Chapter 61 - The Phoenix in the Court's Shadow

The final morning dawned like old paper left to yellow in a sun that gave no warmth.

The capital was hushed in expectation — merchants peered out from their stalls, couriers darted along the streets with tight faces. Somewhere beyond the high walls, drums beat faintly, reminders that Qi's borders still burned while its sons and daughters wrestled for titles within painted halls.

At the Imperial Academy, the great writing hall was already thick with breath and sweat by the time Ziyan entered. Hundreds of small desks stood in neat rows, each with an ink stone, fresh brushes, a blank scroll laid across it like a waiting shroud.

Lianhua's steps faltered as she passed through the columns of candidates. Li Qiang's hand rested briefly against her shoulder, a silent promise. Ziyan's own throat felt raw. Her phoenix mark thrummed under her sleeve, restless, as though it too awaited judgment.

They took their assigned seats — far from one another by the exam's cruel order. It forced each to face the trial alone, cut off from the small comforts they had come to share.

Directly across from Ziyan sat Yuan Jie, already smoothing his sleeves with delicate precision. Further down, the merchant daughters conferred in quick murmurs, fans half-raised to hide their glances. Lianhua caught one look — pity twisted with triumph — and looked away, hands trembling over her ink stone.

A gong sounded.

The proctors moved through the aisles, their dark robes hissing against the tile. They laid out the final question in small sealed slips. When Ziyan broke hers open, the characters danced briefly in her blurring vision:

"Draft a full policy proposal for stabilizing border trade under threat of ongoing war with Xia, ensuring both revenue to Qi's treasury and loyalty among local governors. Address troop supply, merchant protection, and the prevention of opportunistic rebellion."

Her heart sank. This was everything she had studied — but also everything that gave nobles such fertile ground to mock peasant management. Her brush hovered above the scroll, quivering.

It began slowly. The scratch of brushes filled the hall like distant cicadas. Small coughs. The faint shifting of robes.

Then the sabotage crept in.

A servant passed too close to Ziyan's table, sloshing his water jug so a dark stain bled across her sleeve. It spread to the scroll, forcing her to snatch it back, smearing her first neat lines into black ruin.

Two desks over, a young noble coughed delicately, dropping a tiny slip of silk inscribed with clever taxation poems into his lap. The proctor's eyes slid over him without interest.

Lianhua's ordeal was crueller still.

When she ground her ink, it turned out clotted — small pebbles hidden in the cake shredded her brush, leaving bristles behind like so many snapped dreams. Her second brush split on the next stroke. Blood rose on her lip where she bit it, forcing her shaking hand to continue. The merchant daughter three seats down only smiled faintly, shifting her fine gold bracelets.

Li Qiang fared no better. The heavy, rough brush he had requested for drawing levy guard rotations and small stockade maps had been replaced — in its place lay a delicate court calligraphy brush that split under his grip, bleeding dark ink lines that pooled like bruises.

His jaw worked silently. A bead of sweat ran down his scar, dripping onto the scroll. Still he forced his hand to move, drawing diagrams as best he could with a tool meant for poems, not defenses.

Across the aisle, Yuan Jie's brush moved in elegant arcs. His characters looked like dancers — each stroke balanced, deliberate, as if to show contempt for any who dared hurry. Now and then he lifted his fan to dab at his brow, hiding sly signals to a minor official who brought him fresh ink of unusually smooth sheen.

The merchant daughters bent over their scrolls with placid smiles, bracelets jingling softly. Their lines were confident, punctuated by delicate flourishes. Now and then, they glanced up — at Lianhua's struggling hand, at Li Qiang's ragged diagrams, at Ziyan's smudged sleeve — and their smiles grew faintly indulgent, almost tender, as though watching sad children pretend at courtly games.

Hours bled away. The hall grew thick with stale breath. Ink stains spread across Ziyan's sleeves where she had tried to blot too hastily. Her hand cramped so fiercely at one point she thought the brush would slip entirely. Her mark burned beneath the fabric, hot enough to sting. It was not a comfort; it felt like silent rebuke.

Faster, it seemed to hiss, or maybe that was only her own fear. Stronger.

She forced her hand to keep scratching out lines — policy on staggered tariffs that avoided panic, small rotating militias to reassure border villages, state-backed loans for merchants who lost wagons to raids. Her calligraphy looked harsh, uneven in places where her hand had seized.

When the final gong sounded, she almost jumped.

The proctors moved back through the hall, collecting scrolls. One paused by her desk, frowning at the smears. Another proctor further down raised a brow at Li Qiang's dark blots, then set the scroll aside with clear distaste.

Lianhua sat trembling after handing hers over, her fingers still twitching with memory of broken brushes. Across the rows, Yuan Jie reclined slightly, eyes half-lidded in easy contentment.

They were herded back into the main courtyard afterward, under the first cold touch of evening. Lanterns had already been lit, bobbing on thin iron hooks. Their light did nothing to soften the cruel lines of noble mouths.

Yuan Jie drifted close, fan tapping lightly against his palm.

"I commend your resilience, my lady," he said, voice rich with pity. "Few could spill so much ink so clumsily and still press on. Perhaps the court will give points for… spirit."

Lianhua's breath caught, eyes burning. Li Qiang took a single step forward, but Ziyan laid a hand lightly on his arm. Her touch was so gentle it nearly broke him.

They walked back to their small rooms in silence. The air seemed too thick, too bright with watching eyes. Every passing court servant felt like a spy.

Inside, they sank onto their mats. The lantern between them hissed faintly, as if struggling to stay alight.

No one spoke for a long while.

Then Li Qiang's voice broke the hush — low, raw.

"They cheated openly. They cut our brushes, dirtied our ink, mocked us before every scribe. Tomorrow… tomorrow they announce who passes and who is cast out. What chance did we leave ourselves?"

Ziyan's hands rested over her phoenix mark, feeling its steady, angry throb.

"We left them everything they wanted to see. Three broken children, easy to discount."

Lianhua looked up, startled by the faint steel in her tone.

"Ziyan—?"

She only shook her head once, dark eyes reflecting the lantern's small flame.

"Tomorrow the hall will gather, and the court will smile, certain it knows every outcome already. Let them. Sometimes, the surest step toward ruin is the one made with eyes half-closed in victory."

Outside, wind rattled a loose shutter. Far off, drums on the city's walls beat once — a hollow echo, like a pulse waiting to quicken.