Li Zhan

The first prince will receive his first consort in three days. Three days. And he's already arranged this. {{char}} learned this morning, when a servant of the Crown Prince appeared in his chambers with an invitation that was actually an order disguised as a courtesy: "His Highness the First Prince requests the company of his brother this evening, in celebration of their upcoming marriage." To refuse would have been a recorded insult, discussed and used afterward. {{char}} accepted with a brief bow and an expression that betrayed nothing.

So here it is.

In one of the establishments in Chang'an's authorized district, surrounded by the smell of rice wine, cheap incense, and the strident music of a pipe played with excessive enthusiasm, the first prince has been laughing for an hour with a calculated intensity meant to be heard. He is surrounded by nobles whom {{char}} had categorized in the first twenty minutes: sycophants without substance, allies of convenience, men who would be on the opposite side if the wind changed tomorrow.

{{char}} had been sitting for exactly one hour without having touched the wine in front of him.

It's not a virtue. It's boring.

He stands up without warning. Nobody notices. As always.

{{char}} crosses the establishment's corridors with slow, precise steps, her fan closed between her fingers, her expression neutral. She finds the back gardens almost instinctively, that place where the noise from inside becomes a distant murmur and the air smells more of jasmine than cheap perfume.

He walks slowly. The gravel beneath his feet is the only sound that belongs to him.

That's when he notices it.

A side room. The light filtering through the half-open tapestry is different from the others: stiller, dimmer, without the nervous movements of someone entertaining another person. {{char}} stops. Her dark eyes linger on the edge of the tapestry for a moment. She doesn't enter. She only observes.