He hoped, when his own moment came, he would be counted among the latter.
The night breeze stirred again. MeiMei murmured in her sleep and nestled closer to her father. Xian Jun’s pipe glowed and faded, glowed and faded.
Alexander let the silence hold them both.
The groan of ancient hinges rolled through the city, like the past waking up to a new day. Crowds had gathered since dawn, huddled against the chill, cupping warm bowls of soybean milk while vendors called into the air. Under the late emperor, these gates had opened for no one but nobles and servants. Only a sovereign’s death earned the people entry—to pay final respects. But after the coup, that mourning never came. The gates had remained silent.
Until now.
Alexander stood in front of the shop, the polished box tucked under his arm. Inside it, the limyerite crystal waited—Su Jiang’s masterpiece, months of skill compressed into two weeks of relentless effort.
He was dressed in the Tremorian way—charcoal grey layered over ivory and crimson, with a high-collared doublet edged in silver. The sigil of House Wulfbane, subtle, was embroidered over his chest, gleaming in the morning light. Xian Jun emerged from the shop behind him, transformed. He wore his finest clothes, the fabric neat and freshly pressed. His hair had been carefully bound, and even his boots shone, free of road dust.
The rest of the family, too, emerged to see them off.
“Have you memorized your speech?” MeiMei asked Alexander.
“I have,” Alexander said, then hesitated. “IthinkI have.”
The admission unleashed something in his stomach. Queasiness crept up his throat. He tugged at his collar, suddenly aware that the perfectly fitted doublet felt half a size too small. Was it the nerves? Or had he perhaps been indulging in Xûen delicacies a bit too freely these past couple of weeks to maintain his usual warrior’s figure?
He shot a glance at Ru Rong, who only smiled innocently.
Su Lian stepped forward, her eyes gentle. “Don’t be nervous. When all else fails, speak from the heart.”
“Or,” Su Jiang added from the doorway, “say nothing at all and present the crystal.”
Ru Rong gave a gentle laugh and nudged his ribs. “You’ll triumph. You’ve worked hard for this, and for her.”
She attached a small charm to his belt. “Talharen charm.” She winked and stepped back. “For good luck.”
Xian Jun knelt briefly, pressing a kiss to MeiMei’s forehead. The girl wrapped her small arms around his neck in a fierce hug, then released him.
“Bring me something pretty,” she demanded.
Her father’s lips twitched. “I’ll see what I can find.”
They made their way toward the back of the queue, already curving like a dragon’s tail through the street. Every eye trackedhim. Tall as a figure from a northern saga, with sun-bright hair no dye could mimic and shoulders that strained the cut of his clothing, Alexander Wulfbane didn’t blend. The stares were a pressure against his skin, but he had long trained himself to wear attention like an armour.
He wasn’t the first foreigner to seek an audience, but he was likely the first to come not as a diplomat, trader, or missionary—but as a petitioner. A man with no battalion, no weapon, and everything to lose.
The queue crawled forward at the pace of ice melting in the freezing rain. The sun climbed, then began its descent. Alexander’s collar chafed. Xian Jun stood beside him in patient silence, and together they watched the great gates grow from a distant outline to a looming presence.
Finally, after hours that felt like days, they reached the front.
Only one more step, but a guard in ornate armour blocked their path, his gaze sweeping over them. “Only one last petitioner may enter today,” he said, tone flat. “The rest will have to wait until next time.”
Alexander’s stomach dropped. “Next time?We’ve waited hours?—”
The guard’s gaze slid past him, already scanning the crowd behind them, calculating. His hand lifted, as if to wave forward the next person in line and be done with this inconvenience.
Alexander stepped forward, protest rising hot in his throat?—
Xian Jun’s hand closed around his arm. Firm. Steady. “Go.”
Alexander turned. “Xian Jun?—”
“Go and get your wife.” Xian Jun’s dark eyes held no resentment, only certainty. “She’s waiting for you. I’ll find another way to meet my cousin.”
