Two months had passed since Xingyang's banners rose again over the manor gates, their fresh dyes vivid against the pale winter sky. The scars of rebellion were fading — beams replaced, cobblestones scrubbed — yet the air still held the memory of fire. Now it carried something new: the soft flutter of Hedong's red-and-gold silk.

The Pei caravan arrived in perfect order, lacquered wheels crunching over gravel, each horse draped in gold-threaded cloth. The lead carriage gleamed, its panels painted with chrysanthemums so fine they seemed to stir in the wind. Mounted guards followed, spears upright, their discipline a quiet declaration of power.

When the door opened, camellia oil scented the cold air. Lady Pei Xinyue emerged with unhurried grace. Tall, slender, and poised, her pale oval face was serene, her hair bound in a tiered coronet braid with gold and jade pins. She wore frost-blue silks worked like ice on glass, an ermine cloak clasped with jade. She leaned on no one, her gaze steady.

Servants bowed low. She inclined her head, her eyes sweeping over the repaired gates and fluttering banners before she stepped forward, her robes whispering over stone.

At last she stopped before the young lord. A faint breath curled in the winter air.

"My lord," she said, low and steady, "Hedong greets you — and honors your victory. May our houses stand together as firmly as your banners fly today."