"There—heartline," Mo Chen whispered, nocking the arrow above a paper lantern. "Wait," Su Yan hissed from the eaves. "Gap on your left. Two tiles loose." "I see them," Mo Chen said. "I can miss the left tile. Wind's quiet." "Good." He spat. "My hands are shaking. Don't be poetic tonight." A dancer laughed below, the sound filtered through lattice like silk on wood. A servant moved a tray. Steam rose from the bath, hiding the prince's shoulders. Candlelight turned water to quicksilver. "Three breaths," Mo Chen breathed. "One—two—" "Three," Su Yan said at the same time, voice soft and sharp from training. He kept time like a metronome when it mattered. "Now." The arrow slid. The string sighed. The shaft passed over lacquered railings, cut through heat and steam, and hit something soft with a wet, muffled thud. "Hit," Mo Chen said. "Mattress." "You hit him?" Su Yan's voice cracked. "You're pissing me off." "No." Mo Chen's jaw tightened. "Missed center. He's shoring the left shoulder." A woman inside clapped once at a dancer's trick. Mo Chen didn't move. She kept breathing slow, felt for the thread they used to listen, listened for the scrape of sandals on wood. "Why would he sleep on a mattress in the open like that?" Su Yan muttered. "Looks staged." "It's the Peach Room," Mo Chen said. "They like things arranged. The prince likes people to believe..." She cut the sentence and