The banquet rippled with silk, laughter, and the faint clinking of jade cups, but Jiao Shui felt none of it. Every smile in the hall seemed stretched too tight, every greeting threaded with hidden edges. The palace might have been celebrating the emperor's decree, but beneath the golden chandeliers, danger simmered like a pot left too long over fire.
Song Lingfang stood only a few paces away, speaking with a pair of ministers, though his gaze drifted to her with a frequency that could warm or break her if she let it. His presence was an unspoken shield, steady in the crowd. But even he couldn't stop the tremor she felt moving under the evening's festivities.
Because Prince Yang was watching her again.
He didn't hide it. He didn't care to. His stare carved through the air, quiet and cutting, sealing her in place as if he had looped a ribbon around the room and tied the ends around her throat.
When he finally approached, the musicians faltered for half a second.
"Jiao Shui," he greeted, his voice low, polished, dangerous. "Tonight suits you." His smirk curved like a secret only he remembered. "You shine brightest when the room is full of lies."
The comment slipped over her spine like ice. "I don't have patience for your riddles tonight, Prince Yang."
He leaned in, his breath brushing her ear. "Then let me offer clarity. You think the palace forgot your past? That you buried it deep enough? But memories," he murmured, "are like embers beneath ash. It only takes one breath to wake the flame."
She stiffened. "You know nothing."
His eyes glimmered. "Don't I?"
Before she could speak, before her pulse could settle, a servant hurried toward them, bowing deeply.
"Miss Jiao, someone left this for you."A folded piece of silk. Unmarked. Pristine.
Her fingers brushed it, and instantly she felt the chill.
Prince Yang's expression sharpened. "Careful."
Jiao opened the silk.
Her breath hitched.
A single black character had been painted in the center: 归 — return.
Her vision throbbed.
Behind her, Song Lingfang appeared like a sudden anchor, his hand reaching for her elbow. "What is it?"
Prince Yang answered before she could. "A message from someone who once held her life in his hands."
Jiao's stomach tightened.
Shenzha Jao.
Lingfang's eyes darkened, the calm in them replaced with the steady burn of a man ready to shield, to fight, to tear down walls. "Where did this come from?" he demanded the servant.
"T-the Red Pavilion garden, my lord," the servant stammered. "Placed on the stone table as if someone had been waiting."
Prince Yang's voice slipped back into its cold amusement. "He's reminding her that ghosts do not stay buried. And he has always enjoyed his theatrics."
The music swelled again in the distance, too bright, too warm for the frost gripping her chest.
Lingfang moved closer, blocking Prince Yang's line of sight to her. "We leave. Now."
But Jiao held her ground, her fingers tightening around the silk until it wrinkled. "Running isn't an option. If he's back…" She swallowed. "Then he's already watching every step we take."
Prince Yang's smirk faded, replaced with something unreadable. "If you want my advice—"
"I don't," Lingfang cut in.
Prince Yang ignored him. "Prepare yourselves. Shenzha Jao does nothing without purpose. And if he sent this, he intends to collect something he believes still belongs to him."
His gaze flicked to Jiao, lingering.
Lingfang stepped forward, blade-ready even without steel drawn. "Say one more word that even brushes against her safety, and—"
"Save your heroics," Prince Yang murmured. "You'll need them soon."
He bowed, elegant as poison, then disappeared into the lantern-lit crowd.
Jiao exhaled, the silk trembling between her hands. "Lingfang… this changes everything."
He slowly placed his hand over hers. Warm. Unshakable. "Then we adapt. Together."
But outside the banquet hall, hidden among the scarlet shadows of the Red Pavilion, a figure traced his finger along the stone table where the silk had been left.
He smiled.
The hunt had begun again.