The day of the ancestral temple visit arrived wrapped in incense smoke and false reverence.
The Crown Prince's carriage rolled through the capital streets, curtains drawn just enough for the people to glimpse silk, grace, and obedience.
Zhen Luo sat inside, back straight, expression calm.
Li Shuran sat opposite him, hands folded, eyes bright with satisfaction.
"You look well today," she said softly. "Very… fitting for the role."
Zhen Luo smiled politely. "You too."
It was the kind of smile that never reached the eyes.
Behind the procession, palace guards marched in perfect formation.
Han Jian was not among them.
Officially.
Unofficially, he watched from the rooftops, cloak blending with shadow, gaze sharp as a hawk's. Feng Huai's signal—a small flick of a white tassel—confirmed everything was in place.
Han Jian exhaled slowly.
So this was the stage.
At the temple, bells rang as the Crown Prince dismounted. Officials bowed. Monks chanted. The air hummed with solemnity.
Li Shuran stepped closer to Zhen Luo, lowering her voice.
"After today, the court will finally quiet down."
Zhen Luo looked ahead. "Will it?"
Her smile widened. "It will have no choice."
Inside the temple hall, candles lined the altar. The Emperor had not come—an intentional absence. The Queen's influence lingered instead, heavy and watchful.
Zhen Luo knelt.
Li Shuran knelt beside him.
As incense smoke curled upward, a sudden shift rippled through the air.
Han Jian felt it instantly.
Too sharp. Too wrong.
His eyes narrowed.
A monk stumbled.
The incense burner tipped.
Gasps echoed as flames leapt unnaturally high.
Chaos followed.
"Protect the Crown Prince!"
Guards surged forward—but too late.
A blade flashed from within the crowd, aimed straight for Zhen Luo's back.
Han Jian moved.
From shadow to light in a heartbeat, he intercepted the strike barehanded, blood spilling as steel bit into flesh.
The hall exploded with screams.
Han Jian twisted, snapping the assassin's neck cleanly before anyone could react.
Silence slammed down.
Zhen Luo turned slowly, eyes locking onto Han Jian's bloodied hand.
For one terrifying second, the world forgot to breathe.
Han Jian dropped to one knee immediately, head bowed.
"This servant failed to keep distance," he said calmly. "Please punish me."
Li Shuran's face went white.
Guards rushed in, dragging the dead assassin away. Officials whispered furiously.
"An attempt during a holy ritual—!"
"The Crown Prince was nearly killed—!"
The abbot's voice shook. "This is sacrilege."
Zhen Luo stood.
"Enough," he said.
The hall fell silent.
"My ancestor's spirits were not angered today," he continued evenly. "They were warning us."
His gaze swept the room.
"Someone wanted blood spilled in sacred space."
Li Shuran's nails dug into her palm.
Before she could speak, another voice cut in.
"This assassin," a guard captain said hesitantly, "carried… Lady Li's household thread."
The hall erupted.
Li Shuran staggered back. "That's impossible! I was with His Highness the entire time!"
Zhen Luo looked at her for a long moment.
"I know," he said calmly.
Her breath caught—relief flickering.
"But that only means," Zhen Luo continued, "someone used you."
The Queen's plan cracked.
That night, Li Shuran was placed under "protective observation."
That same night, Han Jian's wound was treated in silence.
"You shouldn't have moved," Zhen Luo said quietly, standing close enough that the guards outside couldn't hear.
Han Jian smiled faintly. "You were about to die."
Zhen Luo's jaw tightened. "I could have handled it."
Han Jian leaned back, eyes half-lidded. "I know. But I didn't want you to."
For a heartbeat, the world shrank to the space between them.
Then Han Jian straightened, expression neutral once more.
"Don't worry," he said lightly. "No one saw what they weren't supposed to."
Zhen Luo let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
Elsewhere, Bai Zehan and Luo Xian watched palace lights flicker wildly.
"That wasn't part of the Queen's script," Bai Zehan murmured.
Luo Xian nodded. "Which means the board just flipped."
Far away, the Queen crushed a teacup in her hand.
"So," she whispered, eyes cold, "he chose the knight."
And knights, she knew—
Were meant to be sacrificed.