"How long have you been kneeling?" Miao Yi's voice came from the side of the table, low, precise. "Three bows, Your Majesty," she said. "And the hour since the bell struck." Zhou Zhuheng did not look up from the stack of petitions. Her hand kept moving across the paper, a neat line of ink. The hall smelled of lacquer and dried ink, and beyond the lattice the palace gardens were a white blur. "Let him kneel if he chooses," she said at last. The sentence was small. The men in embroidered robes shifted. A junior clerk swallowed and folded his hands tighter. Miao Yi waited, unflinching. "He has been kneeling since dawn, Majesty. He refuses to leave." "Open the Snow Gate." Two attendants moved like shadows. The heavy doors to the outer court were pulled aside, and a gust of wind pushed the smell of snow and cold into the warm hall. It hissed across the marble steps and carried the thin sound of a man pleading. Shen Junqi's voice was steady but raw. "Your Majesty, spare my father. Spare Lord Shen. He misjudged. He will answer to the law. He will pay fines. He will never raise a banner again." "Then stand up," Zhou said. "I will not stand," Shen answered. "Not until you promise mercy." A laugh cut across the courtyard—sharp, not mocking. It came from one of the older ministers, but Zhou gave no sign she heard. She moved to the threshold and stepped