"The words she left behind were not prayers, they were warnings."
The Hall of Imperial Poetry was rarely used except for occasions of ritual remembrance, and tonight, it was draped in solemn elegance. Crimson silk curtains lined the chamber, and golden lanterns swayed gently above the heads of gathered nobles.
A large portrait of Empress Yingwen had been unfurled at the front — a depiction of grace and silence. The Empress had been beloved in public, but her sudden death twelve years ago had silenced more than just a heart. It had buried stories. Secrets. Perhaps even sins.
Tonight was her memorial — the only night the palace dared speak her name aloud.
Among the bustling preparation of the banquet, Mo Lianyin stood in line with five other palace maids. Her face was calm, but her chest tightened with every breath.
She had not been told where she was assigned.
Only that she was to serve a special guest.
A eunuch approached. "Mo Lianyin — Hall of Poetry. You're to serve Prince Ruiyan directly."
She blinked.
That… wasn't expected.
Across the marble floor, Prince Ruiyan entered in full court attire — ink-black robes embroidered with silver clouds and chrysanthemums. Unlike the other princes, he wore no gold, no jade, no peacock feathers. Yet he drew the eye of everyone present.
Even those who feared him couldn't ignore him.
He took his seat at the outer table — the one reserved for princes not directly in line for the throne. Not quite honored. Not quite forgotten.
And then he saw her.
Mo Lianyin, approaching with a porcelain wine flask, her head lowered, footsteps precise.
She didn't look at him. Not until she poured the wine and whispered just above the sound of the zither:
"There's something you need to hear."
He barely tilted his head. "Then speak."
She didn't.
Instead, she turned — and slipped a small silk paper beside his cup. He caught it before the wind could take it.
It's not the poems they recite that hold the truth, it read.
It's the one they won't recite.
He looked up. But she was already walking away.
At the front, Grand Chancellor Yu rose with the ceremony scroll. "In honor of Her Majesty Empress Yingwen, may her words remind us of virtue."
He cleared his throat, and read the first poem.
"A river flows where no oars touch,
A shadow guards the sleeping jade.
A smile turns back a thousand knives,
Yet silence buries every blade."
The court applauded politely. The chancellor recited two more — each one echoing the elegance the Empress was known for.
But Ruiyan knew something was missing.
He turned the silk note in his sleeve.
It's the one they won't recite.
And then… he remembered.
Twelve years ago, the Empress had given him a calligraphy scroll on his eleventh birthday. A poem — strange, sad, and beautiful.
It had only four lines.
"They took the child and burned her name,
Buried the truth in chrysanthemum flame.
One lives in robes, one dies in straw —
And none shall rise without the flaw."
He had asked his tutor what it meant. The tutor had shaken his head and said, "Do not repeat those words."
Now, he finally understood.
It was not a poem.
It was a confession.
At that moment, Lady Zhenluo entered.
She had arrived late, draped in moon-white robes embroidered with golden phoenixes — a color she rarely wore. Her arrival stilled the air.
The court bowed.
Ruiyan watched her carefully.
Zhenluo's expression was neutral, eyes cast downward in respect — but when she raised them, they met his with a softness so calculated, he could feel the weight behind it.
Then she walked toward the Emperor's altar and offered the silk sash — the one taken from Empress Yingwen's tomb.
There was a brief ripple of shock in the court, though no one dared speak.
But Zhenluo's voice was clear:
"Let the Empress rest with her words — and with those who remember them."
Ruiyan's hands closed into fists.
After the ceremony, in the outer courtyard, Ruiyan waited alone beneath the shadow of a plum tree. It was nearly winter, and no blossoms had bloomed yet.
But someone came anyway.
Lianyin stepped into the moonlight, holding nothing in her hands — not even a fan. Just the silence between them.
"You knew the poem," he said.
She nodded. "Because she taught it to me."
He stepped forward slowly. "Twelve years ago… you were in the palace."
"I don't know," she replied. "All I remember is fire. Then running. Then hiding."
Ruiyan exhaled. "Then tell me this—do you remember the woman who sang lullabies to you?"
Lianyin's voice caught. "…Yes."
"What did she call you?"
She looked up. "Not by name. Just…" Her voice cracked. "Just Yinyin."
For a long moment, Prince Ruiyan said nothing.
Then: "That's what the Empress called me."
Their eyes met — and in that instant, it was no longer a matter of who Lianyin was.
It was a matter of why she had survived.