The night hung thick over Lianzhou like a velvet shroud, veined with silver from twin moons drifting overhead. Clouds moved like slow phantoms across the sky, whispering secrets only the old stars understood. In the Royal Garden, once a place of laughter and perfumed blossoms, the air now smelled of scorched leaves and something faintly metallic—like blood long dried but never forgotten. The garden's once-glimmering lanterns had long since been extinguished, their frames charred and cracked from the festival's firestorm.
Zhao Lianxu stood by the stone pond where lotuses once bloomed in moonlight. Now, only their withered stems protruded above the still water like drowned fingers. He stared at the reflection of the sky but saw only fractured memories. The assassination attempt three nights ago had left more than bruises on his shoulder; it had carved cracks through his fragile web of alliances. And deeper still, it carved into trust. Every echo of footsteps now felt like a threat; every gaze held suspicion.
"We were fools to believe they'd wait," murmured Yan Shuyin, appearing behind him. Her robes rustled like silk on frost. She bore a gash along her forearm, bandaged hastily in the aftermath of the chaos. She didn't wince—her pain ran too deep for the flesh. Her eyes carried a haunted fire, and the moonlight painted silver along her cheekbones.
Lianxu turned to her slowly, eyes tired yet burning with purpose. "Fools, yes. But fools who still breathe. That counts for something."
Shuyin stepped beside him, her eyes scanning the shadows. "Master Shen has disappeared. The Shadow Serpent Clan's envoy fled under the guise of the festival fires. And Lord Meiling's son was found dead in the East Pavilion. The blade was marked. It was deliberate."
The prince clenched his fists, veins bulging with restrained fury. "That wasn't a warning. That was a declaration."
They stood in silence, the weight of what was to come settling like dust on their skin. Around them, wind stirred the ashes of broken petals. Somewhere distant, a flute played a melancholic tune—an old lullaby once sung to royal heirs.
In the lower chambers of the palace, Councilor Yanmo lit incense before a carved obsidian statue—the Spirit of Justice, a relic from the First Era. His hands trembled. He was no warrior, nor seer, but he had lived through three dynastic shifts and knew what omens to fear. Blood on the doorsteps of nobles. Vanishing generals. Loyal hounds poisoned. The statue's eyes, hollow and pitiless, seemed to follow him.
His thoughts were interrupted by soft footfalls. A messenger, young and trembling, bowed low.
"Councilor, the Nightwatch reports movement in the Wraith District. Hooded figures. Unmarked sigils."
Yanmo sighed. "So the rats no longer wait for nightfall. They move under moonlight now, bold as wolves."
He stood and drew his fur-lined cloak tight. The air smelled of thunder. "Summon the Prince. And tell the Lady Yan—the wolves bite hardest when cornered. We must show our teeth."
Meanwhile, beyond the palace walls, in the decaying ruins of an old sect temple swallowed by forest, Lady Yiren gathered her council. The moonlight filtered through holes in the broken roof, casting long streaks upon the cold floor. Warriors knelt at her feet, their armor scorched and marked with the Serpent Fang—a reminder of allegiance sworn in blood. Candles sputtered in the damp corners, illuminating maps stained with old wine and fresher blood.
Kael knelt beside her, his dagger stained from his last assignment. "They are divided. Even his loyalists whisper doubts. Shall we push now?"
Yiren raised her eyes, gaze crystalline and sharp. "No. The prince is not yet desperate enough. He still believes he can hold the fragments. We wait until he realizes he must kneel or burn."
Kael grinned darkly. "And when he does?"
Yiren smiled, slow and venomous. "Then we offer our hand... and crush him with it."
The council murmured in agreement, the cold breath of destiny curling between their words.
By the third day, the city had changed.
Markets grew quiet. Doors bolted earlier. The skies clouded more often. Rumors flowed faster than water—of rebellion within the Ironclad Legion, of secret fires in the Library of Nine Winds, of a spirit seen walking the Forbidden Hall. The wind itself seemed colder, more watchful. And still, Zhao Lianxu held court, each session longer, more desperate, more strained.
In one such session, Lady Hualin, an elder of the Windlight Sect, stood up abruptly.
"You claim unity, Prince," she said, voice like brittle glass, "but unity forged under fear is no unity at all."
"Better fear than extinction," Lianxu replied calmly. "I would rather bind this court in storm iron than let it crumble to ash."
She looked him in the eye. "Then we will be caged birds in your shining cage."
He stepped from the throne dais. "No. You will be swords in my hand. Or you will be blades at my throat. Decide."
She did not answer. But others murmured, divided.
That night, lightning clawed at the skies.
Zhao Lianxu walked alone into the Hall of Echoes, a chamber that once housed the royal oaths of every dynasty. The floor was a sea of mirrored tiles. On the ceiling hung crystal orbs that whispered the last words of every emperor and empress who had fallen. Some wept. Others screamed. The echoes curled through the marble columns like wind through bones.
He stood there, breathing in the weight of legacy. His mother's voice still echoed in his memory: "You were born of chaos. Rule it, or drown in it."
A soft sound behind him.
Yan Shuyin entered, barefoot, holding a sealed scroll. Her face was unreadable, her presence quiet and grave.
"From the Demon Court," she whispered. "They offer aid. But there is a condition."
Lianxu took the scroll, his hand steady. He already knew.
The condition was him.
To survive, he must embrace the blood he'd hidden. The truth he'd buried. Not just a prince of the Celestial Court, but heir to the Demon Throne.
He opened the scroll.
And began to read.