From the ranks of the nobility, he caught a glimpse of High Princess LinXin. Her gaze met JingYi’s for a fleeting moment—a silent, steadying exchange. Then his wife’s eyes returned forward as if nothing happened, and he followed.
Twenty steps from the throne, JingYi stopped. She lowered herself to her knees and paid respects to the emperor; he did the same.
“May a thousand years of peace grace His Majesty the Emperor,” she greeted in Isseric.
“Rise, Sho Meisha.”
Alexander helped her to her feet and stepped back.
“Your Majesty,” she said. “I stand before you today to seek justice for a wound that has lingered for months, though I have not until now found the courage to speak.”
ShunLi leaned forward. “Speak. The court will hear your grievance.”
“When I was sent to Tremore by the late emperor, I was not sent alone. Three ladies of my father’s choosing were appointed to accompany me: MeiYün, daughter of Minister Liang of the Treasury; RenHua, daughter of Lord Chao of the Imperial Academy; and LánYàn, daughter of General Han of the Defence Ministry.”
A murmur swept the court—recognition, surprise, unease. From the corner of his eye, Alexander spotted a man in full armour sitting rigidly, fists on his knees. He’d wager the other two fathers were nearby.
“They were meant to guard my honour, to serve as my hands and voice in a foreign land,” JingYi continued. “Instead, when Omega traders descended upon us, they calculated my life was worthless. They pushed me from the carriage to save themselves, putting me straight into the path of danger.”
She turned to Alexander. “If it weren’t for Lord Wulfbane and his men, they would have succeeded.”
He laced his fingers with hers. The memory still burned—JingYi stranded outside the carriage, greedy hands closing in before his axe struck. The fury had only sharpened with time.
Before the emperor could respond, the three fathers rushed forward, each speaking for his daughter.
“Your Majesty, my MeiYün is gentle?—”
“My LánYàn would never?—”
“Trauma can confuse the memory?—”
A hot wave of fury consumed him. His hand twitched against hers. He opened his mouth to speak, but her fingers pressed his—a silent request to let her lead. He stilled. Her gaze remainedfixed on her brother. She waited until the fathers’ voices faded into anxious silence.
“There is no confusion,” she said, each word measured, even as he detected her rapid pulse where he touched her wrist. She was a fortress, but he knew the cost of holding the walls.
“I waspushedby Lady LánYàn. I saw Lady RenHua’s face as she slammed the carriage door. I heard Lady MeiYün’s voice urging the driver to flee. These are not phantoms of trauma.”
She finally turned, her eyes sweeping over the three powerful men. Even under duress, she remained serene, her gaze holding no malice—only unshakeable truth.
“You describe a theory of their virtue. I present the evidence of their deeds, and I do not stand alone.”
She glanced at him, a cue. Now, every eye was upon him. He met the emperor’s gaze.
“Your Majesty, it was a staged abandonment. The High Princess was thrown into the attackers’ path; the carriage door was bolted against her. I investigated that same night. Three of my sworn knights witnessed the shove.”
He turned to the three fathers. “If you dismiss foreign testimony, consider what followed. These women complained of pouring her tea, insulted her lineage to her face. Their contempt was so profound that I, a stranger to your court, saw it plainly. To spare the princess their daily poison, I barred them from my hall and sent them home. The crime itself I leave for this court to judge.”
A tense silence followed. The three ministers looked struck. The court held its breath. ShunLi’s gaze, cool and impenetrable, remained on JingYi.
“This is a grave accusation,” he said. “It requires the testimony of the accused.” To the captain of his Imperial Guard, he ordered, “Fetch them.”
The court stood in agonizing silence—broken only by the rustle of silk and the shallow breathing of the three ministers. Then the great doors swung open. The guard returned, escorting the three women. To Alexander, they resembled fragile painted dolls—fine silks and elaborate hair stark against the unforgiving court. He saw the instant they comprehended their peril: eyes darting from the emperor to their terrified fathers, and finally to JingYi.
When the women knelt, Emperor ShunLi let the silence press down. Alexander recognized the tactic—an interrogator’s trick, letting fear do the work.
When the emperor spoke, his voice was a low pronouncement. “You are charged with sacrificing the High Princess to bandits in Tremore. What do you say?”
LánYàn found her voice first. “Your Majesty, a tragic misunderstanding—the Princess must have fallen. We only sought to survive and raise the alarm.”
