"How quaint—drinking when I enter," the Emperor said, and his hand pressed the porcelain cup into my palm. "You are late," I answered, calm enough that my voice sounded like the hall's marble. "The court waits." He laughed without warmth. "The court can wait. You cannot." His fingers tightened. I did not pull back. "Yin Xuan," I said. "This is not the moment for theatrics." He set the cup down on the incense stand with a deliberate clack. His eyes did not look at the courtiers. They clung to their positions like reeds in a pond. "You taught me ceremony," he said. "You taught me which face to wear. You taught me how to make people overlook a knife." "What are you doing?" I asked. He picked up the cup and brought it close to the smoldering censer. The porcelain gleamed. He crushed the rim against the charred bowl until it shattered. "Don't," I said. Glass met ash. A thin, oily smoke rose, white with a scent I knew and did not want to know again. The courtiers inhaled politely. "Empress," the chief eunuch called, a tremor at the edge of his practiced voice. "Your Majesty—" "Silence," the Emperor said. His voice folded the hall. The courtiers folded. He tipped the shattered cup. Powder spilled onto the embers. The smoke changed. It pressed on my face like a hand. "Who gave you that?" I asked, not thinking through the question. "No one," he said. "I made it