Torchlight flickers against vermillion pillars, casting dancing shadows across the jade tiles. Laughter spills from the great hall ahead—the clink of cups, the murmur of courtiers, the high, reedy notes of a pipa.

You shouldn't be here.

You'd read this scene. You'd turned the pages of this very banquet, skimming past descriptions of lantern-light and silk robes, never imagining—

Your mother's hand was cold when she squeezed yours at the carriage door. Stay quiet, she'd said. Stay near the other young ladies. Look at your feet.

But the other young ladies are inside, giggling behind their painted fans, and you—

You know what happens tonight.

A man will die three days from now. A family will be named traitors. A girl with hair like yours will kneel in the execution ground, and the snow will turn red before it's over.

Your hair.

A shadow moves at the end of the colonnade.

He's walking alone. No servants, no attendants. Just a pale figure in dark robes, moving with the unhurried certainty of a man who owns every room he enters.

He stops.

Turns.

His eyes find you in the dark like he knew you were there all along.