The lamps in the Hall of Auspices had burned past midnight and into the hour when even duty yawns. Smoke hung beneath the rafters like a reluctant curtain. On the floor below, maps lay unrolled over low tables, their borders smudged by too many hands; red pegs and black stones crowded the paper like a rash the physicians could not name.
The Emperor of Qi sat straight despite the hour. He was not old, but the night had been old long before he took the throne. Ministers gathered in knots of silk and argument; generals stood apart with arms crossed, measuring how much of the map could be healed with steel. Servants moved like careful punctuation, pouring tea that cooled too quickly to be comfort.
A courier knelt, breath frosting, helmet tucked beneath one arm. "Report from the eastern marches, Majesty. Linzhou fell at dusk, the garrison routed. Two more market towns opened their gates by morning. The Xia banners fly over Ye Cheng."
The last name cracked the hall. Ye Cheng—farthest on the map and closest in memory, a city that smelled of wheat and river smoke, a name some in the hall had once passed through on journeys that had nothing to do with war. The Emperor's eyes went to the peg that stood for it. The peg had been red. It looked black now, but that was only the shadow of his sleeve.
"Ye Cheng?" a minister repeated, as if refusal could be invoked by grammar. "Impossible. Our scouts—"
"Were cut off," the general beside him said flatly. "Xia moved faster than rivers and with more patience."
The Emperor lifted his hand. The hall sighed into silence as if reminded how. "We do not debate what has already burned," he said. "We decide what may yet be saved." His voice was shaped for state, quiet and hard. It broke only when he added, softer, "Ye Cheng."
Another courier, younger, hurried into the light like a thought that feared changing. "Your Majesty—the envoy's guest has arrived. The Liang fugitive."
The word was impolite. The Emperor let it stand. "Bring her."
Ziyan crossed the threshold not as a supplicant but as a storm that has chosen its direction. Snow had not quite melted on the shoulders of her cloak. Feiyan shadowed her, lean as a decision postponed; Wei and Li Qiang followed with soldier's economy; Shuye kept close, jaw set as if daring the hall to ask why a potter stood where ministers did. Between Li Qiang and Wei, a plain jar sat in a padded sling, warm and unassuming, a crescent thumbprint on its lid like a quiet moon.
Some ministers flinched. Others leaned forward. The Emperor watched the jar.
Ziyan bowed—not to the floor, not to the throne, but to the burden of the hour. "Majesty," she said. "I brought you a story that does not burn."
The envoy who had given her the jade ring stood near the dais, lamped face unreadable. He met her glance but did not nod. This was not his hour. He had merely argued for it to exist.
"What is in the jar?" the Emperor asked.
"Memory," Ziyan said. "Bound to wood and ink. And a man who used to be safe."
At her gesture, Shuye and Wei lifted the jar to the table and eased the lid. Heat breathed out. Madam Wen's kiln had done its old, patient work: within the fired shell, wrapped in cloth and straw, the ledgers from Nan Shu waited, the edges faintly scented with cedar smoke. Ziyan unwrapped one and set it beside an identical book, newer, the sort that hardens lies into policy.
"Your Majesty," she said, fingertip marking columns as one might mark pulse, "these records are twins—one honest, one obedient. Grain shipments meant for the northern garrisons were diverted by order of men who now wear Zhang's favor. Prices spiked where fear would do the most harm. When hunger clears land faster than soldiers, a war advances without needing to bleed."
A minister in red silk stepped forward, sneer half-born. "Convenient. The phoenix girl who fled Liang arrives with evidence—"
"Convenient would have been staying dead," Ziyan said without heat. She did not raise her voice. It learned how to carry anyway. "Ye Cheng is ash. You can call me names, Prime Minister, but cities do not care who speaks if they are not heard."
A murmur ran the length of the hall, eager to be called scandal, reluctant to be called truth. The Emperor held up a hand and the murmur tripped and fell still.
"And the witness?" he asked.
Wang Yu stepped from behind Li Qiang as if from behind his life. He wore a clerk's plain jacket and a new, raw steadiness. Sleep bruised his eyes; his hands trembled once and then remembered themselves. He bowed to the Emperor and to no one else.
"I kept the keys for the Nan Shu storehouses," he said, voice dry from nights without water. "I balanced registers people meant to tilt. When new pages came with columns already decided, I hid the old beneath boards that still know how to lie for the right reason. I can name names and sign where it hurts."
He did not look at Ziyan. He did not need praise to believe his mouth.