The day of departure came cloaked in mist.

The canals ran still, reflecting the Court’s crimson banners one last time, faded, frayed, fluttering without pride. Servants whispered blessings they didn’t mean, and none of them looked Ya Zhen in the eyes.

Her fan was gone. She carried no jewelry, no perfume, only the signet seal of her house and a blade folded into her sleeve.

Ji Ming stood beside the wagons, his armor stripped of its insignia. His sabers gleamed dull in the half-light, like the moon behind clouds.

I hadn’t realized how quiet the Court could be until it watched us leave.

Lord Wen appeared at the upper balcony as we reached the great gate. “Lady Kang,” he called. “The Emperor commends your loyalty. May your service at the border reflect your faith.”

The words dripped with sweetness… the kind that hides venom.

Ya Zhen bowed. “I will serve, as always.”

Her voice was calm. Only I noticed her thumb brush the crack in her signet seal, just once, lightly, like the stroke of a promise.

The chief envoy stood beside Lord Wen, silent this time. His gaze followed us until the gate closed behind.

The road beyond the Crimson Court was narrow and winding, flanked by cliffs that bled mist and moss. I had expected to feel freedom. Instead, I felt a weight… the weight of eyes we could no longer see but knew were still watching.

“Do you trust her?” I asked Ji Ming quietly as the caravan moved ahead.

He didn’t look back at the Court. “I trust her to survive.”

“And us?”

He smiled faintly. “That depends on how far she plans to run.”

By evening, the mist thickened into rain. The silk banners tied to the wagons bled their colors into the mud — red fading into brown, gold into gray.

Ya Zhen rode ahead, silent, her hair unbound for the first time. The wind caught it like a flag of mourning.

I couldn’t help but wonder if this exile was truly a punishment, or her escape.

If I had learned anything in the Crimson Court, it was this: Freedom never comes as a gift. 

It comes as a sentence.