The sun rose cold the next morning, its golden sheen washed thin by the haze that clung to the skies. Yun stood beneath the courtyard archway, his hands behind his back, the crushed warning letter still hidden in his sleeve. He hadn't slept.
Lady Shen stood across from him, her hair coiled in an elegant twist, eyes sharper than polished jade.
"You're quiet," she said.
"So are you," Yun replied.
"You're thinking about the note."
"Yes. And whether I'm willing to trade this truth for your safety."
She stepped forward, placing a hand over his. "We crossed that line the night we walked into the dark together."
Yun looked at her. "Then we stay in the light together, too."
Preparations for the Mid-Autumn Summit surged across the estate.
Servants polished marble tiles until they reflected moonlight. Colored silks draped the high beams of the Inner Pavilion, and golden lotus lanterns hung from every corridor.
But beneath the grandeur, whispers festered like mold.
Yun's return had disturbed the stillness of the noble clans, and now every eye watched him—some with hope, others with hatred.
He met secretly with Jian and two other loyalists—Han Qing, a former temple scribe, and Mei Lian, the silent dagger of the north halls.
In the quiet chamber below the garden shrine, they laid out the plan.
"Zhao Ming will appear at the third bell of the Summit," Han Qing whispered. "Once the Patriarch begins his address."
"Li Chen will try to silence him before then," Yun said.
Mei Lian nodded. "I'll guard the gate myself."
"Keep him breathing until that bell," Yun said. "That's all that matters."
Meanwhile, Lady Shen was summoned again—this time to the private tea courtyard of the Patriarch himself.
She hadn't seen him in months.
Once, he had been a formidable presence—broad-shouldered, wise-eyed. Now, he was diminished, a brittle ghost wrapped in silk robes, his once-commanding voice little more than gravel.
"Shen'er," he rasped, gesturing for her to sit.
She bowed. "My lord."
He stared into his untouched tea. "They say the boy walks like his mother now."
"Stronger," she said. "And wiser."
"And more dangerous."
Lady Shen raised her gaze. "Dangerous to whom?"
He smiled faintly. "To everyone who's lied to him."
He lifted a trembling hand and passed her a jade token. "If something happens at the Summit… use this to leave. Don't stay for the ashes."
She looked at it. "Is this guilt, my lord?"
"Call it foresight. Or cowardice."
She left without taking the token.
The night before the Summit, Yun stood at the ancestral platform where the gathering would take place. Beneath the layered lanterns and velvet canopy, he could almost feel the weight of history pressing against his shoulders.
He thought of his mother's laugh.
Of how her hand had steadied his brush when he first learned calligraphy.
Of how she had died alone.
He clenched his fists until his knuckles turned white.
Li Chen would not win.
Not this time.
Elsewhere, Li Chen stood in his private quarters with the Second Madam.
"Zhao Ming is alive," he said flatly.
The Second Madam sipped her wine. "Then make him not."
"I tried. The boy is faster."
She looked at him. "Then you must discredit him before he speaks. Call him mad. Say he's been hidden too long. Blame his mind."
Li Chen gritted his teeth. "And the woman?"
The Second Madam's eyes gleamed. "Lady Shen is still a beloved relic. But relics burn like anything else."
He looked at the scroll in his hand—Yun's flame sigil records. If exposed, Yun would be labeled unstable. Dangerous. Unsuitable for succession.
But would the Patriarch believe it now?
Or was it already too late?
The morning of the Summit arrived with an unnatural stillness.
The estate's nobles filed into the Inner Pavilion in full ceremonial dress, their footsteps hushed beneath the weight of tradition. The air was thick with incense and anticipation.
Yun entered last, dressed in black and crimson, his mother's phoenix pin fastened just beneath his collar. Every eye followed him.
Lady Shen sat near the dais, her poise regal, her gaze unreadable.
The Patriarch took his place at the head of the assembly. Despite his frailty, his presence silenced the chamber.
"We are gathered to honor legacy," he began slowly. "And to weigh the strength of our future."
Li Chen stood.
He bowed, then spoke:
"Before we begin the rites, I must raise a concern. The heir presumptive, Li Yun, bears the Flame Sigil—an unstable power not seen in generations. There are those who fear its return. And the state of his mind."
Murmurs surged across the room.
Yun stepped forward.
"And I must raise a truth. The Flame Sigil was branded on me to protect this family. My mother was murdered for discovering your crimes, Li Chen. And the man who forged her death lies is alive."
Gasps rippled.
At that moment, the third bell rang.
The doors opened.
Zhao Ming stepped into the hall.
Old. Shaking. But very much alive.
The hall erupted in chaos.
Guards rushed forward. Li Chen shouted orders. But Mei Lian appeared like a shadow, her blade drawn, guarding Zhao Ming's path.
"Let him speak!" Yun shouted.
The Patriarch raised a hand. Silence fell.
Zhao Ming's voice cracked as he told everything:
The silver theft. The forged scroll. The threat to his daughter. The deal. The betrayal.
When he finished, he fell to his knees.
And silence reigned.
Lady Shen stood slowly. "And now you all know. The blood that bought your peace came from a woman braver than any of you."
Yun turned to the Patriarch.
"Well?" he said. "What does legacy mean now?"
The Patriarch closed his eyes.
"It means truth. Even when it hurts."
He turned to Li Chen. "Strip him of rank. Banish him from the estate."
Li Chen paled. "You can't—"
"I can."
And he did.
That night, the estate burned seven hundred lanterns for the dead.
Lady Shen watched from her balcony, Yun beside her. Their hands did not touch, but their hearts were tethered.
The fire had begun.
But this time, it was light.