"Some betrayals do not need to be spoken. They wear red and they don't look away."
The snow fell in perfect silence, like secrets descending from the sky.
Xu Feiran walked alone along the garden path that curved around the east pond, her boots barely leaving imprints on the powder-soft ground. The palace roofs were blanketed in white, their red tiles dulled beneath the frost. Even the wind had quieted, as if the whole world had drawn in a breath it was afraid to let go.
She had not meant to walk far. A moment of air, she told Yue'er. Just a short turn about the outer grounds to quiet her thoughts.
But her feet led her deeper than planned.
Beyond the carved moon gates. Past the winter-killed wisteria vines. Into the lesser-used gardens near the Crown Prince's personal quarters—where nobles did not linger, and ministers knew to keep their eyes low.
The snow here was untouched. Cleaner. Softer.
And that was when she saw them.
At first, they were just figures at a distance.
One stood tall, facing away, dressed in heavy black robes embroidered with dark thread. His bearing unmistakable. The Crown Prince.
The other—Meilin.
She stood half-turned toward him, her arms folded tight against the cold. Her expression was tilted upward, eyes wide, face half-shrouded by falling snow. Her mouth moved as if saying something light, teasing.
Feiran could not hear the words.
She did not need to.
The moment stretched.
Then he moved.
Without a word, the Crown Prince removed the red cloak from his shoulders—thick, lined with fox fur—and draped it over Meilin's with a slow, careful gesture.
Not ceremonial. Not obligated.
Personal.
Intimate.
His hand lingered briefly at her shoulder before dropping away.
And that, more than anything, told Feiran the truth.
Not because he touched her.
But because of how gently he let go.
He turned.
His gaze fell directly on Feiran.
For a moment, time did not move.
Snow caught between them like ash suspended in light.
Meilin turned slowly, her expression unreadable. The cloak hung beautifully on her frame, swaddling her in warmth she had not earned.
Feiran did not flinch.
She stood still. Straight. Silent.
And watched.
The Crown Prince's eyes held hers.
They did not widen. They did not shift.
He did not smile. He did not frown.
He only watched her.
And Feiran, after one long, precise breath, gave the smallest of bows.
A bow so slight it could have been mistaken for nothing.
And turned.
She walked away without a word.
She did not hurry. She did not look back.
Yue'er was waiting just inside the threshold of Feiran's quarters when she returned. She straightened as Feiran stepped inside, her hands clutching a warm cloak she had been meaning to bring.
"You were gone long," Yue'er said. "Did you—?"
Feiran raised a hand.
"I'm fine."
Her voice was even. Almost gentle.
But something in it made Yue'er stop.
Feiran removed her outer robe, shook off the snow, and crossed the room to the low table where the lacquered box containing Meilin's scroll still sat.
She opened it.
The painting stared back up at her. The courtyard pavilion. The crooked lantern.
She traced it once with her finger.
Then calmly, deliberately, she reached for the candle beside her and tipped it sideways.
The flame touched the edge of the paper.
It caught instantly.
Yue'er gasped.
Feiran didn't move.
The scroll burned in silence—ink curling into smoke, the memory devoured by fire in a matter of moments.
When it was gone, Feiran looked up.
Her voice was still quiet.
"Bring me the red robe," she said.
Yue'er blinked. "What—?"
"The winter ceremonial robe. The one with the high collar and silver crane motif."
"But Niangniang, that's for—"
"For mourning."
Feiran's lips curved slightly.
"But it's cold, isn't it? And the court sees what it chooses."
Yue'er did not argue.
She left to fetch the robe.
Feiran stood alone, staring into the ash.
In the courtyard outside, the snow began to fall harder.
That night, Feiran sat at her desk and wrote nothing.
No letters.
No poems.
No entries.
She placed her brush aside and stared into the mirror.
The woman who stared back wore no sadness on her face.
Only stillness.
And somewhere behind that stillness, something waiting to bloom.
Something not meant for spring.