The white Go stone slipped from her nerveless fingers, clattering onto the wooden floor. The sound was unnaturally loud in the sudden stillness of the room. A trusted aide to the Duke of Zhenning.
The words echoed in the hollows of her mind, a discordant bell tolling in a sanctuary of memory. Her father. Her father, whose hands were calloused from protecting the nation, whose eyes held the unwavering light of honor. The man who had taught her that a person's word was their most valuable possession. It was impossible. It was a lie. A vicious, cruel lie designed to shatter her newfound resolve.
"Who sent him?" Yingluo's voice was a raw whisper, her eyes fixed on Xiao Tao, but seeing nothing but the image of her father's proud face.
"He… he wouldn't say, Miss. He just left the message and fled. He was terrified." Xiao Tao wrung her hands, her own fear a palpable thing in the room. "Miss, what does it mean? It can't be true. The Duke would never…"
"No," Yingluo said, the word sharp, cutting off the maid's desperate plea. She stood up, her movements stiff, automatic. "He would not." She had to believe that. Her entire quest, her very reason for being reborn, was built on the foundation of her family's innocence. If that foundation crumbled, what was left? Just a hollow, burning hatred with no direction.
She began to pace, the floorboards cool beneath her bare feet. The Go stone lay forgotten. Who would benefit from this? The Empress, certainly. If the Duke was implicated in an old crime against the Crown Prince, it would sever the tentative, unspoken alliance that might form between their two houses. It would isolate the Wei family, making them easier prey for the Third Prince and his mother.
But the Crown Prince… Li Xun. He had sent the white stone. He was watching her. Was this his test? To see if her loyalty to her family was stronger than her desire for revenge? Or was he trying to show her the truth, however ugly? Did he believe her father was guilty?
The questions were a swarm of hornets in her skull. She needed answers. Not whispers from a frightened cook, but proof.
"The family archives," she said, more to herself than to Xiao Tao. "I need to see the account ledgers from five years ago."
The Wei family archives were a dusty, silent realm in the deepest part of the mansion. The air smelled of aging paper, dried ink, and time itself. Shelves stretched from floor to ceiling, crammed with scrolls and ledgers that chronicled the rise and fall of a great clan. With a lamp in hand, Yingluo found the section she needed. The year of the Crown Prince's accident.
Her fingers, trembling slightly, traced the spines of the heavy ledgers. She pulled one out, its cover worn smooth. The pages were filled with her father's bold, clear script. Records of grain purchases, soldiers' wages, taxes from their lands. It was all mundane, ordinary. The life of a great and noble house.
She searched for anything out of place. A large, unexplained payment. A withdrawal of funds. Nothing. The accounts were immaculate. Too immaculate. Her father was many things, but he was not a meticulous bookkeeper. That had always been the job of his most trusted steward, Uncle Qian.
"Miss Yingluo?"
She jumped, nearly dropping the ledger. Uncle Qian was standing in the doorway, his old face etched with concern. He had been with the Wei family for as long as she could remember, a loyal retainer who had served her grandfather before her father.
"Uncle Qian," she said, forcing a calm she did not feel. "I was just looking at some old records. I find it… comforting."
The old steward's eyes were shrewd. He saw the open ledger, the year it was from. He did not comment on it. "The past can be a comfort, yes," he said slowly, walking into the room. "But it can also be a trap. Some things are better left buried, like old seeds that will not sprout."
It was a warning. She knew it. "Are there any seeds in this garden, Uncle Qian?" she asked, her voice quiet. "Seeds that my father planted that he might now regret?"
Uncle Qian was silent for a long moment. He looked at her, really looked at her, and she felt as though he could see the sixteen-year-old girl and the vengeful spirit inside her, all at once. "Your father is a man who would pay any price to protect his flock," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "Even if the price was a piece of his own soul. But a falcon is not a sparrow, Miss. Sometimes, to save the flock, you must trade away a bird of prey."
He bowed his head slightly and then turned, leaving her alone with the cryptic words and the musty scent of secrets.
A falcon is not a sparrow. What did that mean? The Crown Prince was a falcon, a bird of prey. A sparrow was… common. insignificant. To save the flock, you must trade away a bird of prey. Her mind reeled. It wasn't a confession, but it was close enough to the edge to make her dizzy.
In his silent, book-filled courtyard, Crown Prince Li Xun placed a black stone on the Go board. He was playing against himself, a battle of strategy and foresight played out in the quiet of the night.
He had heard the news. The cook had delivered his message. The first stage of the test was complete. Now, he waited. Would Wei Yingluo crumble? Would she run to her father, weeping and demanding the truth? Or would she do what he hoped she would do: what a true player would do. She would investigate.
A page entered, silent as a cat. "Your Highness. The Duke of Zhenning's steward, Qian, was seen entering the family archives an hour ago. Lady Wei was already inside."
Li Xun allowed himself a faint smile. So, she had taken the bait. She was not blinded by familial loyalty. She was driven by a need for the truth, no matter the cost. Good.
He picked up a white stone, rolling it between his fingers. He had not sent the cook to destroy her. He had sent him to arm her. The truth about her father was a weapon, and it was a weapon she would need. The Third Prince and the Empress thought they were the only ones who knew the Duke's secret. They believed it was the perfect leverage, a dagger held to the throat of the Wei clan.
But Li Xun knew better. He had spent five years uncovering the truth of his own "accident." He knew the Duke had not acted alone. He had been a pawn, manipulated into a terrible choice. And the man who had pulled the strings was the same man who now whispered poison in the Third Prince's ear.
By giving Yingluo this piece of the puzzle, he was forging an alliance not of sentiment, but of necessity. She wanted revenge for her family's future destruction. He wanted justice for his past. Their enemies were the same.
He placed the white stone on the board, deftly surrounding a group of black stones. The game was shifting. He just needed her to find the final piece of the puzzle herself. He needed her to find the sparrow.
Later that night, Yingluo sat in her father's study. It was a room she had always been forbidden to enter as a child. It was his sanctuary. The air was thick with the scent of leather and old wood. She ran her hands over the surface of his massive rosewood desk, her heart aching with a new, complicated kind of pain.
She was not looking for ledgers here. She was looking for something personal. A hidden compartment. A loose floorboard. She didn't know what. She was guided by a feeling, a desperate intuition.
Her fingers found a small, almost invisible groove near the edge of the desk. She pressed. A soft click, and a tiny, hidden drawer sprang open. Inside was not a document, but a small, carved wooden bird. A sparrow.
It was crudely made, the work of an amateur. She picked it up. On the bottom, two characters were burned into the wood: For Lian.
Lian. Her mother's name was Lian. But she had another name, a childhood name she had only used with her closest family from her own small, insignificant clan, a clan that had been absorbed into the Wei family when they married. A clan that had been wiped out by bandits on the western frontier… in the same year the Crown Prince had his accident.
As she stared at the little wooden sparrow, a memory, long buried, surfaced. A memory of her mother, weeping silently, holding a similar wooden bird. A memory of her father holding her, whispering, "It was the only way, Lian. The only way to save them. To save our Yingluo."
The door to the study creaked open.
She looked up, her heart in her throat. Standing in the doorway was her father, the Duke of Zhenning. His face was pale, his eyes filled with a sorrow so deep it seemed to swallow the light. He was not looking at her. He was looking at the small wooden sparrow in her hand.
"Where," he asked, his voice hoarse, as if it had not been used in years, "did you get that?"