Chapter 29: Bewitchment

Besides Prince Ding on the men's side sat only Prince Zhou, Fu Xiuan, and Prince Jing, Fu Xiuxuan. The crown prince's health was poor; he never came to such feasts.
Zhou and Jing were born to Consort Xu—both gifted. Zhou wore his talent outside, proud and loud. Jing held it in, schemes behind quiet eyes. Both watched the throne. Everyone knew the heir was frail; one day the emperor would name another. Xu was favored. Consort Dong, Ding's mother, kept her head down—without a strong maiden house and without her son's light, she might not even keep her seat among the four consorts.
Last life Zhou and Jing drowned in succession and slept on Ding—first because he played loyal little brother to the heir, hunting rare medicines until even the empress smiled on him, so the court called him a follower. Second because he acted above office, disdainful of court fights, while Dong prayed daily and had no powerful kin—surely no wave from him.
The wave that took the throne was his.
Shen Miao turned leaf cards in her fingers. Like those cards, Fu Xiuyi had been dealt garbage from birth. Everyone thought him out at the first fold. He never meant to play his own hand. His cards sat in other people's palms. His game was theft.
"Why no reaction?" Feng Anning whispered. No sigh, no worship in her eyes toward Fu Xiuyi. "I thought you loved him."
Shen Miao looked up once.
Feng Anning flinched. That glance had blade in it—cold enough to drive knees to the floor. She did not know why. She only knew she had stepped wrong. "I—I don't like him either. Who is that perfect? It doesn't feel real."
Shen Miao studied her—really studied. A spoiled great-house miss who saw through the mask. Half the hall would fall if he winked. Yet here was one who would not.
Slowly: "You have someone in your heart already."
"N-nonsense!" Feng Anning went scarlet. "Don't slander me."
Shen Miao let it drop. Girl secrets bored her. She had work.
Guests finished arriving. Posts were collected. The hour was full.
Below the chrysanthemum terraces a great stage rose. Crude as a opera platform—except the founding emperor had offered heaven here once. Dragon breath still clung to the boards. Giant chess pieces flanked the steps. Ceremonial soldiers in formal dress, red cloth at the brow, beat drums until the sky rang.
Thunder rolled. Long zithers answered with *Song of Worthy Men*—the throne hungry for talent, today's review meant to pick the men who would carry Ming Qi.
Sound poured in, grand and urging, and blood rose without asking. Most of the hall were boys at the age when blood burns hot. They nearly tranced on the music—ready to empty every gift on the stage, carve their names into royal history.
Even girls brightened. They could not enter office like brothers, but fathers and brothers were pillars. Houses stood tall; royal favor rained down; gratitude swelled in their chests.
Under that holy excitement one pair of eyes stayed cold.
Shen Miao watched the player at the center zither.
The throne loved this trick—stir boys to die for a rotting house, then when the land was still, discard the men who had bled. Few who saved the realm kept good endings.
*When the cunning rabbit dies, the hounds are boiled.* Every new emperor culled the old guard—especially men who had seen succession's filth and bargains in blood. Why let them climb?
These heroic chords would become funeral music. These boys burning with loyalty would die in palace games—sacrifices without guilt.
She could not save the world. She could save her own.
Her sleeve brushed the table. The tea bowl tipped—clear liquor shattered on stone. *Crack.*
The sound should have drowned in drums. Against the metered music it was a pulled thread in woven silk—one snag, whole pattern twisted.
*Twang.* The rhythm broke.
Feng Anning woke as from dream. Shen Miao picked up the cup, serene. "Forgive me. Clumsy hand."
On the stage the drummer's head nearly split. The zither player's fingers faltered.
The piece had come from a Western man at court—part music, part spell. It could swell what already lived in the chest. A war song magnified battle-lust and loyalty until loyalty blurred into blind fealty. Played through, devotion might never wake.
She had learned that horror only as empress. Ming Qi used it on the young—send them to die. When the Huns pressed the capital, recruiters played this on the square; boys marched off who had not even come of age.
Her interruption drained the spell. The ending flattened—no more fire, only notes. The trance in the hall thinned back to air.
Still—some had noticed. On the men's side Fu Xiuyi and Pei Lang looked over together.