Night dropped low over Qingzhou, and the lanes sank into hush.
A city drum rolled nearer—thoom, thoom—its hum threaded with warning. Three red lamps rose on the eastern tower: curfew approached.
The carriage rattled to a stop at the posting station outside Zhengyang Gate. Just in time, Bihua thought—one more delay and they would have been shut out. She hurried Layne through inspection and into the city. Shopfronts along the way were shuttering; the few pedestrians walked fast with heads bowed, racing the drum into their doorways. Soldiers at the inner barriers sealed side streets, lanterns high, voices sharp as they challenged each passerby.
At the inn door, the hostess held a pot of lamp oil, ready to close. Seeing familiar faces, she brightened.
"Back already—another quarter-hour and the gates were shut."
"Thank you," Bihua murmured. "Hot water, please—and some food to the room."
The woman waved them in, barred the door, and went to the kitchen.
Bihua washed Layne's face and feet. Before she could speak, the boy went to the table and ate quietly by himself. Has he grown all at once? she wondered. He hasn't slept in days. Tonight—he must sleep. He can't see me fall apart.
She sat on the bed, staring at nothing. Will I sleep at all?
At first light, heavy drums boomed through the city—one for each stretch from the tribunal to the execution ground at Zhengyang Gate. In their room, Layne was already awake, turning his little pinwheel—spin, stop, spin. Dawn blinked like a golden eyelid on the window lattice. He watched his mother tie her hair; her motions were slower than usual.
"Mom… we're going to see Dad today, aren't we? I'm… a little scared."
She looked at him a long time, then nodded.
"He is your father. He is my husband. Whatever comes, we will see him one last time."
Before noon, the ground around the scaffold was packed.
Near the front, a cordoned strip stood clear for clerks, officers, and examiners. Behind it clustered townsfolk of Qingzhou—porters, idlers, peddlers—mostly men, young and old, talking in knots or standing with hands behind their backs, a peculiar expectancy in their eyes. Soldiers patrolled with staves. On the stage, the sentencing clerks rustled through papers; an old recorder checked the pages of the register. At the central table, seats were filled—one main place left empty, perhaps for Xuanhu.
"I hear he fled from Xixia with embezzled silver and hid ten years like a turtle."
"A neat shell—if the capital's men hadn't come, he might've kept it up."
A father had lifted his child to his shoulders; the boy mimicked a cry: "Here they come—off with his head!" A few nearby chuckled.
Bihua felt needles in her skin. She wanted to move, but there was no quiet space in any direction.
A familiar voice: "There you are—we've been looking."
Wang Cheng stood a short distance away in plain dark clothes, eyes bruised with lack of sleep. Yan Jiu was beside him, equally worn. Wang Cheng motioned them closer.
"We reached Qingzhou yesterday, when you went to the rice shop," he said, voice steady enough to cut through the noise. "Yan Jiu knows a few here. We pressed what little we could."
Bihua only nodded, watching him.
Wang Cheng added, "Don't worry—the headsman is a friend. Brother Lai won't suffer."
Yan Jiu glanced up at the stage. "We've arranged for the body to be taken to Youzhen afterward—officially as a crown burial. By early afternoon it'll be on the road. We'll go back with you."
Layne's fingers tightened. Bihua's gaze trembled. Everything still felt like a dream.
Wang Cheng's voice grew hoarse, halfway between apology and sigh. "It's all we can do."
Near noon, the scaffold fell silent.
Hooves clattered from the tribunal's direction. A squad of armored riders cleared the way for Xuanhu, robed over soft mail. He dismounted and climbed the steps. Without a word, he set a black jade token on the table. Officials of Qingzhou bowed and parted. "Lord Xuanhu," they murmured. He lifted a hand, nodded to the Hanhai envoys and the observers from the capital.
"Bring the prisoner, Lai Su."
Two officers led Lai Su in from the side. The yoke and shackles were removed; he knelt facing the stage. Sunlight laid pale on his face. There was no fear—only a quiet, settled calm.
Three clerks ascended. The middle one unfurled a scroll and read, voice even:
"On the matter of the former Xixia registrar Lai Su—embezzlement…"
They recited the charges as at the trial.
"…dismissed, fled, hid ten years in Youzhen, sought to erase the case and the evidence."
The left judge stepped forward:
"By law, decapitation before the public. The hour has come. Proceed."
Xuanhu's gaze swept the crowd. His soldier's eye found Bihua and her son at once.
Bihua's hand clamped over her mouth; she clutched Layne with the other, fighting the sob rising in her throat.
Lai Su seemed to lift his head slightly, searching—until their eyes struck. He bared his teeth in a faint smile—half reproach, half relief and thanks—then bowed his head, as if yielding to fate.
Tears finally broke from Bihua's eyes. He saw her—and knew she had broken her promise. She could not keep their son away.
Xuanhu raised his right hand and brought it down on the token.
"Carry out the sentence."
A brief cheer, then swift hush.
Wang Cheng cursed under his breath and looked away. Yan Jiu stood straight as iron, a hand at his belt, eyes fixed, unblinking.
The drum beat—each stroke heavier than the last.
The headsman mounted the platform, spread a white cloth before Lai Su, spoke a few words; Lai Su nodded and bent lower.
A flash—cold lightning across the boards. Lai Su's body tipped; the head rolled into the cloth.
The crowd erupted—cheers, curses for a corrupt official, loud applause. No one saw that when the man fell on the stage, a woman fell beneath it—head thrown back, fainting dead away.
Wang Cheng and Yan Jiu caught at once; Layne shook his mother in panic. No one had expected Bihua—who had stood so firm—to collapse without warning.
The road out of Qingzhou lay quiet. Spring wind combed the grass to a whisper.
At the mulberry grove north of Youzhen, two laborers waited beside a coffin and a fresh pit. They bowed and stepped aside without a word.
Wang Cheng walked slowly; he had not slept and had worked through the day. He lifted the lid. Inside, over coarse cloth and straw, Lai Su lay with a calm face—no pain.
Yan Jiu stood at his shoulder. "I found the place. No path. No one comes."
Bihua said nothing. One hand held Layne's. With the other, she took the spade Wang Cheng offered.
She did not remember much. Her last clear image was of the head falling, blood arcing far—the warmth of a life spilling out of a body already turning cold. When she woke, she was in the carriage to Youzhen, Layne sobbing over her waist, chilled through with tears.
She reached out a shaking hand and smoothed his hair. He started and looked up, joy flaring through his wet eyes. He thought I had died, she realized dully.
She stepped to the coffin and whispered, "You told me not to bring Layne to Zhengyang Gate. How could I not?"
Behind her, Layne murmured, "Dad, I'll take care of Mom. I'll grow up."
Wang Cheng and Yan Jiu lifted the coffin and set it into the pit.
The thud was soft—heavy as a mountain.
They threw the first shovels of earth. Sand whispered down—striking the heart.
The laborers stepped in, their spades flying. The coffin vanished. The earth rose and smoothed. A new mound swelled from the ground.
Bihua did not cry. Layne did not cry. He pressed his lips white until the men patted the grave-top, took their silver from Yan Jiu, thanked them, and left.
Mulberry leaves danced in the wind. The living stood before a new grave.
She stood a long time before she spoke, voice low:
"I will see Layne grown well."