Lu Yan stared at the carriage roof, his eyes empty hollows. His wounds had crusted over; the deep ones that once laid bone bare were now numb. It should have been a relief, but there was no joy in it.
The wheels rattled over gravel. The teacup on the little table clinked and skittered. He pushed himself up slowly, reached out and drew the curtain aside.
Trees raced past in a blur. The landscape told him at once: this was no longer the spring-bright Lige City.
“Well, well—Marquis of Dingbei, you awake at last?” Chen Luo slipped through the doorway grinning. “I saved your life. Aren’t you grateful?”
Lu Yan gave him a single cool glance. “Where is Su Huanyu?”
“Ignore me?” Chen Luo stamped his foot in mock indignation, then thought better of it. Lu Yan carried a low, dangerous pressure about him that made even Chen Luo hesitate, so he went to fetch Su Huanyu instead.
Su Huanyu appeared at the threshold with a calm look. He didn’t bother with pleasantries: one hand shot out, yanked Chen Luo by the collar and shoved him back outside, then drew the curtain shut without answering the man’s shouted protests.
“Where are you taking me?” Lu Yan asked flatly the moment the fabric fell between them.
Su Huanyu turned his back and poured himself a cup of tea. “Is that how you speak to the man who saved you?”
Lu Yan slammed his fist onto the table. “I asked where you’re taking me!”
Su moved with the economy of a soldier. He caught Lu Yan’s wrist, twisted it—Lu hissed—then used the leverage to spin him and pin him against the seat. Both of them had been raised on the same path of sword and spear; but Lu was still raw from his injuries and was no match. He ground out a curse through his teeth. “Gods damn you, Su Huanyu.”
“Marquis,” Su said, voice low, “have you any idea what state you’re in? Who else could pull you out of that pit but me? Shen Qingfeng paid dearly to get you free. Don’t be ungrateful.”
Shen Qingfeng’s name struck Lu like a blow. He paused, then spat, “Mind your business about Shen Qingfeng.”
“You don’t mean that.” Su’s smile was thin as bone. He released Lu Yan’s wrist and drank his tea with satisfaction. “Fine. Maybe we should just send you back north, let Cen Shuning teach you a lesson.”
Lu Yan rubbed his wrist, rage and a darker thing—resentment—flickering in his eyes. “Cen Shuning has no right to rule the North.”
“No, the North belongs to you, I know that.” Su poured Lu a cup as well. “And I know what you’re planning. You want to return, gather the army, take out Cen Shuning and Xia Chuli yourself, don’t you?”
A cold, hard light came alive in Lu Yan’s gaze.
“Look at me like that and I’d do the same.” Su’s tone was casual, almost kindless. “But you’re badly wounded. For your own good, don’t waste Shen Qingfeng’s efforts.”
Lu Yan snorted. “His efforts? He’s probably in the Bian Palace right now, having a fine time with Xia Chuli.”
“Do you really not know? Or are you pretending?” Su’s eyes bored into him.
Lu Yan fell silent. His fingers clenched the teacup until the bone-white knuckles showed.
Su watched him a long moment and then seemed to shrug. “Whatever. I don’t want to meddle in whatever the two of you had. If you want answers, go ask the two guards he left with you.”
“Guards?” Lu Yan echoed.
“One named Xiangcheng, the other Yu Shuang. They’re outside on horseback.”
—
Seven days later, the old Bian Palace welcomed a new sovereign.
The Hall of Mountains and Rivers glittered with lanterns. Civil and military officials packed the courtyard to greet the newly enthroned King Lixia. A grand sacrificial platform had been erected, as always, but the man assigned to lead the rite was not the usual master of ceremonies. Chang Qing, the recently appointed head of the Divination Office, trembled as he mounted the platform.
The Shen family had vanished overnight. With the first imperial exams yet to be held and few reliable officials left, the court was thin on experienced hands. Chang Qing was basically a stopgap, plucked by Xia Chuli to fill the post. He fumbled the ritual treasures and dropped them several times, trembling so badly that ministers exchanged pitying, disapproving looks. More than one whispered the contrast with Shen Yu, who had once presided over such ceremonies, and quietly questioned whether the new man was fit for the role.
But those murmurs died quickly. Everyone knew who had chosen Chang Qing. Xia Chuli’s cruelty had already been proven by his savage suppression of the Shen family and his treatment of Princes Cheng and Yu. No one dared speak out.
From his place on the throne, Xia Chuli watched the flustered official with a small, almost playful smile. He peeled an orange and tossed a slice toward the man sitting beside him. “Qingfeng,” he said, “he’s clumsy—shall we behead him?”
The man at Xia’s side sat motionless. His face was deathly pale beneath heavy bridal robes of scarlet. He wore a phoenix coronet; a red bridal veil hid his features. The court assumed, as everyone in the hall did, that this was another of Xia Chuli’s favored brides—how mistaken they all were.
“Don’t be hasty.” The man’s voice was a whisper that carried despite its frailty. He closed his eyes. The robe did not suit him; it hung like a costume on a boneshallow frame. It was Shen Qingfeng.
“You should be dead!” Xia Chuli leaned close. He lowered his voice like a caress. “If Lu Yan knew you’d wed me, what do you think he’d do?”
“I belong to Lu Yan.” Shen Qingfeng’s words were weak but unwavering. “Xia Chuli, you’re dreaming.”
“Am I?” Xia Chuli laughed and suddenly reached for Shen’s jaw, lifting the veil as if unveiling a prize.
The hall went still. The bridal mask fell away, and the court saw the truth: the “soft, pretty bride” Xia had presented as his new consort was none other than the disgraced scion of the Shen household—Shen Qingfeng, once the Crown Prince’s reader.
Shock rippled through the ranks. Ministers’ earlier pity turned to awe and then to a silent, terrified focus on Xia Chuli’s expression.
What was that expression? Predatory—like a lion that had invaded another’s territory and tunneled into the other lion’s den, tearing out his rival’s head and displaying it to the rival’s mate. There was no affection in the show. Only cruelty, bloodthirst, and the filthy sweetness of conquest.
“You stand in my wedding robes,” Xia said, voice sweet as poison. “And where is he? Where is the man who should have had you?”
Shen Qingfeng went even whiter. “I should have killed you when I was reborn.”
“You couldn’t do it.” Xia mocked gently, mimicking innocence. “Back then I was foolish—naïve. Even knowing my mother’s death tied to my father, I believed him. You were kind. You couldn’t bring yourself to strike me.”
Shen’s face crumpled with regret and some unbearable shame. “Xia Chuli, you are monstrous. You are unfit to rule Lixia.”
“Unfit?” Xia’s smile widened, then curled into something cold and hard. For an instant the mask slipped. “If I were unfit, would you have supported that idiot to the throne?”
He seized Shen Qingfeng without warning, dragged him forward and forced him to his knees before the assembled ministers. Xia’s voice boomed like a gavel. “From this day forth, Shen Qingfeng shall be joined to me as my consort—Shen Empress of Lixia!”
“Let me go!” Shen struggled. The phoenix crown and veil had already tumbled to the floor.
Xia planted a heavy boot onto Shen’s shoulder. The drugs Xia had forced into him had stopped the coughing fits, but they had not restored strength. Under the king’s weight, Shen collapsed, face to the dirt, the crimson robes smeared and ruined.
Xia Chuli looked down at the fallen man and smiled as though savoring the final act of some bitter, private triumph. “Shen Empress,” he mocked, leaning forward, “what are you waiting for? Go on—perform the ceremony.”