11: Music of Steel · A Shadow Emerges

Beneath a sea of dazzling lights, the royal banquet of Great Yan surged on in full splendor.

This grand affair was to span seven days—by day, scholars and poets took turns showcasing their artistry. With ink and brush, they painted verses and landscapes, capturing the spirit of their homelands with masterful flair. In the imperial gardens, merchant envoys displayed rare treasures: exotic fruit wines from the Southern tribes, prized pelts from Western Rong, snowy jade from Northern Di, and the famed porcelain and brocade of Great Yan. Laughter and conversation mingled with the scent of blossoms, creating a vivid tapestry of nations meeting in harmony.

As night fell, noble ladies took the stage inside the palace, presenting their skills in music, calligraphy, painting, and strategy. Each performance revealed a nation's temperament—through the sound of zither strings or the silent dance of ink on silk. A sketch of Southern rivers, a brushwork palace of Great Yan, chessboards scattered with subtle clashes—all reflected the grace and wit of their creators.

Strings and flutes swirled in the air like mist, mingling with fine wine and fragrant dishes. Gentle laughter drifted between glances, goblets clinked softly beneath vaulted ceilings, and the hall gleamed like a living painting—vivid, elegant, and steeped in artistry.

But tonight's true centerpiece had yet to begin.

As the court musicians let their final notes fade, the Chief Eunuch of the Banquet stepped forward with a smile, bowing gracefully to the guests.

"Honored envoys and noble guests," he announced. "As is tradition, tonight we invite the princesses and noble ladies of all nations to share their zither artistry. Through music, may we glimpse both their grace… and their soul."

Excitement stirred among the women seated in the hall.

Zither music was not merely a symbol of noble refinement—it was a mirror to one's nature, a vessel of culture. In melody, one could sense personality, lineage, and the essence of an entire land.

The first to rise was Princess Li Zhiyu of the Southern tribes.

She wore robes of rose-red silk, her hair styled in clouds, each step like the brushstroke of spring. Seated before the zither, she placed her slender fingers upon the strings. A moment later, a song titled "Swallow Singing at Dawn" flowed through the air.

Southern melodies were vibrant and ornate. Her music danced like rain upon lotus leaves—light, flowing, full of tender warmth. There was the grace of spring blossoms in every note, vivid yet refined, carrying the lush charm of a misty southern morning.

As her final note fell, the hall erupted in thunderous applause.

She rose with elegance and smiled—her gaze, however, drifted ever so briefly to a distant corner of the room.

Next came the daughter of a Western Rong envoy. Her piece, "Frontiers and Windstorms," painted a world of vast deserts and endless skies.

The melody surged and ebbed like shifting sand. There were echoes of caravan bells, the wind of the steppes, and the wild freedom of nomadic life. Her zither sang of solitude and splendor—vast, unyielding, and timeless.

Praise echoed again, sincere and admiring.

Following her were noble ladies of Great Yan. Their music was soft and restrained—like spring winds brushing willow branches, like lotus leaves rippling in summer light. Their style embodied the quiet dignity of the central plains—gentle, poised, introspective.

Xiao Zhengyu listened in silence, his gaze steady.

Each performance held its own charm—fiery, calm, distant, or refined. But when Yan Changxin rose and walked toward the zither table, the room quieted as if holding its breath.

A daughter of Northern Di? Could she truly master the zither?

She offered no words. Simply took her seat.

Her fingers, pale and slender, brushed lightly over the strings.

Then—

The first note struck like a gust of wind in a snowstorm—sharp, bold, unrelenting.

The piece: "Long Wind Over Snow."

The music of the North was neither delicate nor flamboyant. It bore no resemblance to the Southern silkiness, nor the vast melancholy of Western Rong. Her melody was a storm—icy wind sweeping across mountains, snow flying in wild spirals, hooves thundering, falcons soaring alone beneath a frozen sky.

There was strength. There was defiance.

Yet beneath that cold vastness, a sorrow trembled quietly—buried deep, restrained but aching. It was the sound of someone trapped in winter's grasp for far too long, struggling toward light… and receiving only silence.

The melody rose.

Xiao Zhengyu's brow furrowed.

That sound…

There was something beneath the notes—something mournful, familiar, and unspoken. Not the wild pride of Northern warriors, but the quiet despair of a soul long caged in snow and shadow.

This was not the music of an ordinary Northern lady.

His gaze unconsciously drifted to Yan Changxin.

She sat upright, composed, her expression tranquil. Her fingers danced over the strings like frost skimming ice.

Then—she lifted her left arm slightly.

A flicker of candlelight trembled at that moment, casting her wrist into sudden clarity.

His eyes narrowed.

Her sleeve had slipped ever so slightly.

Revealing a patch of fair skin—and a thin, pale-pink scar.

Long. Deep. The kind left by a blade.

But it was not the scar that stilled his breath.

It was what lay beside it—a faint red mark, half-faded, half-concealed… yet unmistakable.

A phoenix.

Or rather, the fragmented shadow of one—its wings broken, its body marred, as if slashed by force.

His fingers curled tightly.

That mark...

He remembered. The royal sigil of the fallen Xiliang.

A phoenix in flight.

The final note fell.

Yet the hall remained steeped in silence, as if her music still lingered in the candlelight.

But Xiao Zhengyu heard nothing more.

His gaze remained fixed on her. His thoughts, no longer calm.

This woman from Northern Di…

She was not who she seemed to be.

Not at all.