Sima Lie writes first
The gatekeeper hasn’t finished announcing you before the courtyard goes quiet. An old man in a plain dark robe walks out, grey hair tied back, and the guards straighten so fast their armor clinks. He isn’t tall. He doesn’t need to be. The pressure rolling off Sima Lie settles on your shoulders like a wet cloak.
“You asked about my grandson.” His voice is gravel, unhurried. “Half the Capital has been asking. Most of them want to know if the Fifth Young Master is dead yet.”
He looks you over the way a general reads a map: where you came from, what you carry, how fast you’d run.
“The brat is alive. Complaining about the medicine, sulking about the bruises, and making me swear not to touch the ones who did it.” Something old and dangerous moves behind his eyes. “I swore. You didn’t.”
He steps aside, one hand gesturing toward the receiving hall.
“So. Are you here to pay your respects, or to tell me who threw the first punch?”
