A hush, sharp and sudden, fell over the court as the Empress’s reply hung in the air. Tension radiated from every corner: from the trembling courtiers who dared not look directly at Xiao Ying, from the guards whose hands hovered over their weapons, and from Lóngzhū himself, whose heart pounded like a war drum against his ribs. The scent of incense and fear mingled in the air, thick enough to choke on.
Xiao Ying’s eyes never left Anya, even as Lóngzhū caught the briefest flicker of her lids. Was it a glance—a warning—or merely a calculated gesture? Lóngzhū could not tell. He forced his scales to lie flat, tamping down the instinctual urge to bristle, to growl, to let his presence fill the hall until no one could ignore his lineage or power. Instead, he drew himself upright, his bearing regal and composed, the pearl-white shimmer of his skin barely visible beneath the elaborate folds of his courtly robes.
The Empress’s voice, steady as river stone, cut through the tension. “You claim to know more than our own spies. What proof do you bring us, Xiao Ying?”
From her belt, the dragon slayer produced a battered scroll. She unrolled it with swift precision, revealing a crude map marked in red. “Tracks. Witness statements. A merchant’s caravan, destroyed.” Her finger jabbed at a cluster of inked mountains. “Clawed prints the size of a man’s torso. Burn marks. No ordinary bandit could do such things.”
The courtiers murmured; some pressed trembling hands to their faces, while others stole glances at Lóngzhū, as if expecting him to burst forth in a torrent of flame and smoke.
Lóngzhū’s gaze found Anya’s. For an instant, the world shrank to just the two of them—the weight of a forbidden hope balanced on the knife’s edge of this moment. He remembered soft whispers in moonlit corridors, the brush of her hand against his, the unspoken promise in her dark, unreadable eyes. Yet now, all he saw was a mask of calm command.
“Enough.” Anya’s voice was gentle, but final. “If there is a dragon, it will reveal itself. Until then, none shall act without my explicit order. Xiao Ying, you are our guest. You will remain within the palace until I deem your presence necessary.”
Lóngzhū exhaled—a subtle relief, quickly masked. Xiao Ying’s lips curled into something like a smile, though it never reached her eyes. “Of course, Your Majesty. I will await your command.” The threat lingered, coiled within the civility of her words.
The Empress rose. “Court is dismissed.”
As the courtiers scuttled away, Lóngzhū caught movement out of the corner of his eye: Xiao Ying, striding purposefully toward the garden doors. She paused by the threshold and, with a single calculated glance, beckoned to him. Something in her stance made it clear—refusal was not an option.
Lóngzhū looked back at Anya. Their eyes met, a silent storm of longing and regret. She nodded, almost imperceptibly, permission or plea—he could not tell. He followed Xiao Ying, heart thundering, into the maze of moonlit pavilions.
The garden was cold and bright with starlight. Xiao Ying waited amid the shadows of ancient plum trees. As soon as he drew near, her hand darted, impossibly fast, grasping his wrist with a strength that belied her slight frame. Her voice was a whisper, low and urgent. “I know what you are. And I know why you’re here. Don’t insult us both by pretending otherwise.”
A shiver ran through him—not of fear, but of recognition. The game had begun, and the rules had changed without warning. Xiao Ying’s eyes glinted, all storm and steel, as she pulled him so close he could feel the heat of her breath against his cheek.
“Tell me, dragon—will you fight for her, or run?”
Somewhere, the palace bells tolled midnight. The world held its breath, and in the garden’s silence, destiny pressed close, demanding an answer.