The great bronze doors of the Vermilion Court creaked open, the echo of their movement like the groan of Heaven itself. The hall was lit by floating jade lanterns, each pulsing with golden spiritual fire. Rows of nobles, ministers, generals, and scholars knelt in silence, their eyes fixed upon the dragon dais where the king would soon sit.
They waited.
A low hum filled the hall — not noise, but tension.
The capital was still trembling from the birth omen. Many had seen the twin jade comets with their own eyes. Some claimed they saw dragons curled within them. Others said they heard voices from the skies.
But none dared speak what they feared most — the return of the Xuanyuan Mandate.
At last, the King Xuan Taixing entered.
He walked without armor or robes of glory — only plain black court garments and a crown of restrained jade. His face was unreadable, and his eyes distant.
"We convene under Heaven's will," the Grand Herald announced, "for the birth of our sovereign twins."
Whispers stirred, but none broke the silence.
The first to step forward was Consort Yulan, mother of the fifth prince, draped in violet and golden silk.
"Heaven shows favor, yet also warning," she said smoothly. "Two dragons in the same nest… will they not fight for the sky?"
The words were poisonous, delivered with a smile.
The hall tensed.
But before any rebuttal came, a calm voice rose from the shadows beside the throne.
"Then let them learn to share the sky," said the Imperial Preceptor, stepping forward in white robes. His presence alone quieted the wind.
He held a jade scroll in one hand, and a gold-threaded seal in the other — the ancient emblem .
"If Heaven gifts two, who are we to deny either?"
"Are we to punish the wind for blowing in twin gusts?""Or the stars for shining with double radiance?"
The ministers fell silent.
Even Consort Yulan, for all her cunning, lowered her gaze.
Suddenly, the Elder Prince, Xuan Zeming, stepped forth — tall, dignified, and cloaked in midnight blue.
"Father," he said carefully, bowing, "do the heavens not grant signs before calamity as well as blessing? Perhaps this omen… is a test."
"Should we not remain cautious… and not place all hopes on infants, no matter how bright the sky burns?"
This time, more nobles murmured in agreement.
But the king, Xuan Taixing, did not answer.
He sat motionless.
His fingers traced the dragon-arm of the throne, eyes fixed not on his sons… but on the ancient seal that the Preceptor held.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he spoke:
"If it is a test… let us pass it in silence."
He looked at no one in particular, and everyone all at once.
"No elevation. No declarations. Not yet. Let them grow in shadow. Let the world forget the sky ever split."
"But you will remember this day. And you will remember your words."
He stood.
"Court is dismissed."
The nobles filed out. Some bowed deeply, others turned away with veiled expressions. The storm of politics had already begun. Factions formed that very hour — some for the twins, some for the other siblings, some who feared the rise of the kingdom.
In the corner, the Imperial Preceptor remained.
He stared at the throne long after it was empty.
His lips curled into something that was not quite a smile.