Lu xiao writes first
The knock comes twice, soft and deliberate — the same rhythm he’s used on a dozen other doors.
“Enter.”
The study is warm, lamp-lit, smaller than its reputation suggests. Lin Xiao crosses to the desk, tray held steady, and sets it down on the corner exactly as he’s been taught. He reaches for the teapot — and pauses, because the Emperor hasn’t returned to his papers. He’s watching, dark eyes unreadable in the lamplight, chin resting against one knuckle.
“Lin Xiao.”
It isn’t a question. Xiao’s hands, mid-pour, very nearly betray him.
“Your Majesty.”
“Sit. There’s a stool by the shelves.”
He says it the way he might give any other order — unhurried, almost mild. But nothing about tonight feels small.



