Even in spring, the Imperial Court of Yan remained cold.
The marble floors glowed with firelight, but the heat didn't reach the bones of the hall.
The gold-carved dragons along the pillars watched in silence as Third Prince Yan Xuan entered.
He wore no mask today.
Only the truth of his scar—etched with phoenix-shaped runes along his left cheek.
It shimmered faintly beneath the lanterns. Never bleeding. Never healing.
A wound passed from birth. A mark some whispered had killed his mother.
First Prince Yan Lie stood among the front row of generals and senior ministers.
His robes bore the crest of the Tiger General, black and silver against red.
He stood tall—face expressionless, eyes hard.
He didn't glance at Yan Xuan.
He looked past him. Through him.
Beside him, Second Prince Yan Zhen, born of Consort Sun, stood with an open fan and an unreadable smile.
Beauty cloaked in calculation.
He didn't speak, but he watched everything.
At the head of the court, the Emperor of Yan sat on the Dragon Throne.
Gold-threaded robes pooled at his feet. His white beard reached the dragons stitched into his chest.
When Yan Xuan bowed, the Emperor's smile was slow and familiar.
"You look thinner, Xuan'er," he said. "Still not eating properly?"
"There are more pressing matters than food, Father."
The Emperor nodded. "Then tell me—this General of Liang. Is she as fierce as the tales?"
Yan Xuan's answer was simple. "Fiercer. She's a lioness."
A few ministers chuckled nervously.
"And the treaty?"
"She returned with it. Unfinished. But she said clearly—if we want peace, we must prove it. With sincerity. An envoy."
The Emperor leaned forward. "Then we send one."
Gasps moved like wind across the hall.
"You will lead it, my son."
From the general's row, Yan Lie stepped forward, voice cold.
"Father… you would send him—our empire's most unpredictable, unsuitable rascal—to represent us in Liang?"
The Emperor didn't look at him.
"He is the most suitable one for this mission. And he will not go alone."
The court shifted again as the next name was spoken.
"Si Yue will accompany him."
Si Yue stepped forward from behind Yan Xuan.
Silver hair fell like silk over robes of smoke-grey. His presence was quiet, yet it stole every eye in the room.
He bowed, lazily but elegant. "I've always wanted to see whether the Lady General's lightning whip is more poetry than legend—and how strong Liang's pride really is," he said, smiling faintly. "I'll take notes."
The Emperor chuckled. "Three days. Prepare."
Yan Xuan bowed. "Yes, Father."
As the court broke apart, Yan Zhen came to his younger brother's side, folding his fan shut with a snap.
"You should eat more," he said softly. "You'll need strength."
"Worried I'll die?"
"No," Yan Zhen smiled. "But the First Prince might die of joy if you do."
Yan Xuan raised a brow. "How thoughtful."
"Try not to make things more entertaining than necessary," Yan Zhen replied, and vanished into the crowd.
Si Yue fell into step beside him.
"Palace politics," he said, sipping from a long-stemmed teacup. "All blade, no elegance."
Yan Xuan didn't smile. "You're the only elegant one here."
Si Yue tilted his head. "That's why they're all terrified of me."
The snow had begun to fall again by the time they left the court.
And in another part of the empire, under that same snow—
Lin Ruoyi's golden whip cracked across the air like lightning.
She moved alone in her family's training courtyard, wrapped in tight black cloth. No silks. No command robes. Just skin, breath, and control.
Strike.
Twist.
Spin.
Lunge.
Return.
The whip spun like sunlight braided into steel.
Lin Ruochen stood under the covered walkway, arms folded, eyes sharp.
"You're faster," he said.
Ruoyi didn't answer.
She pivoted again—harder this time.
The whip struck.
But instead of air, it cut light.
A golden streak cracked through the air and hit a training dummy across the yard. The wood burst open, splintered in silence.
Ruochen straightened. "That's new."
Ruoyi stared down at her whip.
"It's… reacting."
She didn't finish the thought.
The coils wrapped around her wrist hummed faintly—alive, waiting, remembering.
And then—
Pain.
A pulse of heat tore through her forearm. She gasped, stumbled back. The whip dropped from her hand.
"Ruoyi!" Ruochen was beside her in a second.
There was no wound.
No blood.
Just a strange glow beneath her skin—along the veins.
She looked at her trembling hand. Her breath came shallow.
"Yin Ruo."
She hadn't spoken it.
The name had come on its own.
Ruochen frowned. "What did you say?"
"Nothing," she said. Too fast.
He didn't press. But she saw the way he watched her—the way worry settled in his jaw.
The whip lay on the ground, still.
But Ruoyi didn't feel still.
She felt charged.
Off balance.
Unreal.
For the first time in years,
she felt like a weapon—
One that had remembered why it was made.