Chapter 7 – Blood in the Lantern Light
The crash from the outer hall echoed like thunder, followed by the unmistakable ring of steel meeting steel.
Zhao Wenzhi's head snapped toward the sound. "Stay behind me," he ordered, drawing the slender sword from the wall with a single, fluid motion.
The door burst open. A palace guard staggered in—his armor dented, his sleeve soaked in blood. "Your Majesty! They've—" His words were cut short by an arrow that slammed through his throat. He fell without a sound.
Yanyue froze. The air felt heavy, thick with the copper tang of blood and the acrid scent of burning oil.
Two black-clad figures slipped through the doorway like shadows made flesh, their faces hidden behind masks. No banners, no insignia—just the silent promise of death.
One lunged for Zhao Wenzhi, blade gleaming under the lantern light. The Emperor's sword flashed, the clash of metal sparking in the dim chamber. The other assassin darted toward Yanyue.
Her body moved before her mind caught up. She sidestepped the downward slash, grabbing the nearest object—an ornate bronze candlestick. With a twist of her wrist, she drove the base into the assassin's ribs. He grunted, stumbling back.
The muscle memory was terrifyingly familiar. The stance, the pivot, the way she anticipated his counterstrike—this was no helpless maid's flailing.
Zhao's eyes flicked toward her in brief, sharp recognition.
The assassin recovered quickly, circling her with the predatory patience of a wolf. He lunged again, blade slicing toward her throat. She dropped low, sweeping his legs from under him, then drove her knee into his sternum.
The sword clattered to the floor.
She grabbed it without hesitation, the weight fitting into her palm like an old friend. The steel sang as she brought it up in a guard position.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, the girl she had pretended to be for six years was screaming.
Meanwhile, Zhao Wenzhi's duel was vicious, each blow ringing through the chamber. He pressed the assassin back with precise, merciless strikes until the man faltered. One final slash opened the attacker's chest, sending him crumpling to the floor.
Yanyue's opponent lunged again, desperate. She parried, the shock of the clash jolting up her arm, then twisted her blade in a movement that disarmed him completely. The point of her sword stopped a hair's breadth from his throat.
His eyes widened behind the mask. "You—"
A single step from Zhao ended his words. The Emperor's blade pierced the man cleanly, and the body slumped to the floor beside its comrade.
Silence fell. Only the flicker of the lanterns and the distant shouts of guards filled the space.
Zhao turned to her slowly. His gaze was unreadable, but it was heavy—weighty in a way that made her pulse race.
"Where," he asked softly, "did you learn to fight like that?"
Yanyue's fingers tightened on the sword hilt. "I—"
The doors banged open again, and Chief Eunuch Meng rushed in, pale-faced. "Your Majesty, the Chancellor's men are sweeping the palace. They claim the assassins were after her." His eyes darted to Yanyue.
Consort Liang's voice drifted in from the corridor, honey-sweet and dripping venom. "Oh, what an interesting night… Tell me, Your Majesty—how does a mere palace maid defeat a trained killer?"
Yanyue's breath caught. Every pair of eyes in the chamber was on her now—guards, eunuchs, and the Emperor himself.
The secret she had guarded for six years had just bled out into the open.
Cliffhanger: Zhao stepped between her and the rest of the room, sword still in hand. His voice was calm, but it was the calm before a storm.
"Anyone who dares touch her," he said, "will answer to me."