"There are truths people only speak when they believe the walls can't hear."
The fever came in waves.
By evening, Xu Feiran lay beneath three layers of quilts, her skin flushed and cold at once, her body aching in places she hadn't thought could ache. The fall into the pond had not gone without consequence. The court physician had returned twice, applied poultices to her wrists and ankles, placed drops of bitter tincture under her tongue, and muttered something about "the body retaliating when it has been too quiet for too long."
She didn't sleep.
Not truly.
But the world around her folded in strange ways—silk stretching across walls that weren't hers, voices speaking in half-thoughts, colors bleeding into sound.
Yue'er had been sitting beside her since sunset. Each time Feiran opened her eyes, Yue'er was there, holding a damp cloth to her forehead, whispering words that didn't always make sense but still soothed.
Once, Feiran murmured, "They want me soft."
Yue'er replied, "Then break gently."
And Feiran fell back into heat.
It must have been past midnight when she heard the first voice.
Low. Male. Controlled.
Familiar.
The Crown Prince.
At first, she thought she was dreaming him. Her fever conjuring a version of him that finally came close. Finally explained.
But then came the second voice.
Softer. Smoother.
Meilin.
And this was no dream.
Feiran was too weak to rise, but her mind sharpened suddenly, the fog parting for a single purpose: to listen.
The voices came from behind the folding silk screen that separated her chamber from the outer study—a place where guests could wait, or speak in hushed tones before entering. She was certain Yue'er had stepped out only moments ago to fetch more cloths. She must not have seen them arrive.
Feiran turned her face slightly toward the screen and waited.
"…you didn't need to come," the Crown Prince was saying. His tone was low, even.
Meilin's answer was light. "She almost drowned. Surely I can offer a prayer."
"She is not dead."
A pause.
"No," Meilin said, "but something in her is beginning to rot, don't you think?"
Feiran's breath slowed.
The prince didn't respond.
"You sent her wine," Meilin added after a moment.
"It was her name on the toast."
"But not your hand that raised it."
Another pause.
"You gave me your cloak," she said, voice quiet. "The red one."
The prince said nothing.
"You don't deny it?"
"No."
Feiran blinked.
Her throat was tight. She tried not to breathe.
"She saw," Meilin said. "Did you know?"
Silence.
"She saw you place it over my shoulders."
Still, nothing.
Then the prince spoke.
"What do you want from me, Meilin?"
The tone was tired. Or practiced. It was hard to tell.
"Truth," Meilin said. "Or lies, if you've already made your choice."
"This is not the place."
"She can't hear us."
Feiran's fingers curled beneath the coverlet.
Meilin's voice dropped into something silkier.
"When I was seventeen, you told me I was like snow."
"I remember."
"Because I disappeared the moment you touched me."
The silence between them turned sharp.
"You made promises," Meilin said. "Before she ever entered the picture."
"And I've kept them."
"You married her."
"For the empire."
"But you look at her like she might come undone."
Feiran stared at the ceiling.
Even now, her breath was even. Her body still. She had been trained for silence before she ever learned how to speak.
The Crown Prince replied, his voice harder.
"You don't know what I see when I look at her."
A pause.
"Then tell me," Meilin said.
He didn't answer.
And that, more than anything, answered everything.
The next voice was quieter.
"She doesn't trust me," Meilin said after a long silence.
"Should she?"
"You used to say I was your shield."
"That was before you became her mirror."
Feiran felt the breath catch in her throat.
There it was.
Not said to her. But said near her. Near enough to wound.
Yue'er returned then. The door opened softly, and footsteps crossed the floor toward the inner chamber.
Feiran heard Meilin's voice shift. "You'll stay here?"
"A while longer," the prince replied.
"I'll see myself out."
Her footsteps were light. Confident.
They passed directly beside Feiran's side of the screen.
She imagined Meilin's eyes flicking toward the bed.
She imagined her pausing—just long enough to wonder if Feiran was listening.
But Meilin said nothing.
Just the soft swish of robes and a closing door.
A moment later, the curtain between the bed and the outer chamber stirred gently.
Then the prince stepped through.
He looked tired. His outer robe had been removed, and the inner one hung loosely around his shoulders. His hair was slightly mussed at the temple. His eyes—dark and unreadable—fell on her face.
He did not know she'd been awake.
He crossed to the edge of the bed and sat, careful not to disturb the blanket.
Then he just… looked at her.
The silence stretched.
Feiran kept her breathing even. Slow. She let her eyelids rest half-closed. Not asleep. Not quite awake.
After a moment, he leaned forward slightly.
And spoke.
"You are more dangerous than she is," he whispered.
Feiran's heart slowed. Not from peace.
From cold.
"Because you do not try to be loved. Only remembered."
She said nothing.
She couldn't.
"I don't know which one of you will survive this," he said quietly. "But it won't be me."
He rose.
Left without another word.
When Yue'er entered seconds later, Feiran was still lying in perfect stillness.
"Niangniang," Yue'er said gently, kneeling at her side, "your fever has started to break."
Feiran opened her eyes.
They were clear. Focused.
"Did anyone come?" she asked.
Yue'er blinked. "I stepped out for only a moment. I didn't see."
Feiran looked toward the silk screen.
"I heard them," she said.
Yue'er followed her gaze.
"You're sure?"
Feiran nodded once.
"He called me a memory."
Yue'er frowned. "Is that an insult?"
Feiran looked up at her.
"No," she whispered. "It's a confession."
That night, the fever did break.
But not before one final dream.
She stood in a courtyard of mirrors. Each one reflecting a different version of herself.
In one: she was dressed as a queen.
In another: she was dressed as a maid.
In the last: she wore no face at all.
She reached toward it—
And woke up.