The Imperial Kitchen fell into panic the moment the decree arrived.
"Decide for yourselves?" Chief Steward Li frowned so deeply his brows nearly knotted together. "What does His Majesty mean by that? Is he displeased with the previous night meals? Or…?"
His gaze shifted to Chef Zhang, heavy with pressure.
Chef Zhang remained outwardly calm, but his heart was already churning.
Last night's incident—the calming cake mistakenly sent before the Emperor—had already been confessed by Qing Tian in trembling whispers. He had not scolded her harshly, only warned her never to let it happen again.
Yet now…
This vague, dangerous imperial decree could not be a coincidence.
The Emperor had noticed.
And worse—he had been intrigued.
That kind of attention was never a blessing inside palace walls. For someone like Qing Tian, who carried secrets and a dangerously gentle heart, it could be fatal.
"The will of the Son of Heaven is not something we can guess," Chef Zhang said slowly. "But he did say 'light and agreeable.' That part is clear. Perhaps His Majesty is weary of overindulgence and wants something simpler, more genuine. We should focus on that, not invent meanings where none are given."
Chief Steward Li hesitated, then nodded. "Very well. From now on, the Imperial Study's night meals will follow that principle. Fresh seasonal ingredients. Clean flavors. No excessive decoration."
The burden quietly shifted.
What had once been a routine assignment—Fu Hai's responsibility—became a perilous honor. Do well, and it is expected. Do poorly, and it becomes misreading the Emperor's will.
For Qing Tian, the pressure was far heavier.
She knew with terrifying certainty:
That decree existed because of her cake.
Master Zhang's "decide for yourselves" was both permission and protection.
Permission to continue cooking food that carried intention.
Protection to hide her within the collective effort of the Imperial Kitchen.
And a test—to see whether she could walk the blade's edge without falling.
So she observed. She listened. She felt.
She combined what she learned from The Compendium of Ingredients, from Granny Chen's folk wisdom, and from her strange ability to sense the quiet emotions inside food itself.
On cold early-spring nights, she suggested a clear chicken broth with the fat skimmed away, gently simmered with soft tofu and fine-cut greens—a small bowl of "Jade and Snow Soup" to warm the stomach without burdening it.
When the Emperor worked late and weariness clouded his eyes, she used lily bulbs for their cleansing calm and osmanthus for their soothing fragrance, grinding them into rice flour and steaming them into a soft cake dusted with candied blossoms—"Golden Petal Harmony Cake."
Some nights, the offerings were even simpler:
A perfectly roasted sweet potato, caramelized on the outside and tender within.
Honey-glazed lotus root slices, crisp and refreshing.
Or a single cup of tangerine-peel and ginger tea to drive away the cold.
She abandoned ornate technique. She no longer chased beauty for its own sake.
All she cared about was one thing—
How the food made someone feel the moment it touched their tongue.
Every time she cooked, she focused until the world fell away, guiding the hidden "moods" of each ingredient until they blended into something peaceful, something healing.
None of these dishes bore her name.
They were presented as the work of the Imperial Kitchen.
Qing Tian remained invisible—a quiet presence behind a curtain—speaking to the loneliest man in the empire through nothing but taste.
And Tang Yi noticed.
The night meals began to change.
They were no longer predictable. Each evening brought something subtle yet strangely perfect for his state of mind. Gentle warmth when he was exhausted. Light sweetness when he was tense. Steady comfort on bitter nights.
His insomnia did not vanish—but it loosened its grip.
Those unassuming dishes, so humble in appearance, felt like invisible hands pressing gently against the walls closing in around him, giving him just enough space to breathe.
Tang Yi became certain:
Somewhere in the Imperial Kitchen, there was a special pair of hands.
A special heart.
And without even realizing it, he began to look forward to each night's offering—
like waiting for a silent friend who somehow always understood him.