By morning, the storm had passed, leaving the streets of Hanxia slick with rainwater and littered with fallen petals from the festival lanterns. Liang Zhen and Lady Mei moved through the market with the cautious ease of people used to watching their backs. Every corner could hold an enemy. Every smile could hide a dagger.

The “Silk Court” was not an actual court, but an underground gathering place for traders, thieves, and informants, hidden behind the respectable facade of an embroidery workshop. The front shop smelled faintly of dye and fresh silk, bolts of crimson and gold stacked neatly on wooden shelves. A young girl with ink-stained fingers greeted them politely and slid aside a panel in the wall, revealing a narrow stairway descending into shadow.

They stepped down into a low-lit hall where the air was heavy with incense and the murmur of voices. Lanterns hung from beams like soft, glowing fruit. Men and women lounged on cushions, sipping wine and speaking in the coded language of deals and secrets.

Liang scanned the crowd until he spotted the man they had come for, Master Duan, a thin figure in a pale green robe, his hair tied back with a ribbon the color of old jade. Duan was a broker of information. For the right price, he could tell you the history of any sword in the empire, or the name of the man who last held it.

“Zhen,” Duan said as they approached, his smile revealing teeth too white to be trusted. “It’s been years since you darkened my corner. I hear you’ve been chasing ghosts.”

“Not ghosts,” Liang replied, taking a seat opposite him. “A sword. Moonshadow.”

Duan’s brows lifted a fraction. “Ah. That one.”

Lady Mei leaned forward, her voice sharp. “You know where it is?”

Duan swirled his cup of wine, watching the ripples. “I know where it was. And I know who took it from you last night.”

Liang’s fingers tightened on the table. “The courier.”

“Yes,” Duan said, almost lazily. “But you’ll find no ordinary thief behind that mask. That one dances for a much larger master. A master with coin enough to buy loyalty from even the most stubborn hands.”

“Name,” Liang demanded.

Duan chuckled. “Information has weight, my friend. It pulls at the purse.”

Mei reached into her sleeve and slid a small pouch of silver across the table. Duan’s hand rested on it for a moment before pulling it toward himself.

“The courier works for a patron known only as the White Falcon,” Duan said. “A collector of rare artifacts, more interested in the stories behind them than the steel itself. I’ve heard rumors that Falcon intends to sell Moonshadow beyond the empire’s borders, to the west.”

Liang’s jaw tightened. Selling the sword to foreigners was more than theft; it was betrayal of their heritage.

Duan continued, lowering his voice. “The Falcon’s agents operate from the upper chambers of the Lotus Pavilion. If you want your blade back, you’ll have to enter the Falcon’s nest.”

Liang and Mei exchanged a glance. The Lotus Pavilion was not merely a tea house, it was a den of political intrigue, frequented by nobles and warlords alike. Walking in without an invitation was asking to be swallowed whole.

“Thank you, Duan,” Liang said, standing.

“Be careful, Zhen,” Duan called after them. “In the Pavilion, every smile is a trap. And some traps close faster than steel.”

Outside, the midday sun glared off the wet cobblestones. Mei broke the silence. “You believe him?”

“I believe enough to act,” Liang said.

They wound their way toward the Pavilion district, passing through streets lined with carved gates and flowering balconies. The Lotus Pavilion rose ahead like a jewel set into the city’s heart, a three-story masterpiece of lacquered wood and painted screens, with koi ponds shimmering in the courtyard. Elegant women in flowing robes moved between guests, their laughter as light as falling petals.

Liang paused just short of the gate. “We go in together. But if something goes wrong, you get out first.”

Mei smirked. “And leave you to charm our way past half the empire’s nobility? Not likely.”

They stepped inside, the air rich with the scent of tea and sandalwood. Conversations hummed around them, blending with the gentle notes of a guqin being played somewhere upstairs.

A tall hostess approached, her hair pinned with jade combs. “Welcome, honored guests. May I ask who you are here to see?”

Liang offered a bow. “We’re expected by the White Falcon.”

The hostess’s eyes flickered, but she masked it with a serene smile. “This way.”

They followed her through a maze of sliding doors and silk-draped corridors, each turn taking them deeper into the Pavilion’s belly. At last, she stopped before a lacquered door painted with cranes.

“The master will see you now.”

The door slid open, revealing a room bathed in golden light. At its center, seated on a cushion, was a figure dressed in white, their face half-hidden behind a silver falcon mask.

“Liang Zhen,” the White Falcon said, their voice smooth as silk. “I’ve been expecting you.”