NOVEL NEXT Chapter 313: The Emperor Calls A Council
"Close the door." Mingyu's voice called out, echoing around the small study as three men entered.
The Captain of the Emperor's Guard obeyed the direct order. The latch found the strike with a clean metal bite.
Three men stood inside Mingyu's study, each choosing a different distance from the table as if that alone could tilt the outcome.
Zhu Deming took the patch of floor that faced danger head-on. His mask catching a dull crescent of lamplight as he stared forward. His hands were loose at his sides by habit, not because he was calm.
Sun Yizhen found the shadow at the bookcase and leaned into it as if the wood were an old friend that understood jokes. His trademark fan was closed, but he had the 'devil-may-care' smile on his face that was at complete odds for who he truly was.
Sun Longzi stood as if at a post. Two paces from the threshold, his heels set, the Captain's uniform plain and newly his.
Mingyu did not sit, nor did he offer them a seat.
He wanted them standing, their spines honest.
"This isn't court," Mingyu opened. "It's housekeeping."
No one moved. Good. Hopefully they understood the difference.
Yaozu had offered to linger to be there in case things blew up, but Mingyu refused. This room needed four truths, not five, and if they couldn't stand together, then there was no point to any of this.
"You already understand the stakes," Mingyu went on. "You've been pretending not to, but that ends tonight."
Deming's jaw ticked once. He had never learned to hide that tick that betrayed his temper. Yizhen's eyes glinted like lacquer at dusk, while his older brother remained still enough to shame a statue.
Mingyu set his palm on the table. There was no drumroll. No performance. "Each and everyone of you love my wife."
Yizhen's fan clicked open and shut, a single pulse. Deming didn't flinch, which counted as confession. Longzi's mouth didn't move, but something in his face carved itself simpler, as if relief and dread had agreed to share a chair.
"You will not hide it in corners until it rots," Mingyu continued. "You will not bleed in hallways where she has to step over you on her way to work. If you want to stand in her life, you will need to speak up. Once. Clearly. Then you will take her answer and build with it instead of gnawing at what could have been."
Deming broke the quiet first, his voice iron-low. "You think this is a matter to be forced by lanternlight?"
"I think this is a matter to be cleaned before it stains the floor," Mingyu returned. "We are past the luxury of waiting for poetry. The empire doesn't pause for courtship. Neither do we."
He let his gaze slide to Yizhen. "You especially understand the cost of rot."
Yizhen let the fan rest against his shoulder. "I understand the cost of noise that could have been spared. I also understand that not every truth improves for being dragged into a bright room."
"Good," Mingyu nodded once. "Then you also understand why I'm dragging you anyway."
Longzi's voice came rougher, less practiced for rooms than for fields. "What do you want from us."
"Words," Mingyu answered. "And boundaries. I'll give you both if you refuse to find them yourselves."
He paced once behind the chair he refused to use, the habit of movement smoothing the edge on his temper. Xinying had no patience for emotional negotiations; that was part of why they worked. He would do the translating. He always had.
"Rule one," he laid out. "Her work comes first. Empire, heir, then you. If you ask her to place you above gates and grain, you will remove yourself before I do."
No argument. Even Yizhen didn't try to make a joke out of that.
"Rule two. No competition disguised as duty. If you undercut each other to 'prove' usefulness, you won't stand nearer—you'll be posted where I don't have to see you."
Deming's fingers flexed and stilled. Longzi's attention sharpened—soldier hearing a clear order for once. Yizhen's smile thinned to respect.
"Rule three," Mingyu continued. "Seams stay hidden. The court gets nothing. If anyone asks why you're near her, you have roles to point to."
He turned his palm toward each in turn.
"Deming. You're the only man alive who can call my wife to a halt when her body tries to outrun itself. You were doing that before any of us had the wit to thank you for it. Your post, when the Left Prime Minister seat opens, is obvious. Until then—armory, drills, discipline in the inner wards. Visible, legitimate. When she reaches for a sword too late at night, you'll make sure she reaches for fruit first."
A ghost of a sound escaped the half-mask—almost a laugh, more breath than voice. "You make me a nurse."
"I make you the line between a blade and a collapse," Mingyu returned, unbothered. "You can dress it however makes your throat less tight."
He shifted to Yizhen. "You have always been furniture that bites. Stay that. Shield for the heir. Shadow where doors meet. You do not cross his threshold unless the child calls. If she orders you out, you leave. If you lie to her about risk, I will remove your tongue myself."
Yizhen's gaze softened the smallest degree, almost apology, almost promise. "I know the difference between a doorway and a room."
"Show me," Mingyu replied. "Daily."
He faced Longzi last. "You are exactly where you ought to be—at my back. You bleed before I do. You will not make your post about your heart. If you use the Emperor's circuit to circle hers, I will have Deming assign you latrine inspections until you remember which door is yours."
Longzi inclined his head by the width of a blade. "Understood."
"Good," Mingyu concluded. "Now—speak. Each of you. One sentence. What you want. No poetry. No performances."
He pointed at Deming first, because Deming would rather face arrows than admit he wanted anything.