“He never fully trusted Tedric,” she murmured. “Even when the rest of us did.”
“Shame we didn’t listen.”
“It’s always clearer in hindsight, but I should’ve seen it, too. He was always too kind.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Like someone buttering a knife before the cut.”
Darion gave a grunt of agreement, but before they could speak more, the sharprap-tapof hurried footsteps echoed down the corridor.
They both turned as the same steward from earlier rounded the corner, breathless, his sash slightly askew. He bowed quickly.
“His Majesty requests your presence in the Receiving Hall at your earliest convenience, Your Highness.”
JingYi’s heart thumped. She’d expected a summons at some point, just not this early. Was it about the missing Omegas? About Tedric? Or tied to whatever had pulled Alexander away?
She let the steward lead the way, Sir Darion keeping pace at her side.
The Receiving Hall was silent when she stepped inside. Her eyes landed first on King Ferdinand, seated at the head of a table, hands steepled beneath his chin. Alexander stood beside him, already looking at her, his expression cautiously neutral.
Behind her, the door shut with a soft finality, leaving Sir Darion and the steward outside. Only then did she notice Haorán near the window, a little bent from his injuries, gaze dropping respectfully. She couldn’t read his face even if she tried.
The king rose slowly. “Princess JingYi,” he said, “a Sparo arrived from your natal kingdom. Considering the dire nature of the message, I asked for you to be brought here without delay.”
Her mouth went dry. Someone had reached across the sea to her. LinXin, perhaps? Or Wu Ma, or Feng?
But the way King Ferdinand cleared his throat—uneasy, uncharacteristically fumbling for a monarch—worried her. He looked to Alexander, as though seeking assistance.
Alexander stepped forward, closing the space between them, and took her hand in his. The grip was steady, his eyes anything but.
“JingYi,” he said softly. “It’s about your father.”
The words struck without meaning at first, like a language she should understand but couldn’t. The fire snapped in the hearth. Her own heartbeat thundered.
“What about him?”
Alexander’s hesitation told her everything before the words came. He held her gaze, as if by will alone he could keep her braced against the news.
“He has passed.”
The world seemed to contract. Silence thickened, pressing against her chest until breath itself was foreign.
She blinked, the room swimming. “How?”
It took him a moment longer, that pause twisting into dread. His mouth shaped the truth carefully, as if he feared it might cut her if spoken too suddenly.
“Your brother, ShunLi,” Alexander said, “killed him.”
CHAPTER 60
JINGYI
For one suspended moment, she wasn’t in a Tremorian Receiving Hall with a hearth roaring behind her. She was back in the gardens of Xûen-Sarai, her slippers crunching summer leaves, the peach cradled in her palms.
That fateful day, ShunLi had seemed like a prince carved from a story scroll—certainly not like someone who’d kill his own father to claim a throne.
How could she reconcile the man back then with this one?
When filial piety was one of the most revered virtues, slaying one’s father was a sin so deep it detached the soul. Even the ancient, lawless warlords had waited for nature to claim their fathers before seizing power.
ShunLi had not waited. He had taken it by force, beginning his reign not with honour and ceremony, but blood.
