A Toast to Not Killing the Hounds

On the night of the advancement ceremony, Nam Cal Liange and his companion, Wisp, navigated the labyrinthine back alleys of the city. Their footsteps were muffled, and they vanished into the interplay of shadow and lantern light, evading both celebrants and patrolling guards. The farther they ventured, the more decayed the pathways became, increasingly overtaken by overgrowth and detritus as they neared the sealed zone known as 'the plague district.'

As they ventured deeper, the condition of their surroundings deteriorated markedly. The bricks of the buildings became more worn, their surfaces covered in patches of dark moss and creeping ivy. The air grew thick with the earthy smell of damp soil and rotting wood, a stark contrast to the floral and spicy aromas that had wafted from the main thoroughfares. The ground beneath them was uneven, cluttered with broken pottery, discarded clothing, and creeping tendrils of hardy brush, making each step a calculated maneuver. The alleys grew progressively narrower and darker, converging upon the looming, ominous barrier that enclosed 'the plague district.'

Three lunar years ago, this neglected corner of the city had fallen victim to a devastating plague. Due to its proximity to the imperial complex, the Esteem had hastily quarantined the area behind impenetrable walls and sealed its unfortunate residents to their tragic fates. The cries and pleas of the afflicted had long ago faded, but an unsettling silence now reigned—a hushed testament to the lives lost to disease, starvation, and abject neglect. Though a scant few had managed to escape, none would ever claim to have clawed their way out of this veritable abyss forsaken by the Esteem.

Navigating through an overgrown aperture that served as a forgotten gateway into this forsaken district, the two men wrestled with nature's reclaiming grasp. Vines seemed to clutch at them like desperate hands and thorny bushes tore at their clothing with a soft, ripping sound, as if protesting their intrusion.

Finally, their boots met the time-ravaged cobblestones that hinted at the district's once-thriving past. They trod carefully, sidestepping treacherous cracks, stumbling over fallen branches, and dodging creeping tendrils that snaked their way across their path. The atmosphere was heavy, filled with the rustling of nocturnal creatures and the haunting hoots of owls concealed in the skeletal remains of long-dead trees.

As they moved southeast, they reached the remnants of the original city wall, its surface mottled with age and overrun with ivy. Their eyes were drawn to three yellow paper flowers, seemingly delicate yet oddly defiant, fastened to the moss-covered stones. The flowers served as cryptic markers, signals for those in the know.

In reverent silence, broken only by the quiet rustling of nocturnal fauna, the men knelt. They began to move aside a mound of loose shrubs and detritus, revealing a hidden cavity beneath. The brush had been strategically placed, serving as camouflage for the hole dropping down into a narrow passage. With a silent and quick glance, the men's eyes met and with a subtle tilt of Liange's chin, Wisp descended first, with the prince closely following.

Stepping into the dark pit their footsteps produced a muted, gritty crunch as they navigated through the passage beneath the city walls. Emerging on the other side, their senses were immediately engulfed by the dank aroma of wet earth and decomposing leaves, mingling with the vigorous scent of the nearby Lysara River. This river was the largest of five tributaries fed by the mystical Sanlianyu Lake, its bounteous waters replenished by a complex network of subterranean artesian springs.

Crouching low among the moist underbrush, the two men adopted the patience and focus of stalking tigers, every muscle in their bodies poised for action. From the deeper recesses to the east, a pair of owl hoots pierced the night, their notes carrying a cryptic message. Whisp responded with an imitative night bird call, a low, haunting melody that seemed to fuse with the night itself. No sooner had the notes faded than the pair was on the move again.

As they advanced, four additional figures emerged from the thick foliage, phantoms materializing from the dark, and converged with them. Together, they reached the skeletal remains of an old dock. Time and the relentless current of the Lysara had nearly claimed it, but still, it clung to its decaying timbers, resisting surrender to the river's untamed fury.

The darkened expanse of the dock seemed to breathe with life as shadows danced and writhed over the moss-eaten and decayed planks. The once sturdy boards, now victims of time and neglect, groaned under the weight of burly, steely-eyed men who moved in and out of the warehouse office. Their outlines blurred by the shifting play of moonlight on misty water, they seemed more like ghosts of the past than men of the present. A palpable tension hung thick in the air, a miasma that gripped the senses, making every heartbeat audible.

At a barely perceptible hand signal from Liange, the team halted their advance. They blended seamlessly into the thicket of underbrush at the river's edge, becoming indistinguishable from the surrounding night. Time seemed to elongate, every second stretching into minutes, every minute into hours, as an oppressive weight of expectation settled over them. The ambient sounds of the night—the rustle of leaves, the croaking of frogs, the distant calls of nocturnal birds—seemed to mute themselves, as if the very creatures of the dark sensed the gravity of the moment.

Out of the heavy shadows, a raft, as stealthy and indistinct as a phantom, glided silently into view. Its form was barely discernible, but the weight it carried was evident: crates, chests, and barrels, all silhouetted darkly against the shimmering reflection of the water's surface.

As the raft neared the dilapidated dock, one of the smugglers—clad in dark, rough-spun garments—expertly maneuvered a wooden pole through the water, steering the raft with uncanny precision. Another used a frayed but sturdy rope to loop it around an old, rust-eaten cleat that had seen better days. Their movements were methodical, a well-practiced choreography born from countless nights of illicit dealings. The air was tinged with the sharp scent of seaweed, decaying wood, and the distant brine of the ocean inlet.

Upon securing the raft, the smugglers tensed for a moment, their eyes scanning the dark treeline and the foggy river's surface. Finding nothing but the heavy gloom and stillness of the night, they allowed themselves a cautious exhale, momentarily deceived by the illusion of solitude. Little did they know, Liange and his men were waiting, their senses razor-sharp, their muscles coiled like springs, their weapons—swords, knives, and fists—ready to strike.

At a nod from Liange, Wisp led the charge, a whispering wind in human form. His fist landed square on the jaw of the nearest smuggler, rendering him momentarily stunned. Liange's sword was a silver blur in the darkness, clashing with the blade of a smuggler who had managed to draw his weapon. The sound of steel meeting steel reverberated like a bell tolling in the night. Around them, members of Liange's shadow guard deftly disabled their adversaries with calculated strikes, targeting legs, arms, and pressure points to subdue rather than kill. The air was filled with the sounds of grunts, the clash of metal, and the thuds of bodies meeting the worn planks of the dock.

In mere minutes, it was over. The smugglers lay disarmed and disoriented, their injuries severe but not life-threatening. Liange sheathed his sword and signaled for his men to secure their captives. Ropes were produced almost magically from the folds of dark garments, and in short order, the smugglers found themselves bound and helpless.

"Take them inside. We have questions that require answers. Secure the cargo and start an inventory." Liange instructed, his voice as cold and detached as the midnight air. His men nodded, the job not yet complete but the night's most significant challenge conquered. As they herded the smugglers into the gloomy warehouse for interrogation, Liange took a moment to survey the scene, his eyes as inscrutable as the dark waters of the Lysara River that flowed quietly beside them.

"You Highness, it is odd, all we have found is Jainqui Melons, hundreds of melons, and bags of soft muslin cloth," Wisp informed the prince, his delicate powder-blue features scrunched in utter confusion.

"What did the prisoners have to say about them? Why would the first prince waste so much time, money, and resources to smuggle decorative gourds?" Liange inquired, his own face a contemplative mask of confusion.

Jianqui Melons, diverse in hue depending on their growth environment, were treasured for their singular ability to petrify like stone when smoked after carving, preserving the artwork indefinitely. They became sought-after objects for lantern-making, especially during celebratory seasons. Bewildered the men shared a contemplative silence while the river rushed around the dock vibrating the old rotten planks beneath their feet.

"Let's head in, I don't know what this is about, but I'm not letting this tail get away from us." Liange declared, his voice laced with steely resolve. He led his team back into the cavernous, dimly lit warehouse, where the smugglers sat—bruised, bloodied, and securely bound.

Once inside, Prince Nam Cal Liange assessed the forlorn group restrained before him. Unsheathing his sword with a purposeful grace, he approached the most unassuming among them—a youthful figure whose downcast head was crowned with a mop of raven-dark locks.

His apparent youth clashed oddly with the grim atmosphere surrounding him; to label him a man would stretch the definition. The young detainee looked to be merely fourteen lunar years old. A jagged, livid scar marred the ash-colored skin on the left side of his neck, snaking up from his collarbone to a disfigured left ear partially veiled by his hair.

"Are you the individual known as Xianyu?" Liange inquired, his penetrating gaze locking onto the young man. Without hesitation, the young man lifted his head, dark crimson eyes calmly returned the gaze of the imposing prince. The heavy, frayed navy cloak draped over Xianyu's slight frame exaggerated his vulnerability, contradicting the defiant resilience evident in his eyes.

"Xianyu of the Nightbloom bids the illustrious Seventh Prince Nam Cal Liange welcome. Pardon my discourtesy; my current restraints inhibit me from offering the proper deference," the boy intoned. His voice was incongruously mature, a deep and husky timbre devoid of fear, sarcasm, or undue respect as he addressed the prince towering over him.

"There's no need for formalities. Tell me, how do you communicate with the Second Prince, and what might he intend to do with the smuggled goods?" Liange's tone was dignified yet relaxed, as though he were engaged in pleasant conversation rather than an interrogation. His sword's tip hovered threateningly before Xianyu.

"Ah, I see we're jumping right into it. Regrettably, I must inform you that my dealings have been through an intermediary. I collect the melons from an estate in Avrin, and they find their way to a rather quaint barn a day's wagon ride from here. The identity of the end customer was not part of my contract, you see," Xianyu replied, with disarming candor.

"You don't seem very loyal to your clients," Wisp interjected a slight sneer touching his lips.

"Oh, loyalty is such a loaded term, don't you think? My client is the one who hired me, not whoever's funding the operation. I'm more of a 'task-at-hand' kind of guy," Xianyu retorted, adjusting his posture just enough to let his hair drape over the scarred part of his neck, partially obscuring it from view.

"You are aware, however, of who's pulling those purse strings," the Prince observed pointedly.

"I believe in doing my homework. It's always prudent to know who's in the game, especially if the stakes are high. Though I'll admit, being commissioned for such... pedestrian endeavors was unexpected. But the men appreciate the simplicity and the silence it buys. It's easy coin," Xianyu mused, a glint of mischief dancing in his crimson eyes.

"Don't you find it suspiciously straightforward?" Prince Nam Cal Liange inquired, his confusion evident as he pondered why his nephew, the Crown Prince, would invest so much in smuggling such innocuous items. The Jianqui Melons were neither dangerous nor particularly useful. Even if they were to be filled with explosives, the plan seemed overly intricate. And poisoning the melons seemed pointless, given their unpopularity as a food due to their bitter taste.

"Ah, straightforward, perhaps. But in our line of work, the absence of complications is its own breed of enigma. It's like stumbling upon a clear stream in a murky swamp—you can't help but wonder what's really going on beneath the surface. Perhaps there are layers we're not privy to. Or perhaps some people just have peculiar tastes in luxury. Either way, it's not my place to question, merely to deliver." Xianyu mused, slyly inviting the Prince to ponder the same.

"So, how much will your loyalty cost me?" Prince Nam Cal Liange shifted the conversation, his eyes piercing as they fixed on the young smuggler. Xianyu's raven-colored brows furrowed, taking a moment to assess the man before him. The rusted bones of the warehouse creaked as a chilling gust from the river swept through, yet the intense exchange between the two men seemed to mute the surrounding cold.

"I've done my homework. Those who find themselves under the Crown Prince's wing often exit the stage early, courtesy of unforeseen 'accidents.' I've built in some safety measures, anticipating that such an association could come with its own set of 'hidden strings.' Yet, I can't help but notice that your associates seem to thrive. You don't appear to be the type who puts his hounds to sleep after the fox is caught," Xianyu replied, his voice tinged with reflection.

"In turn, allow me to pose you a question, Your Highness. What are you hoping to gain from this conversation?" Xianyu volleyed back.

"My ambitions are simple for now, I intend to convert the plague district into a base of operations for me and my forces. I'd like for you to keep your smuggling operations as a façade. In essence, your crew will act as my camouflage, while my men provide you a safeguard against any 'unfortunate accidents' the Crown Prince might have in store for you. I'll claim ten percent of your total profits, and in return, we'll shore up the infrastructure here. Buildings will remain outwardly ramshackle but will be fortified well enough to be livable. How does that sound?" the prince explained, kneeling gracefully in front of Xianyu, his sword harmlessly resting against the floor.

Xianyu's response was an unexpected burst of hearty laughter, the resonant sound echoing throughout the weathered warehouse, momentarily dispelling the cold bite of the river wind that seeped through the decaying walls. This abrupt shift in mood took the hostages by surprise, infusing the air with a sudden lightness. Wisp's instincts kicked in as he moved a hand towards his sword, misinterpreting the smuggler's mirth and the relaxed demeanor of the other men as signs of an impending escape attempt.

"That, my new friends, is the juiciest deal I've landed since we started hauling all those Maker-forsaken gourds into the capital Looks like the scales of fortune are tipping in our favor today. Lads, seems we've just snagged ourselves a royal silent partner!" Xianyu declared with a roguish grin, winking at a nearby accomplice. Observing the mood shift, the prince subtly signaled for Wisp to stand down.

"BoBo we are gonna need a contract, Sho, fetch our finest crystal and the top-shelf wine; can't very well toast a royal partnership with bottom-barrel swill, can we?" Xianyu added, his eyes twinkling with mischief as they met the prince's gaze.

As Prince Liange gracefully stood, Xianyu and his band of smugglers effortlessly followed suit. Their ropes fell to the ground as though they had never been bound, leaving Wisp wide-eyed in amazement. He suddenly realized these so-called prisoners had been unrestrained all along—and his prince had known it.

"Tomorrow, we'll go inspect that barn," Liange directed Wisp, who simply nodded, still reeling from the revelation. Meanwhile, the smugglers didn't just return with glasses, ink, and fine wine; they also brought in a table, two chairs, a selection of chilled pastries, and a brightly lit lantern, turning the dismal warehouse momentarily into a setting more befitting a negotiation of this magnitude.

***

The invitation to visit the royal hunting grounds arrived three days following the conclusion of the Festival of Glittering Tears. Daiyu looked curiously at the maroon seal, impressed with the emblem of a three-clawed dragon. It was from the Third Prince, Nam Ai Zephyr, not the Seventh, Nam Cal Liange, as she had initially presumed it would.

Daiyu found herself sitting at a petite table that had been conveniently placed beneath the shade of the weeping tree next to her tranquil pond. The aroma of freshly blossomed poppies mingled with the crisp scent of the pond water and the earthy fragrance of the tree, carried to her by a soft, welcoming breeze.

According to the ancient narrative, 'The First Empress of Kisin,' the third prince would fall victim to the same mysterious 'ailment' that claimed the life of the Eighth Consort, shortly after the winter festival. Aside from his well-known devotion to the teachings of the venerable philosopher Junlan, and his introspective disposition, little else was widely known about him—except, that Diayu knew the fairytail account that he would be the second victim of a sinister plot orchestrated by The Church of the Maker.

"Ai Zian," Daiyu directed, her voice cutting through the quiet night, "I need a thorough account of Prince Nam Ai Zephyr's recent activities. Who he meets, how he spends his time, everything." The guard knelt in acknowledgment, offering a brief salute before merging seamlessly with the surrounding shadows.