Chapter 40 - A Crown of Thorns

Eastern Palace – Funeral Hall

The banners were white. The incense thick.

Lady Consort Xian was not Empress. But her passing cast a shadow across the realm — not for who she had been, but for the sons she left behind.

Wu Kang and Wu Taian knelt closest to the altar, heads bowed beneath the slow burn of the funeral brazier. Their mother lay behind the silk veil, her form hidden, but her influence louder than ever. She had been a quiet woman. Careful. Dutiful. And ambitious — in a way that did not scream, but whispered her sons into power.

I knelt across from them. Not as a grieving son. She had not been my mother.

My mother had died when I was barely old enough to hold a brush. There had been no such funeral. No silk. No flames.

Still, I bowed.

Because the court watched.

Because appearances mattered.

Wu Jin sat beside me, silent as ever, but his fingers tapped gently against the prayer mat — three beats, then a pause. Thinking. Always thinking.

The priests chanted. The bells rang low. The mourning was official.

But the war had only begun.

When the rites ended, the Lord Protector stood.

His armor was ceremonial, his beard freshly oiled, but the lines in his face had deepened. He did not weep. He had too many wives for that. But when he looked at the coffin, something cracked behind his eyes.

"She was not Queen," he said. "But she was loyal. And she bore me two sons who still breathe."

A glance toward Wu Kang and Wu Taian.

"She deserved peace. And all she received was fire."

He turned, now facing us all.

"To my sons — every one of you — I say this: your ambitions have scorched the heavens. Your hands drip with prayers and poison alike."

He raised a hand.

"There will be no charges today. No shame cast in public. But if any of you dare speak her name again as a weapon, I will remove you from the records. And history will forget you."

The wind stirred the banners behind him. The incense smoldered lower.

He did not need to yell.

He ruled with gravity alone.

After the ceremony, the mourners scattered. Courtiers whispered condolences they did not mean. Eunuchs folded offerings. The bells had stopped ringing, but their echo lingered in my skull.

I remained at the pine grove's edge.

Wu Kang approached.

His robes were pristine. His eyes, bloodshot.

"You stood like a mourner," he said softly. "But you looked like a liar."

"I stood as her subject," I replied. "That was all she ever asked of me."

"She was my mother."

"I know."

"You watched her burn."

I met his gaze.

"And you watched her be used. Same as me."

A pause. Then he spat on the dirt between us.

"She gave you nothing. But you still gained everything."

"And that's what terrifies you."

Before he could answer, Wu Jin joined us, folding his arms inside his sleeves like a monk hiding daggers.

"Fascinating, isn't it," Wu Jin murmured. "Even in death, she governs us."

Wu Kang scowled. "Do you ever speak without riddles?"

Wu Jin smiled faintly. "When I do, people die."

Wu An's Estate – That Evening

The silence of the funeral clung to me like a second robe.

I sat in my private hall, the incense tray before me long since cold. The brazier held nothing but ash — and yet, I could still smell her.

Not Lady Xian.

Something older.

Deeper.

I remembered Shen Yue's words from the night before:

"She was the bridge."

And beneath that — another message. Folded and hidden within the sleeves of my robe, though I had no memory of placing it there.

A curl of silver hair.

A note:

"You were ready."

I turned at the sound of footsteps.

Liao Yun stood in the corridor, holding a sealed scroll. His hair was tied back plainly, his robe stained with travel dust.

He bowed. "My lord."

"Report."

He handed over the scroll — grain exports, temple receipts, a list of minor southern clerics loyal to Wu Kang's treasury lines.

"His merchant influence is cracking," he said. "But not broken."

"And if we cut it?"

"His loans default. His guards go unpaid. He turns to outside sources."

"Which sources?"

"Depends on how desperate he becomes."

I studied Liao Yun. He was not yet my Kongming. But something about his eyes — calm, observant, unflinching — gave me pause.

"Why did you come to me?" I asked.

He bowed again.

"I read the wind. And I go where it changes."

Eastern Palace

The wine was bitter tonight.

Wu Kang drank alone until the candles blurred.

Taian watched from the corner, always quiet, always armed.

A figure entered the chamber, silent as breath.

Clad in black. Crimson thread across the collar. A fan in one hand. No expression.

"I am Yi Huan," the eunuch said. "Head of the Silk Guard. Her Majesty, the Empress, sends her regards."

Wu Kang's jaw tightened. "She sends you like a letter."

"I am not a letter," Yi Huan replied. "I am a knife."

Taian stepped forward. "And which throat?"

Yi Huan smiled thinly. "Whichever one she chooses next."

Phoenix Tower – Wu Ling

Wu Ling dipped her brush in black ink and traced a single character on the scroll: 衡 — Balance.

She did not look up as the servant approached.

"He accepted the gift?"

"Yes, Your Majesty. Yi Huan now shadows the Eastern Palace."

"Good," she said. "Let him see how it feels to be watched."

She folded the scroll.

"Let the funeral smoke settle. Let them think they still command the board."

Then she added:

"And when they look again, they'll find the board has changed."

At dawn, the Lord Protector summoned us once more.

Not to accuse.

Not to bury again.

But to declare.

"There will be no state funeral," he said. "Let the court whisper if they must. Let the priests stay silent."

He stood tall, voice gravel-hard.

"But she was my wife. My Imperial Queen. And for that, she shall be honored."

He raised a lacquered scroll and unrolled it before the court.

"Lady Xian is hereby granted the posthumous title of Noble Consort of the Virtuous Shrine, with full ancestral rites to be maintained in the Western Hall."

A murmur swept through the chamber.

He looked at none of us. Not Wu Kang. Not Wu An. Not even Wu Jin.

Then, he left the hall — robes trailing behind him like a severed thread.

And as the incense faded, the court began to shift again.

Lines drawn in silence.

Loyalty unspoken.

But now more dangerous than ever.