The imperial capital was quiet, but not peaceful. Whispers skittered like rats in the alleys, and even the courtiers, cloaked in silks and powdered decorum, walked with warier steps. At the heart of the palace, where light glinted off golden latticework and jade columns, unease festered just beneath the surface.
Prince Jian, silent and sharp-eyed, moved like a shadow between those glimmers of luxury. Since his return from the outer provinces, he had said little in court, offering only the necessary courtesies to the Queen and her loyalists. The rumors of unrest strange disappearances, whole villages gone silent were not discussed openly in the Grand Hall. Queen Lian ensured the mood remained festive, cloaking decay in the perfume of celebration.
But Jian had seen the truth beyond the walls. And he could not sleep.
That night, wrapped in a plain cloak and escorted by no guards, he made his way to the restricted wing of the Imperial Archives. The guards at the gate gave him wary glances, recognizing him but unsure whether to allow entry. He met their eyes steadily.
"My father granted me full access to the records," he said, voice calm. "As Crown Prince, that privilege has not changed."
Reluctantly, they stepped aside.
The archives were colder than he remembered, and darker. Candles flickered in iron sconces along the walls, and dust hung thick in the air like forgotten time. Scrolls lay stacked on shelves, ledgers bound in fading leather, edicts sealed with the marks of dead emperors.
Jian moved with precision, heading for the health records of the outer provinces. His fingers brushed along the edges of ancient scrolls herbal remedies, plague reports, agricultural statistics. Many were benign.
But one scroll, newer than most, caught his eye. It had no official seal.
He unrolled it slowly. The ink was hastily scrawled, the brushstrokes unrefined a field report from a physician posted to Yinfang village, near the mountain ranges. The name struck him. That village had been among the first to go dark.
"The dead rise. Not fever, not madness true death, and return. Biting. Flesh tearing. We burn them, but they return again. No help from the capital. This is no illness known to man. Heaven have mercy."
Jian's pulse quickened. He scanned further. There were more notes clipped, desperate describing a growing outbreak, and then silence. No signature. No final mark.
He folded the scroll carefully and slipped it into his sleeve.
As he turned to leave, he noticed something even more unsettling, a series of missing entries. The health logs for several villages had been removed entirely. Not blank ripped out. The gaps were deliberate.
"Someone's erasing them," he murmured.
Back in his chambers, Jian lit a solitary candle and unrolled the scroll again, studying the brushstrokes, the dialect. There was something oddly familiar. The script resembled that of the old physician who had served his mother before she died. A man named Han Lu.
He was supposed to be dead.
Jian paced the room, thoughts spiraling. If Han Lu had survived long enough to send reports, why had no one informed the court? Unless... the reports never reached them. Or someone had intercepted them.
A knock interrupted his thoughts.
He tucked the scroll away and called out. "Enter."
It was Lady Xue, one of the Queen's court attendants. Her eyes were lowered, but her voice was steady.
"Your Highness, the Queen requests your presence tomorrow morning. A private tea."
Jian narrowed his gaze. "Does she now?"
Lady Xue hesitated, then added in a softer voice, "She knows you've been visiting places after dark."
A beat of silence passed between them.
"Thank you, Lady Xue," he said at last. "You may go."
After she left, Jian sat in the candlelight for a long time, considering what the Queen might know. Or worse what she was hiding.
Morning came with golden sunlight and veiled tension. Jian entered the Queen's private pavilion through the east garden. Everything was as beautiful as ever peonies blooming, koi gliding beneath crystalline water, a table set with delicate porcelain. The Queen sat beneath a cherry tree in full bloom, her silk robe glimmering like frost-touched fire.
"Jian," she greeted, smiling with warmth that felt too perfect. "You look thinner. Is the palace food not to your liking?"
"I've had much to think about," he replied, bowing.
She poured tea with precise elegance. "The burdens of inheritance," she said, handing him a cup. "You were always too serious."
He sipped carefully. Jasmine and something else bitterness beneath sweetness.
"I visited the archives last night," he said.
Her hand paused, just briefly, before she set the teapot down.
"Curious as ever," she said with a chuckle. "Find anything interesting?"
"I found a village report," he said, eyes on her. "Yinfang. You remember it?"
Her smile didn't falter, but her eyes cooled slightly.
"I receive dozens of reports, dear prince. Which one do you mean?"
"The one from Han Lu."
The name was a knife thrown lightly across the table.
The Queen tilted her head. "He's been dead for years."
"Not when the report was written."
For a moment, silence bloomed like frost. Then, she set down her teacup.
"Conspiracies are dangerous, Jian," she said softly. "Especially when fear drives them. The people look to the palace for calm, not panic."
He stood. "The people also look for truth."
She rose as well, her poise unshaken. "And you will give it to them? Based on rumors? On a half-burnt scroll and fear in your eyes?"
His jaw tightened. "I will find out what's happening. With or without your approval."
She stepped closer, the faint scent of jasmine clinging to her robes. "Careful, my prince. Truth is a mirror. And sometimes, when it breaks, it cuts even those who only sought to look."
Jian turned and left without another word.