Ling An – Inner Palace, Red Pavilion Hall
The scroll snapped under Wu Kang's grip.
His face did not move. But the paper in his hand trembled once, then tore clean down the center.
"Delayed?" he asked. Quiet. Dangerous.
The minister across from him bowed deeply, sweat glistening beneath his collar. "Yes, Your Highness. The courier confirms that Prince Wu An has not departed Dongxia. He acknowledged the summons, but… preparations have slowed him."
Wu Kang stood from his seat. The lacquered floor creaked. He walked to the window of the pavilion, where the sun bled crimson through silk screens.
"Slow preparations," he echoed. "From the brother who conquered the North in less than a month. How interesting."
He did not shout.
He did not throw the goblet.
That would have been mercy.
Instead, he turned slowly and walked past the line of seated ministers — twelve of them, handpicked, loyal, well-fed off his patronage.
All of them watched him with the eyes of trained dogs — alert, obedient, cautious.
"I gave him ten days," Wu Kang said. "Enough time to enjoy the illusion of power. To feel the comfort of command. To remember what it feels like to matter."
He reached the center of the room. "And what does he do with this gift?"
A pause.
"He spits in it."
The ministers did not respond.
"I will not wait another ten," Wu Kang continued. "I want scouts positioned at the ridge south of Dongxia. I want three more summons delivered — one official, two disguised. I want a forward regiment posted at Pale Valley Pass."
One of the ministers dared to speak. "But Your Highness, Pale Valley is… tactically uncertain. The terrain is—"
Wu Kang turned his head.
The man stopped.
Wu Kang smiled. Cold. Precise.
"If Dongxia does not yield," he said, "then we cut off its arms. We isolate it. Turn the people. Turn the court. Turn the gods themselves against him if we must."
He stepped back toward the center dais.
"And if my little brother resists?" he said.
"We will make him kneel in the dust, in chains, and beg to be forgotten."
That evening, his mother arrived.
Not with drums or banners — but with a single servant, and a perfume Wu Kang had hated since childhood: lotus, powdered ash, and iron.
She entered without greeting. Sat in silence.
"You taught me better than this," Wu Kang said eventually. "You taught me to strike when the blade is ready, not when the hand itches."
The Imperial Queen smiled faintly. Her cheeks were painted in faint pearl. The red cord around her neck bore the old sigil of the Inner Temple — a symbol banned during the reign of the last emperor. And yet, she wore it still.
"Your blade is sharp," she said. "But your eyes are narrow."
Wu Kang frowned.
She rose and circled the room like a priestess in procession, her fingertips trailing over old war maps.
"You see your brother as a sword," she said. "But he is not."
She stopped at the window. The red light touched her crown.
"He is a mirror."
Three days later, the Lord Protector summoned Wu Kang to the inner war chamber.
No servants. No ministers. No scrolls.
Only him.
And the quiet.
His father sat alone beside the firepit, burning strips of cloth soaked in ink and blood. Old battle rituals. Rarely seen now, except before executions.
"You've grown fat with advisors," the Lord Protector said without looking up.
Wu Kang stiffened. "They serve the realm."
"They serve your ambition," the old man said. "Which is not the same thing."
He stood — tall, hard as old iron. His eyes held no affection.
"Your letters to Dongxia were read. So were your mother's."
Wu Kang said nothing.
His father stepped closer.
"I do not care that you play at power," he said. "That's what sons do. But if you move before I give you leave — you are no longer a prince. You are a traitor."
Wu Kang clenched his jaw.
"I only want what is mine," he said.
The Lord Protector turned away.
"And Wu An? What does he want?"
Wu Kang's voice dropped. "I don't know."
His father did not reply.
Because he already did.
Back in his chambers, Wu Kang struck the table hard enough to split it.
The soldiers posted at Pale Valley had vanished. No report. No flare. Just silence.
He dispatched riders.
They did not return.
He ordered spies into Dongxia's upper district. They went missing. One was found in the river — mouth filled with ash, eyes open, no wounds.
Wu Kang lit his own letter that night — the final summons.
"If he won't return," he growled to his generals, "then we drag him back."
He did not know that Wu An had already received it.
That Wu An had answered.
Not with words.
But with placement.
A broken supply road rerouted. A missing outpost. A retreating regiment. Rumors planted in villages that said Wu Kang had sent men to steal grain.
Wu An hadn't refused the summons.
He had made them send more.
In Dongxia, the wind stirred again.
The spiral beneath the manor glowed faintly at night now — visible only in the corners of mirrors.
Shen Yue stood beside Wu An on the balcony.
"They'll come soon," she said.
"I know."
"You could still run."
He didn't answer.
Because she already knew.
He had built a trap.
And it would not snap on soldiers.
Not first.
It would snap on legitimacy.