The palace walls had ears sharper than any soldier’s blade. Word of the general’s unusual visits had reached the ministers, wrapped in gossip and suspicion. To them, a man like Ruo Jian was too valuable to be distracted—his loyalty had kept Xiangluan safe through countless battles.

That morning, while court attendants prepared scrolls and the Emperor’s voice echoed in the great hall, Jian stood tall among the rows of officials. His hands were clasped behind his back, his expression unreadable. Yet in his mind, he saw only her—Lian’s face lit by lantern fire, her whispered wish for freedom.

A councilor leaned toward another and murmured, not quietly enough, “The general has found himself tangled in lotus petals.”

Jian did not flinch, but he heard. And though he gave no reaction, he understood the danger. A soldier could love no one but his empire. A heart, once divided, could be used against him.

That evening, he returned to the barracks, sharpening his blade until sparks flew. He told himself she was a weakness he could not afford. And yet, when the rain began to fall again, his thoughts betrayed him. For with every drop against the roof, he remembered her eyes at the doorway, steady and unafraid.