Sima of the Western Bureau stands at the top of the broad marble steps leading to the Blue Sapphire Palace, the sky's color not yet matching its name. His ornate cane taps the first step impatiently. A crisp, late-afternoon breeze stirs his robes, and a scattering of lesser officials keep a respectful distance.
Yile of the Eastern Bureau, hands tucked into his sleeves, approaches from the opposite end of the landing. He carries himself with a languid confidence, his footsteps soundless on the polished stone. Servants trail behind him warily, as though expecting a spat at any second.
They lock eyes, each refusing to blink first.
"You look rather flushed, Sima," Yile murmurs, voice smooth. He tilts his head in mock concern. "Could it be the climate or the news?"
Sima's cane raps the stone. "At least I know where I'm going—unlike someone who tries too hard and mostly fails." He arches a brow. "The Khan is too shrewd to dance to your strings."
Yile's mouth curves into a thin smile. "My dear friend, need I remind you that the Khan is powerless?" He shrugs. "You shouldn't lose so much time with a Northern Barbarian."
Sima's cheeks redden. "You will be mad once she puts you in a corner!"
Yile clears his throat, adjusting an invisible speck on his sleeve. "I never said my directions were perfect. But unlike you, I don't do compromising things in my own office."
Sima snorts. "Oh, no. You prefer the emperor's bedchamber. How charming."
Their tempers spark, but both hold their composure, sliding into aloof politeness. They descend the steps together, side by side, each determined not to yield an inch.
At the base of the stairs, Old Ji of the Northern Bureau—his white beard trailing half to his waist—stands with Bimen of the Southern Bureau, a plump man wearing too many rings on his fingers. Their conversation, hushed yet intense, hovers like a low buzz against the palace's marble façade.
Old Ji gestures with a trembling hand. "You're certain the Treasure Fleet didn't bring any more saltpetre from the west?"
Bimen dabs his forehead with a silk kerchief, cheeks shining with perspiration. "I—uh, yes, well, the last trip was... complicated. The captain said the cargo hold was all spices and dyes. No saltpetre on the manifest. Could be hidden, though, if they needed coin in secret..."
Ji's bushy eyebrows climb. "Hmm, you're telling me it's possible they smuggled some in?"
Bimen's eyes flick around nervously. "I—I'm not certain. But if they did, it wasn't recorded. Maybe a hush-hush arrangement to avoid taxes." He drops his voice. "You know how the Emperor hates hidden trade deals."
Ji squints, deep in thought. "Hmph. This is bigger than it seems, Bimen. If there's no official record of new saltpetre, then who's controlling it behind the scenes?"
Bimen clutches his kerchief, sweat trickling down his neck. "I—ah—"
Before he can finish, a sudden flash of blinding light arcs across the sky, followed by an ear-splitting CRACK. Thunder roars so close it sends vibrations through the marble floor. Sima and Yile freeze mid-step, eyes wide as a bolt of lightning slams squarely into the tall imperial banner post at the palace courtyard's edge.
Sparks fly, and a hiss of searing fabric erupts. The proud banner, emblazoned with Moukopl's imperial emblem, darkens in an instant, curling into blackened ribbons that crumble to ash.
For a heartbeat, every breath in the courtyard seems stolen by shock. Then panic ripples through the assembled servants, maids, and eunuchs. They shriek and dart in all directions, sandals pattering frantically on stone. A pair of junior scribes shrieks, toppling their writing brushes. One maid stumbles over a potted fern, sending it clattering.
Bimen staggers backward, nearly colliding with Old Ji. "By the Emperor!" he bellows, voice shrill. "It's a sign—a terrible omen!" His kerchief flutters to the ground, forgotten.
Ji's expression is locked between awe and dread. "Heavens above," he mutters, "the banner's... gone. Burnt to cinders."
Sima recovers from his initial stun, tugging at his collar as if struggling for air. "It must be a coincidence! Such bad luck…" he says, attempting to sound authoritative. But a quaver in his tone betrays him.
Yile lifts his chin, gaze flicking to the scorched pole. "Lightning in broad daylight, striking that particular banner," he says quietly. "Of all banners to target." He narrows his eyes. "Surely the Emperor will interpret this with caution... or fear."
Sima clenches his fists. "Rumors will spread like wildfire. And right now, with the current situation—"
Old Ji shuffles closer, glancing between Sima and Yile. "The populace will talk," he warns gravely, voice trembling with age. "Stories of divine anger... People might say Mong's losing Heaven's favor."
Bimen, mopping his drenched brow, gulps audibly. "Oh, oh dear. This is a disaster. Rebellion, insurrection."
"It's only one single thunderbolt," Yile says, yet his voice lacks its usual smug confidence. "But yes, it might be seized upon..."
Sima sees the swirl of fear in Yile's eyes and can't help a small, uneasy smirk. "You speak so calmly, but your fingers are twitching, dear colleague," he observes.
Yile huffs, clasping his hands to still them. "Better to twitch than to sweat like a hog." He nods toward Bimen, who stands panting, his kerchief soaked.
Bimen wheezes in indignation. "I'm not—! That's uncalled for!"
A crisp breeze drifts across the courtyard, stirring the ashes of the scorched banner, scattering them across the tiled ground like black confetti. The hush that follows feels thick with unspoken dread. Even the scurrying servants pause, uncertain whether to clean the debris or keep a reverent distance.
The cloud-filtered sun pours through the tall windows of the palace's ornate reception hall. Rays of light illuminate tapestries depicting Moukopl victories and swirl over the polished marble floors. Naci stands near one of the windows, arms loosely folded, her mind drifting to what must be happening back in Tepr. Temej lingers two paces behind her, watchful yet silent.
A short distance away, the Crown Prince steps forward with a measured grace. His guards stay back, heads bowed. When he speaks, his voice is subdued but still carries that note of innate authority.
"Lady Naci," he begins, inclining his head in a respectful greeting. "I trust the accommodations have been...bearable?"
Naci shifts her stance, forcing a small, polite smile. "The pillows are stuffed with real feathers, not straw. I can't complain—except that I can't sleep well without real grit under my back." Her tone is light, intentionally undercutting the grandeur around them.
The Prince's lips quirk in amusement. "I admire your candor, Lady Khan. Though I must confess: I've become rather attached to these… plush lifestyles."
Naci shrugs, letting out a mild snort. "To each their own. But I doubt your 'plush lifestyle' helps you dodge arrows."
Temej tries to stifle a grin at that, but the Prince merely laughs softly, unruffled.
They move over to a low table where fragrant tea steams in porcelain cups, courtesy of discreet servants who bow and then slip out. The Prince gestures for Naci and Temej to sit; Naci, after a moment's hesitation, perches on the edge of a cushion.
The Prince sits across from her, adjusting the folds of his robe. "Let's talk business, then." His eyes glimmer with earnestness. "We must discuss our next campaign against the Yohazatz. The Emperor wishes for your insight—Tepr's cavalry is known to be formidable."
Naci exhales, rubbing her temples. The memory of Yile's insinuations still pricks at her mind. "Your Highness, I'm scarcely informed about Yohazatz strategies. From what I gather, they're fierce desert fighters, adept at ambushes." She lifts her gaze, meeting the Prince's eyes. "Without real intel on them, we'll fall into the same traps you did last time. I need details, or we'll be marching blind again."
The Crown Prince's expression darkens. "Yes, that was indeed a… humiliating campaign. It taught me not to rush." He taps his fingers on the table, a ripple of frustration crossing his refined features. "We'll gather more intelligence, I assure you."
Naci nods in approval. "Good. But even with the best intelligence, I can't promise immediate support. Tepr isn't exactly next door. For once I'll be honest, and strengthwise, we're barely an alliance at this point. I left my homeland mid-conquest—my conquests. My consort is probably cursing me for dumping all the responsibilities on her shoulders."
Temej, still standing, mutters dryly, "She definitely is."
Naci smirks but quickly turns serious again. "I need months of preparation—diplomatic ties with the other tribes, forging new treaties, ensuring my own rank is secure. I can't just saddle up tomorrow."
The Prince tilts his head, genuine regret shadowing his eyes. "I… apologize if my summons compromised your plans. I wrongly assumed you'd be eager for grand campaigns."
She shakes her head, her braided hair brushing her cloak. "A 'grand campaign' to bury my men in the desert? No thanks. Not when half of Tepr's warriors got drafted into your previous fiasco, and now they're stuck as prisoners somewhere in Yohazatz territory. I'd rather bring them home first."
He looks momentarily pained. "I understand, Lady Khan. Perhaps we can coordinate an exchange or rescue, once hostilities open again. And if you are victorious, Tepr will be granted more advanced weapons. We've already prepared to have new spears and crossbows manufactured, maybe even some… muskets." He says the last word with a self-conscious cough, recalling Official Mo's demonstration.
Naci cocks her head. "Muskets?"
A flicker of delight crosses the Prince's androgynous features. "Why not see for yourself?" He gestures for Naci to follow, beckoning Temej along. They walk through a side corridor and step into a broad courtyard framed by crimson pillars. Soldiers stand at attention behind a row of large earthen jars. In front of them is a slender, polished weapon—long of barrel, with intricate inlays.
Naci glances at Temej, an edge of skepticism coloring her gaze. "It's shaped like a Crouching Tiger's cousin," she murmurs. "The fire that explodes...?"
The Prince smiles at her recognition. "Not as large as a Crouching Tiger, but it launches metal with thunderous force." He makes a subtle motion, and a soldier steps forward, bowing before hurriedly loading a small lead ball and powder into the muzzle. Naci notices the soldier's hands trembling slightly as he tamps the charge and fits the lit match to the firing mechanism.
With a spark and a deafening crack, the musket discharges. Smoke billows in a sulphurous cloud, assaulting the nose with its pungent burn. Naci's eyes widen—she masks her thrill with a quick, feigned cough. Temej, wincing from the noise, rubs at his ears. A clay pot set against the far wall shatters with a sharp crash, shards skittering across the courtyard stones.
Naci studies the swirling smoke, forcing her expression into a casual shrug. But excitement flickers in her eyes. "Seems like it could rain fire and metal on any foe," she says, careful to sound merely curious. "I might have a few... uses for such a device. Could I possibly have one for 'research?'"
The Crown Prince retrieves a musket propped nearby—an elegant weapon with swirling amber inlays and gold filigree tracing the length of the barrel. He presents it with both hands, bowing slightly. "This one is special—my personal piece. I gift it to the Khan of Tepr, in good faith."
Naci runs her fingertips over the engravings, trying not to appear too impressed. "I'm honored, Your Highness. I'll see it put to worthy purpose."
He inclines his head. "I believe you will. Now, you mentioned your intention to return to Tepr soon...?"
She sets the musket's stock gently on the ground, nodding. "Yes. Urgently, in fact. I'll place some of my messengers here so we can correspond. But you'll pardon me if I don't tarry in the palace any longer than I must."
His tone is all careful politeness. "Of course, Lady Khan. I only hope our alliance grows stronger when next we meet."
Naci smiles just enough to be polite. "I appreciate your generosity. In return, I'll bring you something from Tepr—something worthy of this musket," she promises. Then she offers a half-bow, musket cradled in her arms, the swirling smoke and echo of gunpowder still dancing in her thoughts.
Inside, a coil of doubt tightens in her chest. She won't voice it to the Prince, but a corner of her mind replays Yile's quiet menace. If the Moukopl Empire needs her cavalry, they might also decide to keep her on a tighter leash. Alliances with eunuchs do not sit well with her instincts. She silently steels herself, determined to forge her own path in Pezijil—and beyond.
Snow begins to drift from the gray sky in small, swirling flurries, dusting the paved courtyard with a thin white layer. Governor Shi Min stands at the palace gates, a slender bundle of scrolls and her traveling cloak balanced under one arm. Her breath comes out in pale clouds, and she glances up at the falling flakes with a tightening of her lips.
She is done here—she must be. The weight of recent intrigues sits heavily on her shoulders. A manservant bows at her side, inquiring if he should load her trunk onto the wagon. Shi Min nods, curt and efficient. "Yes, please do."
As she steps onto the white-flecked stone walkway, her posture is resolute, each footstep firm with her decision to return to Zhu. Then, from the fringe of the courtyard, a figure emerges—Yile of the Eastern Bureau, moving with uncanny silence. The hush of snow almost masks his approach.
Shi Min's eyes narrow the moment she senses him. She quickens her pace, hoping to pass by without acknowledging his presence.
"Governor," Yile greets softly, his fan clicking open. Snowflakes drift onto the embroidered folds. "Surely, I recall a time you bowed when you saw me. Now, no greeting at all?"
She halts, jaw tensing. "Eunuch Yile," she says stiffly, not bothering to dip her head. "I'm leaving for Zhu. Good day."
He gives a theatrical sigh. "And here I was, expecting more from your famed courtesy. Has my dear Shi Min grown cold as the weather?"
She tightens her grip on her scrolls. "I have obligations. If you'll excuse me—"
"Obligations?" he echoes, stepping into her path. Snow flutters around his glossy black hair, a few flakes settling on the rim of his fan. "What about your momentum here, Governor? Are you going to throw it away so soon? Our Khan of Tepr is set to depart any day, and you'll let this advantage slip through your fingers by fleeing?"
Shi Min's composure wavers at his insinuation. "I have no intention of—" Her tone wavers between anger and impatience. "I am a Governor. My people need me. I've spent too long entangled in court nonsense."
Yile's fan snaps shut with a decisive crack. "You wound me, Governor, to call our glorious empire's internal affairs mere nonsense," he says lightly, though there is a cold glint in his eyes. "Consider your father's position, your own standing. Think of what the Emperor, the Crown Prince, or even the Khan might do. You have labored here, forging connections. Why run back to Zhu, of all places?"
Shi Min stiffens at the mention of her father. "My father has nothing to do with this." A hint of bitterness creeps into her voice as she recalls Mo's hypocrisy. "I serve Zhu. The empire has other officials if they need more help. My tasks are—"
"Governor," Yile cuts in smoothly. "You've seen how this place works. Bureaucracy, alliances, hush-hush deals in hidden corridors. You vanish now, and every favor you won from the Khan by assisting her? Gone, wasted." He waves a hand, as though scattering dust to the wind. "Her star rises. Or did you not notice how fiercely the Prince regards her potential?"
Shi Min's lips press into a line. She glances back toward the carriage waiting by the gate. "I am well aware of the Crown Prince's esteem for the Khan. But she does not trust me like that," she insists quietly. "She has her own designs."
Yile steps closer, lowering his voice. "You want to be more than a mere Governor, don't you?" His fan flicks open again, catching snow in a gentle swirl. "Stay in the palace. Prove your worth. Our dear Khan, fierce though she is, will leave soon. Yet this place remains. Keep your seat at the table, and who knows what role you might earn? A province more esteemed than Zhu, a new rank in the imperial council... the possibilities are endless."
A flash of indignation sparks in Shi Min's eyes. "You assume I crave promotion at any cost," she murmurs, swallowing her irritation. "I only do my duty."
"Duty," Yile echoes, smiling as if savoring the word. "Fine. Call it duty. But you forget—Tepr's Khan might well shift the empire's future. She's a pivot. Anyone wise enough to stay by her side, yet remain in the Emperor's good graces, is bound for greatness." He tilts his head, voice dropping to a near-whisper. "Return to Zhu if you wish. But you'll watch history unfold from afar, powerless to shape it."
She stiffens at his insinuation. "I'm not powerless."
He spreads his arms theatrically, letting tiny flakes gather on his sleeves. "No, of course not. Yet leaving the capital might well render you irrelevant. The Emperor hardly spares a thought for governors in distant provinces—unless they've truly won his notice. And you know that can't be done from a hundred miles away."
Shi Min's throat tightens. The memory of the Crown Prince's courtesy to her, the weigh of Naci's unwavering stare, the glimpses of corruption and hypocrisy swirling in these walls—it all churns in her mind. "Suppose I remain," she says at length, her voice subdued. "For a while longer, at least. I won't become your puppet, Yile."
A smile curls at the edges of Yile's lips, and he inclines his head. "Heaven forbid. I only suggest that we each use our talents to keep the empire stable… or, shall I say, to keep ourselves in positions of influence. That's the wise path, Governor."
She levels a firm gaze at him. "If I find you interfering with my autonomy, I'll side with the Khan fully. Don't doubt it."
"Consider me adequately warned," Yile answers smoothly, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. "But please do think it through, dear Governor. The palace can be lonely, but that doesn't mean it has to be without purpose."
Without another word, Shi Min turns, steps crisp on the snow-laden stones. Her carriage stands there, manservants waiting anxiously. Slowly, she raises a hand, waving them off. They bow in confusion, uncertain whether to load her trunk or stand down.
Exhaling a plume of white breath, Shi Min steels herself. She can't rid herself of the sick feeling that she's letting Yile sway her. But maybe she wants what he offers—an opportunity to do better for the empire, to stand strong despite the moral murk. Reluctantly, she turns back to the palace doors.
In the drifting flakes, Yile watches, his fan once more snapping closed, a grin ghosting across his lips. "Welcome home, Governor," he says quietly, voice lost in the hush of falling snow.
A brittle chill settles over the palace corridors, carried by a faint draft that carries flurries of snow from the open colonnades. Night has spread its hush, and lanterns burn low, their waning light sending elongated shadows dancing on the polished floor. Naci advances with deliberate steps, Temej just behind her, both dressed for the road—a reminder that she intends to leave the imperial city by dawn's first call.
They round a corner, the faint clatter of distant courtly business receding behind them. Suddenly, Naci notices a single figure standing beneath a row of tall columns. The woman's posture is poised yet stiff, as though caught in a battle between dignity and grief. Naci slows her pace, arms crossing protectively, for she recognizes the outline of Governor Shi Min.
Shi Min takes a subtle step forward, the soft clink of her regalia echoing. Snowflakes swirl in the open arches, dusting her shoulders with white. "Khan of Tepr," she greets in a low voice, dipping her head in a gesture that's half formality, half apology. Her tone lacks its usual crispness.
Naci halts a few strides away, casting a glance at Temej. He nods silently, and she turns back to Shi Min. "It's late, Governor. The roads are freezing, and you look like you should be heading home to a warm hearth."
Shi Min's gaze flickers to the lanterns overhead, their flames flicking yellow embers into the air. "I tried," she admits, exhaling so that her breath frosts in the cold. "But tonight's illusions hold no comfort." Her voice quivers with something unspoken. "I was waiting, hoping I might speak with you privately."
Something in Shi Min's bearing—a raw honesty, burdened with disillusion—causes Naci to soften her guard. "Well," she says at last, her voice gentler, "I have a moment before I… finish the last of my preparations. What's on your mind, Governor?"
Shi Min inhales deeply, as if to gather what remains of her courage. Snow flutters around her, settling on the cuff of her robe. "I know you've been snared in the empire's games: eunuchs jockeying for power, every step of yours shadowed by those wishing to bend you to their will."
Naci's mouth twists into a dry smile. "Trust me, I've noticed."
Shi Min nods, words spilling out with pent-up intensity. "These days, I witnessed more than I should have. Now I'm weighed down by a new understanding of how easily honor can be sold." She lifts her chin, though her eyes gleam with hurt. "I'm sick of those who rant against eunuchs by day, only to conspire with them by night, as though it were mere convenience."
Sympathy flickers across Naci's features. "I'm sorry. Betrayal by one's own is the hardest to bear."
A bitter smile twists Shi Min's lips. "You must think me childish, for clinging to ideals of duty and integrity. But seeing you—how you walk your path, refusing to let them break your spirit—reminds me that we can still defy the cynicism that chokes this city. You… you give me hope."
Naci's expression softens. "Sometimes I wonder if my refusal to play their game is just pride. But if it offers you a little hope, I won't apologize for it."
Shi Min's voice steadies, though emotion lingers beneath it. "I want to be of use to you. If you're leaving, let me be your link here. I cannot tear down centuries of corruption alone, but I can feed you truths, keep you informed. I want to beat the eunuchs at their own game. I want to kill fire with fire. Your kindled eyes… They're bewitching. They make me want to burn it all."
Naci meets her gaze in silence. The hush of the corridor allows the soft hiss of snow to remain the only witness to their exchange.
After a moment, Naci breathes out, "That's… no small risk you're taking."
Shi Min's lips tighten. "I'd rather risk my position than watch every principle I hold dear crumble. My father—my superiors—this entire labyrinth of power… it's devouring itself. If I can help you keep them at bay, all the better." A faint flush of determination colors her cheeks, or maybe it's just the cold. "Maybe it's foolish. Maybe I'll just be another victim in these halls. But at least I'll know I tried."
Naci uncrosses her arms, and in a quiet gesture, extends her hand. Shi Min hesitates, then reaches out, clasping Naci's palm in hers.
"You have my gratitude, Governor Shi Min," Naci says softly. "And I suspect your father would be furious with you for this."
Shi Min chuckles, though it's a weary sound. "He might never understand. But that's on him. And tomorrow, when you leave, I want you to know you can rely on me. Write to me, send envoys—whatever you must do. I'll keep my ear to the ground here."
Naci's lips curl into a small, genuine smile. "I appreciate it more than I can say." She draws away, conscious of Temej's watchful presence behind her, and the distant echo of footsteps that might catch them.
Shi Min dips her head in a final show of respect. "We'll speak again, hopefully under less oppressive circumstances."
Naci nods, her eyes shimmering with a mix of relief and gratitude. "Take care, Governor… and watch your back."
Shi Min turns away, the faint clink of her regalia mingling with the hush of falling snow. In the corridor's shifting lamplight, her figure recedes until the gloom swallows her silhouette.
Then, from the shadowed alcove where she disappeared, two faint spots of reflected light gleam—like the eyes of a snake that has swallowed her whole.