Chapter 79

Temej, standing beside Naci, looks from her rigid posture to Dukar's bewildered stare. "Naci," he ventures, voice quiet, "is something wrong?"

On the other side, Puripal inches closer to Dukar, eyebrows knitted. "You know them?" he asks in a hushed tone. No response. Dukar's gaze remains riveted on Naci.

At last, Fol—pale and sweating from lingering unease—takes a step forward, clearing his throat. "D-Don't crowd the Khan," he stammers, gesturing vaguely toward Naci's group. "Make way."

Puripal's eyes flick to Fol in confusion. "Which Khan?" he asks, half-joking.

Ta, standing near Dukar, crosses his arms and scoffs. "That's not the Khan I know."

Jinhuang narrows her eyes, scanning Naci's lithe form. "What the hell is a Khan?"

Temej opens his mouth, but Naci holds up a hand. Her features remain schooled, though a flicker of heat burns in her eyes. She addresses Dukar directly, ignoring everyone else. "Are you in danger?"

"Have you ever seen me in danger?" Dukar shakes his head with a small, incredulous laugh.

Naci's lip quirks, a half-snarl, half-smile. "Sure. I bet you wept and cried your eyes out the day you got drafted."

Dukar bristles. "Who is talking? I assumed you'd be panicking without your big brother to keep you out of trouble, but then again, you always have thrived on mischief."

Lanau lets out a small gasp. "Brother?" she echoes, stunned. Her glance darts between Naci and Dukar, measuring the resemblance. Puripal's eyes widen, a spark of recognition alighting in them. He points at Naci in disbelief. "You're that crazy woman from Tepr!"

Dukar exhales, collecting himself. He gestures at Puripal. "This is my sister, Naci. Please do not call her crazy; that's a privilege reserved for me alone."

Naci's head snaps toward him, flinty gaze intensifying. "Do you wish to die? Both of you?"

Jinhuang snorts, gaze traveling from Naci's formidable stance to Dukar's tense posture. "Let me guess," she drawls. "Despite calling her ´sister´, you two aren't actually related, right?"

Dukar shakes his head emphatically. "No—she's my real sister by blood. Which makes her your aunt, Jinhuang."

Temej steps forward at that, confusion etched across his features. "What are you even talking about?"

Naci throws her companion a resigned glance. "Working for the Moukopl might have fried my dear brother's brain. He must have gotten a knock on the head in some desert scuffle. Look at these—" She waves a hand at Ta and Jinhuang. "Those children are too old to be his, so they're obviously scamming him."

A muscle jumps in Dukar's jaw. "They're not my children." He points at Jinhuang, who is scowling like a cornered cat. "That's our niece, and she's not pretending anything. And he—" Dukar jabs a thumb at Ta, who cocks his head innocently— "is some stray I found in the desert. He's not my child either."

Naci arches a brow, shifting her attention to Puripal. Her expression turns downright mischievous. "All right, dear brother. What about that one?" She inclines her head at Puripal, who stands quietly, feigning disinterest. "She's quite pretty, if I do say so. Too pretty for you."

Puripal tenses, but lifts his chin proudly. "I'm actually a man," he states, cold politeness barely masking offense.

Naci's low, husky laugh carries over the crowd. "Oh, I see. So that's how you managed to seduce him."

Before Puripal can stutter a reply, Jinhuang breaks in with an exasperated shout, raising her arms. "Enough! We're in the middle of the road. If you want to trade insults, do it somewhere not underfoot, please." She flicks a weary glare at the surrounding bystanders gawking at them. Jinhuang groans, pressing fingers to her forehead. "That's it. I've had enough. I'm going home." She tries to slip past, but Dukar snatches her by the sleeve.

"Hold on," he says firmly. "You promised to guide me—us—to San Lian." He's clearly not about to let her flee.

She yanks at her arm. "Let go of me."

Naci's expression flickers at the name. She murmurs, half to herself, "San Lian… Father mentioned something about him too." Suddenly, her eyes light up, brimming with a new idea. In a flash, she sidesteps Dukar, scoops Jinhuang up around the waist, and lifts the flailing girl off her feet.

"Little niece," Naci coos in a mock-saccharine tone, "how about you show Auntie here where this San Lian is?" Jinhuang sputters in fury, feet kicking as she tries to regain balance. The onlookers stir in shock—some laugh, others gasp at the brazen display.

"H-hey— Put me down!" Jinhuang's cheeks flush bright, either from anger or embarrassment. "Who do you think you are?"

Naci presses her nose close to Jinhuang's temple and inhales dramatically, as though enchanted by her. "Such a cute, adorable little niece," she purrs, ignoring Jinhuang's protests. "Look at those fierce eyes, that scowling face. I'm almost bewitched."

Dukar steps forward, half-expecting Naci to be flung across the cobblestones if Jinhuang's temper boils over. But the younger girl remains pinned, squirming and cursing under her breath. Vendors and passersby inch away, unwilling to get involved in this bizarre family spectacle.

"Big brother," Naci calls out, eyes dancing with amusement. "Are you sure this one's related to us? She's way too adorable to be anything but a wild kitten."

Jinhuang emits a strangled growl, fists balling. "You all want me to kill you right here?" Her voice shakes with fury, but the comedic absurdity continues to unfold regardless. Ta, sporting the biggest grin, edges forward as if to poke Jinhuang's flailing feet, but the daggers in her gaze warn him off.

Puripal, chewing the inside of his lip, leans toward Dukar. "Are… we just going to let her manhandle Jinhuang?"

Dukar rubs his temples. "I doubt we have much of a say, but it's… complicated." He catches Naci's eye. "Stop tormenting her, or you'll make our dear niece despise us both more than she already does."

Naci cocks her head, lips twisting in a half smile. "Niece, huh? Care to explain how she's related to us?"

Dukar releases a tight breath. "She's the daughter of a Moukopl general who happens to be…well, Father's first son. Apparently he spent a good chunk of his life here in Pezijil."

Naci snorts, her amusement tinged with something deeper. "I'm not too surprised. He told me he was from Pezijil originally, and that I should seek out someone named San Lian if I needed help. I guess I forgot—until now."

Dukar shrugs. "A lot must've happened while I was away."

Naci exhales sharply. "We can compare stories later, brother."

She gives a short laugh and, with a flourish, sets Jinhuang back on her feet. Jinhuang staggers, shooting them all a venomous glare. She looks like she's deciding whether to flee or to draw blood.

"All right," Naci says, smirking. "Now that our introductions are out of the way—why don't you show us to that San Lian?"

Jinhuang rubs her wrist where Dukar grabbed her, still flushed. "You're all insane," she mutters. "Fine. I'll lead you to him. But if any of you tries grabbing me again, I'll beat you up."

A hush falls over the group the moment they step into the red district. Even the rowdiest corners of Pezijil seem subdued in daylight. Shuttered windows and silent doorways line the narrow alleys, though a few curious figures linger by dim entryways. A pair of women in bright, low-cut gowns wave halfheartedly from a balcony above, their voices sleepy.

"Sorry, sweets, all closed for now," one calls down with a lazy drawl.

The other blows a languid kiss. "Come back tonight."

Jinhuang scowls and quickens her pace, muttering curses under her breath about "bizarre grown-ups."

Ta waves at the women, earning a half-giggle as the group slips into a deeper side lane.

They round a corner where the walls are painted a gaudy crimson, though the color peels in places. Beyond a hanging curtain of faded silk stands a wide doorway, propped open by a lone stool. From inside emerges a raucous female voice:

"I said we're closed—closed since sunrise! Get your sorry backside out before I toss it out myself."

Naci exchanges a quick glance with Dukar. Jinhuang sighs and motions them to step inside. "This is the place," she mutters, her tone prickly. "Gambling bar. Daytime is empty except for a few hopeless losers."

Inside, the room is smoky and dim. A single lantern dangles from a low rafter, illuminating scattered dice cups and a few neglected tables. In the far corner, a tall woman in a disheveled robe stands, hands braced on her hips. Her fierce gaze targets an older man slumped over a sticky counter. Empty cups cluster around him like tombstones.

He fumbles through a handful of coins, squinting as though even the faint lamplight stabs his eyes. "I-I can pay, see?" he mumbles, voice slurring.

The woman huffs, throwing her arms up. "You've been here since the sun rose, and you're still counting coppers!" She aims a finger at the door. "Out!"

Jinhuang clears her throat. "That man… is San Lian." She gestures, eyeing Naci and Dukar. "The one and only."

San Lian, half-lidded eyes glassy, lifts his head at the familiar voice. He sways precariously. "Huanghuang? And Little Bazhin's brother." His gaze roves to the rest of the group. "Ah, so it's… oh no, oh no." He stumbles off his stool, coins cascading to the floor in a cacophony of clinks. "Debt collectors? You can't fool me. You're not taking my money, you filthy—"

"Debt collectors?" Ta blurts, blinking in confusion. Naci folds her arms, unimpressed. Dukar lifts his palms in surrender.

"Calm down, old man," Jinhuang snaps, pressing her fingers to her temples. "They're not after your money."

The woman in the robe, ignoring their interplay, turns with sudden interest. "Little Flower!" she exclaims, focusing on Jinhuang. Her once-gruff demeanor shifts to teasing warmth. "I haven't seen you in ages. Since you're here, kindly pay off this old drunk's tab so I can get some rest."

Jinhuang's face reddens—both from the nickname and the request. "I… I don't have any money on me," she admits, voice taut with embarrassment. "I've told you before, I'm not—"

"Not a cute little yellow flower, yeah, yeah," the woman finishes, eyeing the group. Her gaze slides from Naci's formidable stance to Puripal's elegant composure, from Lanau's calm to Temej's tired gaze, and finally settling on Fol's anxious fidget. She arches a brow. "Your friends look… well-off. Start rummaging, kiddies."

Lanau exhales a soft laugh. "All right, let's see what we've got." She glances around at the others, who exchange shrugs and begin checking pouches and pockets. Temej fishes in a leather pouch. Naci quietly unfastens a hidden belt compartment. Dukar awkwardly checks his coat. Even Ta produces a few battered coins, though it's unclear if they're legitimately his.

Puripal counts out some small currency with an air of casual nobility, as though it's beneath him to be rummaging at all. Jinhuang stands aside, arms folded, burning with impatience.

Eventually, Lanau straightens, palm full of coins. "We have…," she begins, eyebrows lifted. "Go ahead, name your price."

The robed woman sets her hands on her hips, exhausted. "I need two silvers to cover his drunken spree. That's it."

A collective sigh of relief ripples across the group. Temej snorts in wry amusement. "Only two silvers? We're overprepared."

Lanau gives a lighthearted chuckle. "We probably could pool enough to reach a hundred silvers if we really had to."

Her remark draws a snort from the woman. "A hundred silvers? You rich kids must be swimming in coin. With that kind of money, you could buy a house in the nice parts of Pezijil. Doesn't surprise me—" She waves dismissively. "All your fancy clothes and gear? Bet each of you is used to blowing coin on luxury."

Lanau's lips quirk. "Well, if inflation wasn't so steep, we might've bought two houses for that a generation ago. My parents used to talk about that. They keep complaining about this 'Single Whip Law' that is ruining everybody."

The woman's eyes glint, but she doesn't respond further. She just snatches up the two silvers Temej sets on the dingy table. "All I needed. Now, I'm done with you lot." She pivots on her heel, dusting off her sleeves as though cleansing herself of further conversation.

Freed from debt, San Lian attempts to sidle toward the door, but Jinhuang blocks him with an outstretched arm. He peers warily at Naci, Dukar, and the rest, no less convinced they might be after something else. Still, he's too intoxicated to mount a proper escape.

The robed woman makes a shooing gesture at the entire group. "Out, out. We're closed. This old fool has drained my patience."

No one argues. Jinhuang just grabs San Lian's collar, hauling him stumbling toward the exit. The others trail behind, the faint clink of reclaimed coins echoing as they secure their pouches. Outside, the sun's glare stings after the bar's gloomy interior, and the red district's hush seems ready to swallow them again.

San Lian rubs his bleary eyes. "Y-you people… what do you want from me?" he demands, words slurred but laced with genuine alarm.

Jinhuang sighs, meeting the eyes of her ragtag companions. "Better find somewhere to talk—somewhere he can sober up and we can get our answers."

Beneath the lofty arches of the Crown Prince's palace, a subdued hush settles over marble floors that gleam under the gold-and-crimson glow of lanterns. Slender pillars carved from jade line the grand hall, their surfaces reflecting the silhouettes of guards who stand at rigid attention, silent observers to the tension steadily coiling in the air. A cluster of attendants lingers near the walls, watchful but wary; they know well the danger of intruding on the prince's private ire.

Yile stands off to one side, the richness of his green robes softened by the half-light. His posture is calm, yet a subtle shift in his gaze betrays how intently he follows the unfolding argument before him. On a raised platform framed by ornate screens of lacquer and gilt, the Crown Prince faces Young Master Liwei, each word slicing the hush like a blade.

"You shame me with your reckless behavior," the Crown Prince hisses, hands tightening on the arms of the lacquered chair. His composure wavers, though he maintains an elegant bearing. There is a fury in his eyes reminiscent of a storm gathering on a horizon. "Your impudence sets tongues wagging. You think yourself untouchable?"

Liwei's jaw tenses, but he keeps his chin raised. The silk of his dark-blue attire swishes around his ankles as he takes a step closer, ignoring the disapproving murmur from a nearby aide. "I act only as necessity demands," he retorts, voice trembling with something akin to both fear and defiance. "If I have overstepped, then perhaps it is because the court stifles any move that isn't sanctioned by a legion of spineless sycophants."

Several attendants avert their gaze as the prince surges to his feet, robes fanning out in a sudden swirl of embroidered silk. The motion jostles a porcelain teacup perched at the corner of a table, sending it clattering to the floor where it shatters with a bright, percussive note. Guards stiffen at the sound, hands instinctively shifting to the pommels of their swords.

"You dare speak of 'spinelessness' in my palace?" the Crown Prince roars, voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling. His anger crackles in the air like distant lightning. "Your name, your station—everything about you is courtesy of this empire. Do not presume you can prance about without consequence."

Liwei's nostrils flare, but he reins in whatever impulse begs him to fling sharper words. Instead, he dips his head in a brief show of courtesy that does nothing to hide the contempt etched across his features. The tension spools tighter as if on the cusp of snapping. Yile glances at Liwei's clenched fists, noting how each moment seems to draw them closer to confrontation.

"Then grant me these 'consequences' you threaten, Your Highness," Liwei says, voice tight. "Better that than this endless petty parade." He spins abruptly on his heel, ignoring the startled cough of an attendant who nearly topples underfoot.

It is in that precise, charged instant that the Crown Prince lunges forward as though to stop him, but a flick of Yile's hand signals the guard to stand down. A tense silence follows. In the hush, one might sense the gathering of a thousand unspoken curses, never to be uttered aloud.

Finally, Liwei moves in a rapid stride across the polished floor, his footsteps echoing down corridors trimmed with ornate screens and heavy drapes. The crowd of servants parts like water around him, and the sound of his frustration fades into the labyrinthine passages.

Yile watches him vanish into the gloom, noting how the attendants gradually exhale their collective fear. A wry glimmer lights Yile's eyes. He bows once toward the Crown Prince in a silent gesture of respect, then slips away as well, ghosting after the furious young noble.

Yile slips past the lingering attendants with practiced grace, his soft footfalls merging with the hushed commotion of a palace settling after uproar. Outside the throne hall, the light fades to flickering wall sconces, and the corridors stretch toward silent courtyards veiled under the evening gloom. Up ahead, Liwei's robes swirl with each agitated step, as though the very silk shares in his fury.

He falters in the courtyard's center—a space rendered eerily quiet. The distant chatter of guards and the soft splash of a nearby fountain create a hollow echo that underscores Liwei's isolation. Yile watches him from the courtyard's threshold, exhaling quietly before closing the distance between them.

"Your mood weighs on you like a cloak of iron," Yile observes, voice pitched low enough that the words barely disturb the silence. He raises a hand, a gesture of gentle caution, as if calming a startled horse. "Let me walk with you."

Liwei does not turn right away. His knuckles tighten where he grips the edge of a stone balustrade, eyes fixed on the garden's swaying lanterns. After a moment, he exhales, shoulders sagging. "I thought to endure His Highness's temper," he says, bitterness scraping the edge of each syllable. "But what I cannot endure is treachery cloaked in polite words."

Yile steps closer, letting the warm glow of a lantern reveal a sympathetic flicker in his gaze. "Treachery?" he echoes, carefully poised between concern and curiosity.

Liwei's throat works as he swallows a surge of emotion. His voice drops, as though afraid the night itself might betray him. "One of my maids—she fell ill mere days ago. Died within hours. Everyone mumbled of indigestion, but I smelled no sign of rot in her food… no sign of sickness before it happened." His breath hitches. "Something about it reeks of cunning."

Beneath the gentle drifting of courtyard petals, Yile tilts his head, waiting. "Then you suspect someone meant for you to take ill, but instead she suffered the consequence?"

In the wavering lamplight, Liwei's eyes flash. "What else explains it? She was always the one tasting my meals, ensuring my tea was to my liking, never a drop of poison near my lips. Now she's gone." He closes his fists with such force his nails bite into his palms. "And I am alive."

"Poison," Yile repeats softly. He places a slender hand on Liwei's shoulder. "You think the Crown Prince is capable of this? You two have always been… well, perhaps not friendly, but hardly mortal enemies."

"Not mortal enemies." Liwei lets out a humorless chuckle. "But the Crown Prince does have his ways—my father's precarious favor rests upon me as well, and any threat to his claim could inspire desperate measures." His voice trembles with rage or fear. "He has every reason to despise me, or at least to see me removed from his path."

In the momentary silence that follows, a faint breeze rattles the lanterns suspended among the palace eaves. Yile's gaze lingers, caught between thoughtful calculation and a sympathetic gleam. Then, gently, he speaks. "It is possible… The Crown Prince wields vast power. One more death in the palace rarely raises suspicion." He lets the words hang, thick with implication.

Liwei's mouth twists. "You believe it too?"

Yile pauses, letting a slow exhale fill the silence. "Your maid's sudden illness—no prior symptoms, no prior complaints—coupled with your estrangement from the Crown Prince. It may not be proof, but it is… peculiar." He dips his head in a gesture that is neither affirmation nor denial. "One would need only a single, well-placed dose."

Liwei stiffens, a shadow falling across his features. "Then I am right to fear for my life."

"I would caution you, Young Master, not to dismiss the possibility." Yile's voice takes on a gentle cadence that masks its urgency. "He stands to gain much if you are gone. Or perhaps—" He meets Liwei's eyes with a flicker of deliberation. "—this is merely a warning, and the final blow is yet to come."

A sharp inhalation escapes Liwei. He tears his gaze away to study the shifting lantern lights in the pond. "I wondered if I was paranoid, but… perhaps not." His hand trembles at his side, though he tries to hide the gesture by pressing his palm against the stone railing.

Yile watches that trembling hand, face unchanging but inwardly considering Liwei's state of alarm. He steps back with a delicate bow. "Forgive me for speaking candidly. I only do so out of concern."

Liwei turns, a hollow look in his eyes. "No. You've spoken truth where others might lie to appease me. For that, I'm… grateful." He draws in a breath as though readying himself for war. "I need time to think, time to act. I won't just be a lamb for the slaughter."

He inclines his head in a brief farewell, casting one last glance at Yile—equal parts trust and torment—before striding off into a corridor lit by torches that sputter in the draft. Long shadows waver on the walls, reflecting the tumult in his heart.

Alone beneath the quiet moonlight, Yile remains by the courtyard's edge, eyes lingering on the place where Liwei disappeared. A subtle tilt of his lips suggests neither relief nor delight, but a private confirmation that the seeds of doubt have been well-sown.

Lantern glow trembles over polished tiles, and the scent of magnolias lingers in the warm night air. Liwei lingers in a palace walkway, his anxious steps echoing across the mosaicked floor. His breathing still ragged from the revelations he shared with Yile, he clutches a column's carved edge, trying to quell the tremor in his hands.

A sudden shift in the courtyard's quiet draws his gaze: a figure in traveling leathers emerges through an archway, framed by flickering torchlight. Her stance is unmistakable—a poised stillness honed by distance and dust. Liwei's eyes widen, disbelief warring with relief.

"Meicong?" he whispers, voice tinged with raw hope.

Her face comes into the light—thin lines of fatigue, a smudge of desert grit across her cheek. The corners of her lips quirk up, though she makes no grand greeting. Liwei's own reaction is far more unguarded; his sudden burst of motion breaks the hush as he rushes forward, nearly stumbling in his haste.

"You're back," he breathes, a flicker of genuine warmth in his voice. "You vanished without a word. They told me you left for Tepr, but—" He stops himself, scanning her for injuries or signs of hardship. "Are you unhurt?"

Meicong slides her gaze over him, a slight smirk curling her mouth. "You sound worried, Young Master," she replies, her tone odd—equal parts teasing and distant. With a languid motion, she brushes dust from her sleeves, as though it is all the baggage she carries.

Liwei exhales in relief, though tension lingers behind his eyes. "Worried, yes. Surprised more. Where have you been? Yile said you were in the Northern territories… Was it scary?"

Her laughter is subdued. "I drank from waters so bitter they nearly scorched my tongue. And I saw men and beasts locked in struggles that made the palace's quarrels look tame." She shrugs as though these things are inconsequential. "But details can wait. My business here is with Yile."

Liwei blinks. The hint of disappointment darkens his features. "I was worried for you."

She glances toward a corridor, where shadows gather as though someone waits. "I have matters best discussed out of earshot." Her tone carries a finality Liwei chooses not to press. After a last, fleeting look into the gloom, she inclines her head at him. "Go rest, Young Master. You look ready to chew the walls."

Her words elicit a faint flush on his cheeks, but Liwei's expression softens. "I'm just glad you're back—whatever trouble you bring." Despite the wry edge in his voice, genuine warmth flickers in his gaze.

At the far side of the courtyard, where a lattice of vines and wrought-iron creates pockets of shadow, Yile stands, quiet as a specter. Meicong meets his gaze, offering a barely perceptible nod.

Yile leads her to a small, candlelit alcove shielded by ornate screens, faint smoke from a brazier curling between them. The flickering light catches the sharp angles of Meicong's profile. She brushes a stray strand of hair from her forehead, features set in grim resolution.

"Well?" Yile prompts, tone gentle yet edged with impatience.

"I made it to the desert," Meicong begins, voice low. "Stayed among a tribe I found near the southwestern dunes. Their scouts had spotted unusual movements—strangers in dark cloaks, riding at night with wagons in tow. Suspicious, if you ask me." She allows a pause, letting the statement settle. "Then that tribe was attacked. Out of nowhere, riders with spiked helmets, weapons stained black. I fled before they encircled our tents, but I noticed the banners were Yohazatz. The Second Prince Noga's, actually."

Yile's face remains a smooth mask, but the tension in his voice hints at the gravity of her words. "You're sure it wasn't just impersonators?"

"There was more organization than typical raiding scum," Meicong replies curtly. She crosses her arms, shoulders stiff with latent anger. "I came back because I suspected they might head east, so I can't stay in the Northern territories any longer."

For a few beats, Yile studies her face, his silence as piercing as a blade. Then he says, "And what of Kuan? You left with him, yet I see only you."

She exhales, lips pressing into a thin line. "I stabbed him."

Yile's eyes blaze with sudden wrath, the emotion so swift and fierce it vibrates in the hush. "You… stabbed him? Have you lost your wits?" His voice cuts, though it never rises above a lethal whisper. "That man saved your life, saved your sisters' lives, and you repay him like that?"

Her jaw sets. "He let his guard down," she says, voice eerily calm, "and I—" A pause, weighted and uncomfortable. "—I did it."

Yile steps forward, tension rippling through his lean frame. "Did you want to sabotage everything we've built? Kuan holds half the pieces of our plan—without him, do you realize what might crumble?"

A flicker of defiance crosses Meicong's face. She shrugs, the motion abrupt. "I wanted to do it. That's reason enough."

Yile's hand darts out, gripping her wrist. The candlelight reflects off the sudden whiteness of his knuckles. "Wanted?" he repeats, voice seething with disbelief. "Our entire arrangement is in peril because you had a whim?" His tone threatens to rise, but he reins it in. Glancing over his shoulder to ensure no eavesdropper lurks, he releases her and exhales sharply.

Meicong's eyes flash with a challenge, as though daring him to strike her down. He seems tempted for the briefest instant, but reason prevails. Instead, he presses both palms against the screen that divides them from the corridor and leans forward.

"Tell me," he says, words clipped. "Was this his idea? Did he ask you to do it so he might be accepted among the barbarians? A dramatic show of betrayal, perhaps, to earn their trust?"

She remains silent, gaze sliding away, the faintest tension in her jaw the only indication she has heard him.

Yile's frustration coils like a serpent ready to strike. He scowls, voice laden with bitterness. "You'd risk everything on a single, reckless act—then stay mute about it." He draws in a calming breath, though the anger thrums beneath each syllable.

Yile turns away from Meicong, tension still crackling in the narrow corridor. He catches a sudden flicker of movement in the periphery—a trio of shadows converging just beyond the brazier's muted light. An instant later, three more figures stand revealed: Meibei, Meicao, and Meice.

Meibei, the tallest among them, inclines her head in silent acknowledgment. There's a watchful calm in her dark eyes. Meicao's smirk glitters in the low lantern glow, fingers toying with the thin chain at her belt. Meice remains a step behind, a bottle of liquor to her lips.

Meicao drags the tip of her scythe's handle along the stone, producing a faint scraping noise that sets Yile's nerves on edge.

"We heard your voices," Meibei says, flicking a glance at Meicong before meeting Yile's tense gaze. "So. Brother stabbed Kuan?"

Meice, spits, then folds her arms. "We can fix this," she proposes, voice surprisingly steady. "Let us go look for him. If we bring him back in one piece, maybe it undoes the damage."

Yile's mouth sets in a grim line. He studies their expressions—no fear, only anticipation. His voice slices through the tense hush. "No. You'll do nothing but draw suspicion. The palace is already bristling with rumors. Do you wish every guard in the city to know our business?"

Meicao's dark eyes narrow, and she taps the scythe's end against a crack in the marble. "Better to risk that than let Kuan bleed out in some pagan wasteland, if he's even still alive."

Yile stiffens, anger flickering across his face. "I said no." He lowers his voice, but the threat is unmistakable. "Scram, all of you, before your presence brings the entire palace running."

The siblings exchange glances before they begin to withdraw, though Meicao does so with a visible roll of her eyes.

Just as they are nearly gone, Meibei pauses in the threshold. Her silhouette stands stark against the lamplight, head half-turned in Yile's direction. "A final note," she says, words carefully measured. "The Khan has met with San Lian."