift her.
One arrow would have taken her heart if not for the sudden strike of steel against steel. A figure stepped from the willow trees, blade curved and sure. With three swift motions, the arrows clattered useless to the snow.
The soldiers fell back, startled. The figure did not pursue. Instead, they turned, face hidden beneath a plain scarf, and offered Ziyan a hand.
"Move," the voice said, low and firm. "You have no more friends in this hall."
Ziyan hesitated—long enough to see that Li Qiang and Wei were fighting to hold the rear, long enough to know she could not stay. She took the hand.
The stranger led her through a servant's gate she had never known, steps unerring, as if the palace's veins were their own body. They did not stop until the roofs of the Education Ministry were behind them and the river opened, wide and merciless, ahead.
Only then did Ziyan find her breath. "Who are you?"
The figure pulled the scarf lower. The lamplight caught a face marked by neither youth nor age, eyes steady, carrying too many winters.
"Not your enemy," they said simply. "Not yet."
Ziyan's pulse steadied, though the storm inside her did not. Behind them, the palace bells tolled—mourning already, and accusing too.
Prince Ning was dead. And the city would believe she had killed him.
She closed her hand around the stranger's sleeve. "Then why save me?"
"Because," the figure said, "if you die now, the wrong river will win."
The snow thickened, muting the world. Ziyan turned her gaze to the dark water. Somewhere beyond the current, her father would already be moving his pieces. Gao would be sharpening his knives. And the court would cry for her head.
But she was still alive.
And someone had just stepped from the shadows to make sure she stayed that way.