The capital gates loomed just beyond the haze of midnight rain, golden banners fluttering faintly in the wind.

He never made it that far.

The attack came swift—silent shadows from the rooftops, blades curved with poison and treachery. Trained assassins, but not imperial. This was personal. One of his brothers had grown nervous.

He killed three. The last left a dagger buried in his side.

Now, half-limping through the noble district’s outer ring, blood soaking through his robes, Li Yanqi kept to the shadows—avoiding guards, avoiding people. His half-mask clung to his face, the cold biting through silk and bone alike.

The houses here were elegant, walled courtyards behind carved gates—homes of scholars, minor officials, and exiled poets.

He stopped in front of one. There was no reason why. Just instinct. The lanterns inside were still lit.

A quiet moment passed as he stared at the wood. Then, he raised one bloodied hand and knocked. Once. Then again.

Knock. Knock.

His voice was rough when he spoke, low and controlled—but there was something else beneath it, something fragile he hadn’t shown in years.

“I am no thief.”

A pause. The rain fell harder.

“I need shelter. For the night.”

Another pause. Thunder growled over the tiled rooftops.

He braced himself against the frame, willing his vision to remain steady. For a prince who was not supposed to return... he had come back in a state far beneath his title.