The Eastern Capital was a beast draped in silk.
Ziyan had learned that quickly. Behind the gilded facades of teahouses and the perfumed laughter of courtesans, the city thrived on secrets—whispered deals, bloodless betrayals, and the quiet shifting of power.
And now, they were close. Too close.
The scrolls they had gathered were spread across the low table in their rented room, illuminated by a single lantern. Names, dates, transactions—all pointing to one man: Lord Li Jun, the Empress's shadowed cousin, whose influence stretched like spider silk through every ministry and merchant guild.
Feiyan leaned over the table, her finger tapping a line of ink. "This shipment was supposed to go to the famine districts. Instead, it ended up in his private granaries."
Shuye nodded, his voice low. "And the tax records show the peasants paid double for grain that never arrived."
Ziyan traced the characters with her fingertip, the lotus mark on her palm pulsing faintly. "He didn't just steal. He engineered the shortage. Made himself the savior while pocketing the coin."
Feiyan's lips curled. "Classic."
"But proving it?" Shuye sighed. "Without the red ledger, it's just speculation."
The red ledger. The mythic book that held the empire's darkest truths—bribes, assassinations, falsified records. Rumor placed it in the Ministry of Supply's restricted archives, guarded by clerks who owed their lives to Li Jun's patronage.
Ziyan exhaled slowly. "We need it."
Feiyan cracked her knuckles. "Then we take it."
It was simple. Elegant. Dangerous.
Shuye would pose as a junior scribe, swapping out logbooks to create confusion. Feiyan would slip into the archives during the evening audit, when the guards were distracted by wine and dice. And Ziyan?
She would walk through the front door.
Dressed in borrowed noble robes, her hair pinned with a jade hairpiece gifted by Duan Rulan, she would request an audience with the Minister of Supply under the pretense of discussing textile tariffs. A boring, bureaucratic meeting—perfect for drawing eyes away from the real theft.
They rehearsed it twice.
On the third night, they moved.
The building was a monolith of carved stone, its corridors lined with clerks bent over scrolls, their ink-stained fingers flying across parchment. The air smelled of dust and dried sweat.
Ziyan walked calmly, her chin lifted, her sleeves swaying with practiced grace. The guards barely glanced at her—just another noblewoman with too much time and too little sense.
At the minister's outer office, she bowed slightly to the secretary. "Lady Wen of the Southern Vineyards. I believe the minister is expecting me?"
The man blinked, then scrambled through his ledger. "Ah—yes, my lady. One moment."
Perfect.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Shuye slip past, his arms full of scrolls, his face obscured by a low hood.
Somewhere in the depths of the building, Feiyan would already be moving.
Feiyan had always been light on her feet.
She slipped through the shadows like smoke, her boots silent on the polished wood. The archive chamber was at the end of a narrow hall, its door reinforced with iron bands.
A guard lounged outside, picking at his teeth with a knife.
Feiyan waited.
Then—a crash from the clerks' office. Shouts. The guard cursed and jogged toward the noise.
She didn't hesitate.
The lock gave way with a twist of her picks. Inside, the room was a maze of shelves, each stacked with ledgers bound in red silk.
Her fingers skimmed the spines.
There.
A ledger thicker than the others, its cover stamped with a serpent coiled around a scale.
She tucked it into her robe and turned—
"Looking for something?"
The voice was smooth. Cold.
A man stood in the doorway, his robes the deep indigo of the imperial secret police. His smile didn't reach his eyes.
Feiyan didn't answer.
She lunged.
Ziyan felt it before she saw it.
The minister's secretary had been too quick to usher her in. The guards outside had shifted positions, their hands resting too casually on their sword hilts.
And now, the minister himself—a bloated man with a ring-studded beard—was staring at her with a smirk.
"You're not Lady Wen," he said.
Ziyan kept her voice steady. "No. But you already knew that."
The door behind her clicked shut.
Feiyan fought like a storm.
The spy was good, but she was better. Her blade flashed, driving him back into the hall. She didn't need to kill him—just slow him down.
But then—
A whistle. Sharp. Piercing.
More footsteps.
Shit.
She bolted, the ledger heavy against her ribs.
Ziyan didn't resist when they seized her.
She let them drag her to the window, where the minister gestured grandly at the courtyard below.
"Look."
Feiyan was there, surrounded.
Shuye was on his knees, a blade at his throat.
The minister chuckled. "You really thought you could steal from us?"
Ziyan's fingers curled into fists.
The lotus mark burned.