The snow had stopped falling, but the chill it left behind clung like breath on glass.
Inside YongShen hall, no one dared call it unease—but the air had changed. Conversations shortened. Servants bowed deeper, their eyes dropping not in respect, but in avoidance.
Messengers arrived with little explanation and left with none.
Lianhua had lived long enough in a court to know that silence could be louder than war drums.
That morning, Wei An entered her study with a scroll in his hand and a look she hadn't seen before—cautious, guarded.
"My Lady," he said, "A request came from the capital. It bears the crown prince's seal."
Lianhua took the scroll. The wax bore the distinct mark of the imperial phoenix—nothing unusual. But the words inside felt... Off.
"The court hears the north grows colder. It is the warmth of duty that should preserve loyalty.
May you remain ever watchful."
There was no request. No instruction. Only a veiled warning.
Lianhua read it twice, then folded it slowly.
"They've begun playing their own game," she said.
Wei An looked grim. "They think your presence here means Lord Shen is gathering a second court."
"He's not," she replied. Fourth Prince Lujian laughed too easily.
He had arrived unannounced with three carriages, citing that he was "inspecting supply lines on behalf of the court." He spoke with honey, poured wine for the officers, and praised the snow lanterns as if he'd never seen light before.
When Lianhua entered with Zhenli, Lujian rose and bowed low.
"Sister-in-law," he said, "You wear leadership as gracefully as silk."
Zhenli grumbled beside her. "His compliments always taste like poison wrapped in sugar."
But Lianhua only smiled and said nothing.
Later that night, Malati remained unusually quiet. She folded Lianhua's robe with care, but her eyes seemed far away.
"Is something troubling you?" Lianhua asked gently.
Malati blinked, hesitated—then shook her head.
"No, my Lady. Nothing."
But her hands trembled when she placed the hairpin down.
Two days passed.
Then came the rumour.
A courier from the capital brought word—an anonymous account whispered in the wine halls of the southern court:
"The crown prince has begun to speak in private of Lord Shen's ambitions. That he grows bold in his solitude. That he prepares for something... Final."
Zhao Yue spat into the snow when he heard it.
"The crown prince has no love for this estate," he muttered. "And yet now he speaks as if he's its keeper?"
Captain Yuchi folded his arms. "If we reply, we admit concern. If we stay silent, they'll fill the void with lies."
"What does Lord Shen say?" Lianhua asked.
Zhao shook his head. "He says nothing. As always."
That evening, Lianhua stood before the ledger hall, watching the frost form spider-web patterns on the floor tiles. She thought of the scroll. The whispers. Malati's silence. Lujian's flattery.
And Liwei —who still hadn't spoken to her since the night she brought him the white flower.
Only the lamp in his hall remained lit through each night.
There is a kind of stillness that doesn't bring peace.
The kind that comes before a landslide.