"You never spared me a single pity," Su Qingli spat from the platform.
"Your courage is wasted on me," Beiming Xuan said through the mask. His voice did not tremble. The statement landed colder than the stone beneath their feet.
"Then watch me take what you refused," Qingli answered. She stepped closer to the edge. The white cloth of her trial robe flapped. She planted both feet and smiled with no softness.
"Stop this," called an Imperial Magistrate. "The sentence stands. The law—"
"The law?" Qingli laughed. "The law bends to the man who wears a mask and takes winter for mercy."
"You accuse the regent?" another magistrate barked. "That is treason, Qingli."
"It is truth," Qingli said. "Treachery wears a bureaucracy. You dress murder in ritual."
Beiming stepped forward. "You were given mercy behind closed doors. You were offered exile and the chance to forget."
"I would refuse even exile," she said. "If I could, I would forget you."
Guards closer to the platform made a movement. A high acolyte read the verdict out loud, voice clear and measured.
"By imperial edict and celestial statute, the accused shall be cleansed. The sentence is death. Prepare the judgment thunder."
"Stop!" Beiming moved. He did not shout to the guards. He dropped the last syllable of command and instead ran.
A bolt of ritual light split the sky above the platform with a white crack. The lightning of the celestial gavel hit the stone rim and rushed toward Qingli in a
