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Nie Huaisang reclined lazily against the wall of the aviary, a faint smile tugging at his lips as the birds fluttered around him. The soft rustle of feathers and the occasional chirp filled the air, masking the sound of his brush as it flicked across the paper in slow, deliberate strokes. The scent of fresh hay mingled with the crisp breeze filtering through the open windows, creating an illusion of tranquility.
A casual observer might have thought he was completely absorbed in his painting, his attention focused solely on the delicate plumage of the magpie taking shape beneath his brush. The strokes were meticulous, each feather rendered with the kind of care that spoke of hours of practice and a deep appreciation for detail.
But Nie Huaisang’s thoughts were far from the delicate image taking form on the paper.
A half-finished ledger lay open at his feet, its pages marked with careful notations in his tidy handwriting. The book was a mundane record of kitchen and storeroom supplies, unremarkable at first glance, and one of many he’d taken to reviewing under the guise of monitoring the care of his birds. No one questioned the Sect Leader’s indulgent younger brother keeping tabs on the feed and provisions for his cherished aviary; to most, it seemed entirely in character.
What no one realized was how closely Nie Huaisang had combed through every item on the list. Every crate, every delivery note, and every date had been scrutinized and cross-referenced against his memory of the days leading up to Meng Yao’s poisoning. The pattern had been frustratingly elusive at first—no glaring inconsistencies, no obvious missteps. But then, late last night, he’d noticed something: the tea shipment.
His brush hovered mid-stroke, the ink pooling slightly before he set it aside with a soft clink. He leaned forward, his fan snapping open as he used it to trace the columns in the ledger, his eyes narrowing. The tea, supposedly a special blend from Yunping, had arrived at the Unclean Realm two days before Meng Yao’s collapse. But when he compared the record to another set of supply notes—one from the previous month—he saw it.
The dates didn’t align.
Tea shipments to the Unclean followed a predictable schedule, arriving every four weeks like clockwork. Yet this delivery had come a week early, with no explanation. The discrepancy was small, insignificant to anyone not actively looking for it, but it was enough to prick at Nie Huaisang’s curiosity.
“Interesting,” he murmured to himself, his voice soft enough to be lost among the birdsong. He tapped his fan lightly against the edge of the ledger, his mind racing.
Had someone in the kitchens ordered the tea early? If so, why? And if they hadn’t… then who had? Nie Mingjue had specifically requested the Yunping blend for Meng Yao, so perhaps it had been rushed for him. But… But he wouldn’t have asked for it to be rushed. He was too practical for that.
Nie Huaisang leaned back against the wall, letting his gaze drift to the fluttering wings and hopping feet of the birds in the aviary. To anyone watching, he looked as carefree as ever, his smile as idle as the breeze that stirred his hair. But inside, his mind turned like the gears of a well-oiled clock, weighing possibilities and discarding them with ruthless precision.
This wasn’t the first strange thing he’d noticed in the aftermath of the poisoning. Servants had been unusually tight-lipped, their answers clipped and cautious when he’d pressed them for details about the kitchens. Zonghui’s men were just as wary, their patrols doubling even as they insisted everything was under control. And then there was Meng Yao—his sharp intelligence dulled by exhaustion, his once-keen memory slipping, frayed at the edges like an old tapestry.
The tea couldn’t be a coincidence.
Nie Huaisang tapped the ledger again, then set it aside with deliberate care. He picked up his brush once more, his strokes resuming their steady rhythm as the magpie on the paper spread its inked wings. The birds in the aviary chirped and trilled, oblivious to the quiet storm brewing in their master’s mind.
“It’s never just tea,” he murmured, his voice too low to carry beyond the walls of the aviary. “Now… who sent you, little magpie?”
The market in Qinghe was bustling, alive with the hum of bartering voices and the clatter of carts over cobblestones. The air was thick with the mingling scents of fresh produce, dried herbs, and roasted chestnuts, creating a heady aroma that seemed to swirl and settle over the crowded streets. Nie Huaisang strolled through the chaos with an unhurried gait, his fan snapping open and closed in a lazy rhythm that seemed at odds with the frenetic energy around him. To the casual observer, he looked every bit the idle young master, indulging in a rare outing to enjoy the market’s lively atmosphere.
But Nie Huaisang wasn’t there for roasted chestnuts or silk ribbons. (Although, if he found a few of those candies Meng Yao liked… he could always leave them at the door to his room, even if Nie Huaisang wasn’t permitted to see him.)
His eyes flicked over the stalls with practiced ease, cataloging their offerings without breaking stride. He stopped occasionally to inspect a trinket or inquire about a price, his disarming smile drawing the attention of vendors and passersby alike. It was a calculated performance, one he had perfected over years of being underestimated. But behind the mask of frivolity, his thoughts were razor-sharp, his mind churning with questions that needed answers.
He finally reached a small tea vendor’s stall tucked into a quieter corner of the market. Jars of tea leaves sat neatly arranged on the wooden shelves, their contents labeled in precise handwriting. The vendor, an older man with sharp eyes and a weathered face, looked up as Nie Huaisang approached, his expression shifting into a polite smile.
“Ah,” Nie Huaisang said lightly, picking up a small bag of jasmine tea. He turned it over in his hands, pretending to inspect the label as his fan tapped idly against his wrist. “This one looks quite good. Do you supply to the Unclean Realm?”
The vendor straightened slightly, his expression tinged with a hint of pride. “We do, Young Master Huaisang,” he replied. “Your kitchens receive regular deliveries.”
“Hmm.” Nie Huaisang tilted his head, his fan tapping against his chin in a thoughtful gesture. “You must be very popular, then. Do you supply to other sects as well? The Jin, perhaps?”
The vendor hesitated, his hands pausing mid-motion as he reached for another bag of tea. His sharp eyes flicked briefly over Nie Huaisang’s face before he nodded. “We… do business with many clients,” he said carefully. “The Jin Sect included.”
“Ah, I see,” Nie Huaisang said, his tone light and unassuming. He leaned closer, lowering his voice just enough to seem conspiratorial. “Then you must be quite familiar with their preferences. Did they happen to place an order around the same time as our last shipment from Yunping?”
The vendor’s brow furrowed, his gaze flickering to the side as though weighing his words. “I’m not sure, Young Master,” he said slowly. “I’d have to check my records.”
Nie Huaisang’s smile widened, the picture of good-natured curiosity, though his eyes remained sharp and calculating. He waved a hand, breezy and dismissive. “Oh, no need for that,” he said, his tone light and playful. “It’s just—well, I think some of their tea ended up with our order.”
The vendor blinked, startled. “With your order?”
“Yes, yes, but don’t worry—I’m not upset!” Nie Huaisang said quickly, a hint of laughter in his voice as he leaned in, lowering his voice as though sharing a secret. “I actually liked it. That’s why I’m asking.”
The vendor relaxed slightly, though a flicker of uncertainty lingered in his expression. “I see,” he said cautiously. “The Yunping blend is… very popular. I suppose it’s possible the orders were close together.”
Nie Huaisang nodded thoughtfully, tapping his fan against his chin in an absentminded rhythm. “Close together, you say? Hmm, yes, that would make sense.” He tilted his head, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “So you don’t separate the orders immediately? That must be quite a hassle, especially with how many clients you have.”
The vendor hesitated, his hand hovering over a jar of oolong tea. “We do our best to keep things organized,” he said carefully, his tone guarded. “But… well, sometimes there’s overlap. Especially with the larger orders.”
“Ah, yes, I can imagine,” Nie Huaisang said with a sympathetic nod. “And the Jin Sect—such a large sect. Their orders must be enormous.”
The vendor gave a nervous chuckle, his shoulders relaxing just a fraction. “They are,” he admitted. “Quite demanding, too. Their servants come in with exacting instructions. We always try to accommodate, of course.”
Nie Huaisang’s fan snapped shut, the sound sharp but not alarming. “Of course,” he echoed, his tone light and understanding. “It must be quite the challenge, keeping track of everything. Do they send the same servant each time?”
The vendor paused, his brow furrowing again. “Not always,” he said after a moment. “But there is one—a young man, I think—who comes more often than the others. He was the one who picked up their last order.”
Nie Huaisang’s eyes gleamed, though his expression remained as amiable as ever. “Really? How fascinating. And he came just before our tea was delivered, you said?”
“Yes,” the vendor confirmed, his tone uncertain. “But I assure you, Young Master, there was no mistake in your order. If there was any crossover, it would have been purely coincidental.”
“Of course, of course,” Nie Huaisang said smoothly, reaching into his sleeve and pulling out a few coins. “I’m sure everything was handled perfectly. Here—this is for the jasmine tea.”
The vendor accepted the payment with a small bow, though his unease lingered as Nie Huaisang turned away, his fan snapping open with a soft flutter. He strolled back into the bustling crowd, his steps unhurried and his smile as lazy as ever.
But inside, his mind was racing.
A Jin servant. Just before Meng Yao’s tea arrived.
Nie Huaisang’s fingers tightened around the bag of jasmine tea as he weaved through the market. His expression didn’t falter, his mask firmly in place, but his thoughts were anything but idle.
“Well,” he murmured under his breath, his voice lost in the din of the market. “That’s a thread worth pulling.”
He twirled his fan once, a faint smirk tugging at the corners of his lips as he disappeared into the crowd, already plotting his next move.
Later that evening, Nie Huaisang sat cross-legged in the aviary, the bag of jasmine tea resting beside him. The soft glow of lantern light danced across the room, casting long, flickering shadows against the wooden walls. Outside, the birds were quiet, their soft rustling barely audible over the faint whistle of the wind.
He wasn’t drinking the tea; he hadn’t even opened it. Instead, he stared at the ledger spread out before him, his brush poised above the paper but unmoving. His thoughts swirled like ink in water, the conversation with the vendor replaying in his mind over and over again.
A Jin Sect servant. A suspiciously timed order. And the lingering question of whether Meng Yao’s poisoning had truly been intended as a message—or as something far more sinister.
Nie Huaisang’s fan lay folded at his side, forgotten in the stillness. His fingers twitched slightly, aching to tap out his usual rhythm, but he forced them to remain still. There was no room for distraction now.
His gaze drifted to the bag of tea. The vendor’s words echoed in his mind: A Jin servant picked up their order just before yours.
It was a delicate thread, fragile and easily overlooked, but Nie Huaisang had never been one to ignore the seemingly insignificant. Jin Guangshan was meticulous—an expert at hiding his intentions behind layers of plausible deniability. If there was one thing Huaisang understood about his father’s old rival, it was that nothing he did was coincidental.
His fingers tightened around the ledger’s edge as he flipped back a few pages, scanning the entries for inconsistencies. There—a discrepancy in the weight of the tea delivered compared to the amount ordered. A minor detail, easily dismissed by anyone who wasn’t looking for it. But Nie Huaisang was looking for it.
His lips curved into a faint, humorless smile. “You always overestimate yourself, Jin Guangshan,” he murmured under his breath. “You think no one’s paying attention.”
He set the ledger aside, picking up the painting beside him. The magpie he had been working on earlier was now fully formed, its wings spread in mid-flight. Every feather had been painted with delicate precision, the strokes soft and deliberate. But beneath it, the branch it perched on was plain, almost barren.
Nie Huaisang’s gaze sharpened. With a quick, decisive motion, he dipped his brush into the inkstone and added a single thorn to the branch—a subtle addition, easily overlooked unless one was paying attention.
“Let’s see how you like it when the trap turns on you,” he murmured, his voice as soft and sharp as the feathered lines on the page.
The magpie stared back at him, its painted wings frozen in the act of taking flight. It was a creature that thrived in chaos, clever and resourceful. Fitting, Nie Huaisang thought, setting the brush down with care.
He leaned back, letting his gaze drift to the aviary’s ceiling. Above him, the birds stirred faintly, their movements a quiet reassurance. They were always watching, always listening—just like him. And like him, they would strike when the time was right.
His smile returned, soft and inscrutable, as he closed the ledger and tucked it neatly under his arm. There was still work to be done, threads to weave into a trap Jin Guangshan wouldn’t see until it was too late.
But for now, Nie Huaisang let himself sit in the quiet, the magpie’s sharp gaze his only companion.