"Some fires burn quickly. Others wait in silence, smoldering until they consume everything."
The Moon Courtyard was cloaked in frost when Prince Ruiyan collapsed.
Not in the audience hall.
Not before the Emperor.
But hours later, alone, after the poison had finished dancing through his veins.
He had walked away from the council as if untouched. He had spoken to no one. Given no orders. Left no words.
But in the garden behind his private study, as the wind stirred dead leaves into the air, his knees buckled.
He fell soundlessly onto the stone path.
The only witness was a single white chrysanthemum blooming from a crack in the wall.
By the next morning, the palace was whispering.
"The third prince has taken ill."
"They say it's a fever."
"No, poison—surely poison."
"But why would anyone harm him? He never even seeks the throne."
In the Fragrance Chamber, Lady Zhenluo poured tea with perfect grace. Not a flicker of emotion passed across her face.
Even as her handmaiden bowed low beside her and whispered, "Your Grace… he's still alive."
Zhenluo did not look up.
She only said softly, "Then he must be afraid."
The girl frowned. "Afraid of what?"
Zhenluo's voice turned cold.
"Of the truth that nearly killed him."
In the Southern Garden, Lianyin gripped her sleeves until her palms turned white.
She had spent the morning searching for Ruiyan's manservant, but the prince's quarters were sealed by order of the Emperor. No visitors. No letters. No answers.
She returned to her quarters only to find an envelope slipped beneath her door.
Inside, a note in Ruiyan's careful brushstroke:
"The fire did not kill me. Not yet.
Go to the lotus pond. Beneath the bridge, you will find what she left behind."
No signature.
But she knew.
She ran.
At the Lotus Pavilion, the pond was half-frozen, and the edges shimmered with fragile ice. Lianyin knelt on the old bridge and looked down. The water beneath was murky and black — but in the shallows, where the mud had begun to shift from the season's chill, something pale and rectangular emerged from the silt.
She reached in.
A small wooden box, lacquer faded and cracked with age.
Inside it, wrapped in red silk, was a sealed letter — the wax bearing the insignia of the late Empress Yingwen.
Her hands shook as she opened it.
The letter was not long.
"To the child I could not keep,
You were never meant to be forgotten. They told me you died in the fire. But I always believed… one would return.
If you hold this letter, then know this: the rebellion was not what they said. The truth sleeps within the records burned by my own hand.
The crown is stained. And I am no martyr.
Seek the scroll hidden behind the painting in the Hall of Falling Leaves. And trust no woman who speaks sweetly in white."
Lianyin's breath caught.
She knew who wore white.
Always white.
Lady Zhenluo.
That night, Zhenluo entered the Emperor's private study unannounced — something only two women in the court could do.
She walked with her head slightly bowed, fingers curled into the fabric of her sleeve. Her robe today was not moon-white, but pale blue — a sign of mourning.
The Emperor sat at his desk, staring at an old scroll. He did not look up.
Zhenluo approached slowly, then knelt.
"I heard of Prince Ruiyan," she said softly. "May Heaven preserve his health."
The Emperor's voice was brittle. "The gods do not concern themselves with quiet men."
"He drank the tea meant for you."
"I know."
There was silence.
Then Zhenluo spoke again — this time, without the gentle tone.
"She's still alive."
That made him look up.
His eyes narrowed. "Who?"
Zhenluo met his gaze. "The child of the Southern Flame. The girl you believed burned in the rebellion."
The Emperor stood slowly. His robe brushed against the floor like thunder wrapped in silk.
"Are you certain?"
"She bears the mark. She carries the voice. And now, she has your son."
The Emperor's hand curled around the edge of his desk.
"Then kill her," he said.
But Zhenluo shook her head. "No."
His eyes narrowed. "You defy me?"
"I preserve you," she said, stepping forward. "If we kill her now, the prince will turn against you. The ministers will ask questions. The court will divide. And war will begin."
She smiled faintly.
"But if we let her believe she is safe… she will come to us willingly. And when she does—"
She raised her hand slowly and crushed a chrysanthemum petal in her palm.
"She will fall… like all the others."