The moment the Cup of Brotherhood was emptied without a flinch, the atmosphere shifted. It wasn't the warm applause of genuine admiration — no, it was the murmur of a court that had just seen its first blood drawn, and now hungered for the next strike.
Ministers traded whispers behind their sleeves, eyes darting between the Empress and her new consort. The Empress remained poised, but a careful observer would have noted the faint softening of her gaze when she glanced toward Qingzhou — approval, restrained yet present.
From further down the table, Chancellor Yu — a thin man with a fox's smile — raised his own cup. "It is most fortunate, Your Majesty, that His Highness Meng Qingzhou has joined our great family. But I am troubled by one matter…"
The words "one matter" in the mouth of a chancellor always meant an ambush.
He continued, "Tradition dictates that those who join the royal house present a gift to the court — a token of loyalty and skill. We have seen His Highness's fortitude in drink… but loyalty, ah… that is proven in more delicate ways."
A servant appeared with a square of crimson silk on a tray. Nestled atop it was a jade hairpin, exquisite yet simple. The kind given to an imperial favorite — but here, it was bait.
"Perhaps His Highness could use this," Chancellor Yu said, "to compose a blessing for Her Majesty. Not in writing — that can be prepared by another hand — but by reciting aloud, before all present. It would be most moving."
The room quieted. Ministers leaned forward.
If Qingzhou spoke, and his voice was strong, the ruse of his muteness would shatter.
If he refused, they would brand him discourteous — even disloyal.
The Empress's fan closed with a sharp snap. "Chancellor, I was not aware you had taken up the role of court entertainer."
The chancellor's bow was deep, but not contrite. "Merely wishing to know His Highness better, for the sake of harmony in our great house."
Qingzhou reached for the jade pin. His fingers traced the cool, polished surface as though testing its weight. Then, with a faint smile, he set it into the Empress's hair himself — a gesture so intimate that even the musicians faltered.
Then he returned to his seat, produced a brush from his sleeve, and began to write on the silk itself. The strokes were elegant, unhurried. When he finished, he passed it to the nearest attendant, who read aloud:
A ruler's light warms the coldest winter.
May your reign outlast the stars.
The compliment was flawless — yet also impossible to twist into political leverage. It sidestepped the demand entirely without appearing defiant.
The Empress touched the jade hairpin, her lips curving into the faintest of smiles.
Chancellor Yu's own lips tightened, but he could not protest without seeming petty. The trap had been avoided… for now.
But Qingzhou knew this was not the end. It was merely the tightening of the silk net — soft to the touch, but meant to strangle.