"How long have you knelt?"
Shen Junqi's voice came up raw and low from the floor. He did not straighten his spine. His palms rested on the mats. Snow tapped the threshold beyond the open doors.
"Three hours, Your Majesty," he said. "Four by my count, if the last bell counted."
A murmur ran through the ministers. Footsteps shifted on stone. Minister Zhao Liang's laugh cut the murmur.
"Four hours and still breathing," Zhao said. "We thank the Empress for the show, but a live head is a dangerous head. The capital will not forgive us if we spare him."
"Execution," another minister supplied. "Public. The old banners must be stained again so everyone remembers rebellion ends in blood."
Zhou Zhuheng did not rise from the throne. Her hands lay flat on the arms. Miao Yi waited at her left, face unreadable.
"Your arguments are recorded," Zhou said. "Save them for the record."
Zhao straightened as if wounded by the suggestion. "Is this not a time for judgment? Mercy now will be read as weakness. The north still burns in memory."
"Is that a request or a threat?" Zhou asked.
"Both." Zhao's smile narrowed. "The court must unite around punishment. It must be fast, public, and final."
"If you want a spectacle," Zhou said, "you will find me hard to please."
Silence pressed at the edges of the hall. A servant stamped fresh snow from his boots and bowed so low his forehead nearly touched the steps
