The Palace, Day 7.
The silence surrounding Xie Lan's absence had begun to ferment.
In the polished halls of the Vermilion Pavilion, courtiers moved softer than usual — not from fear, but anticipation. The kind of stillness that comes before a trap is sprung, or before a throne is claimed.
Some whispered that the Prince had lost favor at last. That he had fled after offending the Emperor one final time. Others insisted the opposite — that he was too quiet, too still, like the surface of a lake moments before it swallowed someone whole.
In the Eastern Hall, the First Consort had not changed her daily incense offering, but her personal guard had doubled. She no longer accepted handwritten messages.
In the Inner Sanctum, the Empress met only with her shadow aides. Her son, the Crown Prince, had not been seen in public since the Fifth Day.
And in the kitchens, the maids folded napkins tighter and tied ribbons lower. Servants had learned that even idle talk could be fatal, especially now.
None dared speak his name too loudly.
But all knew whom they meant.
---
Beneath the Scholar's Courtyard.
A breeze passed through the corridor — cold, metallic. The kind of wind that didn't belong indoors.
Xie Lan sat alone in the chamber below the floorboards, surrounded by aged scrolls and unfinished ink. A single lantern glowed beside him, casting long shadows across his features.
He hadn't left this place in seven days.
Not entirely by choice.
But not unwillingly either.
---
His robes were simpler now. His hands calloused from sleepless nights training with the dagger his mother had left behind. It rested at his side — familiar, sharp.
The seal from the Fifth Day's letter remained pinned inside his sleeve. He had memorized the contents. Burned the rest.
And still, he found himself reaching for it in his mind, again and again.
"You are not their target. But they will make you one."
The Crown Prince…
The Hall of Stars…
The Empress's Shadow Court…
Too many masks. Not enough names.
---
He dipped his brush into ink.
But this time, he didn't write a report.
He didn't chart suspicions.
He wrote her name.
"Ruoyan Yun."
His mother.
Banished in title, buried in silence.
And yet — here in the chamber, her voice returned in echoes: "If the world turns against you, remember, the truth is not always a shield. Sometimes, it must be a dagger."
He closed his eyes.
What truth still lived, untouched?
---
Above, the rain had stopped.
But below, beneath stone and silence, a storm was beginning to form.
The whispers began not in the Emperor's court, nor in the stone corridors of the Hall of Stars — but in the kitchens.
A low remark, a sideways glance.
The scholar had not been seen in seven days.
No new scrolls requested. No word sent to the Apothecary Pavilion. Not even a tray returned from the Inner Courtyard.
At first, it was merely curiosity. The kind that flavored tea with gossip.
But when the fifth day passed without the flutter of his sleeve in the shadowed corridors, the silence began to press.
Had he fallen from favor?
Was he ill?
Had the Emperor grown tired of the child he'd once called his ink-handed son?
The whispers changed flavor then. From sweet to salt. From idle to strategic.
---
In the western wing of the inner palace, the First Consort received her tea in silence.
The room was warm, perfumed with crushed osmanthus blossoms, but her expression held no fragrance — only ice.
"The Crown Prince has remained quiet?" she asked the attendant, her voice smooth.
The girl bowed. "He has. But he's requested a private audience with His Majesty."
"Good." The consort's smile was shallow. "Let the boy test the Emperor's patience for himself."
She lifted her teacup with slender fingers, gaze turning toward the mist outside.
"And the scholar?"
The attendant hesitated. "Still secluded. But…there are rumors."
"Of course there are." She set the cup down gently, the sound sharp. "In this palace, silence is louder than thunder."
She rose, robes whispering across polished stone. "Let them wonder. Let them believe he's lost his footing. The more they speak, the easier it becomes to shake the roots."
Her eyes narrowed.
"But if he resurfaces…" she trailed off.
The implication needed no completion.
---
Meanwhile, in the armory courtyard, the guards were speaking too — though none dared do so above a whisper.
"Hasn't shown himself once," said a younger recruit as he polished his blade. "And not a single update from the Southern Watch, either."
"Which is more suspicious," muttered the captain beside him. "That, or the fact the Eastern General keeps sending tributes to the Inner Court."
"You think he's defected?"
"I think," the captain said slowly, "that no one disappears in this palace without a reason. Or without a knife being sharpened in the background."
He lifted the blade to the light. "We'll see who bleeds first."
---
In the North Wing Library, an old eunuch ran a wrinkled hand across the spine of a dusty book.
"Do you feel it?" he murmured to the assistant beside him.
"Feel what?"
"The air." His fingers paused. "Something's shifting. Like the calm before a palace fire."
He turned, his gaze misted with years, but sharp beneath.
"They think the boy is hiding. I think he's watching."
---
Scholar's Courtyard – Dusk, Day 7
Xie Lan stood in the stillness of his study, the last rays of light filtering through the paper screens like softened fire.
His robe hung looser now. The collar slightly open, revealing the edge of the old scar that curved beneath his collarbone — a relic from a time before titles.
The dagger from Lady Yun, his mother, rested on the desk before him. Not hidden. Not sheathed.
He stared at it, unmoving.
Seven days.
The world believed he had vanished. Perhaps even the Emperor did. That alone revealed enough.
He reached for a new scroll. Unrolled it. Dipped his brush.
"Rumors carry more weight than orders. That is both their danger and their strength."
He paused, ink bleeding slightly into the parchment.
Then, beneath it:
"The First Consort has begun maneuvering. The Crown Prince remains still — too still. No attempt made from the Hall of Stars. Yet.
Possible inference: They await misstep. Or sign of fracture."
His brush hovered for a moment before he dipped again.
This time, he wrote slowly. Deliberately.
"Let them wait. Let them dig a pit for a man they believe broken."
He set the brush down and rolled the scroll tightly, sealing it with plain wax. No name. No sigil.
Just like the message from the pond.
Then he stood and stepped into the courtyard.
The koi moved as one — a gentle ripple, as if acknowledging his presence.
Yao Qing was seated by the entrance, cross-legged, sharpening her chain blade.
She looked up only once, eyes catching his. A silent exchange.
Still here.
Still watching.
Still ready.
Xie Lan gave a faint nod. Then turned back toward the study.
But just before he crossed the threshold, he whispered — soft, but enough for the wind to carry:
"Let the palace think I've fallen."
A pause.
"It'll be easier to bury them that way."
Later That Night — Inside the Scholar's Courtyard
The hours slipped past like rain on stone.
By the time the moon had risen high, much of the palace was already asleep. But within the walls of Xie Lan's seclusion, the lamps still glowed low. A faint fragrance of sandalwood lingered in the air, curling from the censer he'd lit at dusk.
He knelt beside the low table, not in meditation but in quiet calculation.
Three more scrolls lay before him now each marked only by a single character on its seal: 羽, 寂, 蛊.
Wing. Silence. Poison.
His fingers hovered above the third one.
That seal, unlike the others, had not been written by his own hand.
He broke it.
The paper within was old, slightly brittle at the edges — clearly copied from a source even more ancient. The text was coded, interspersed with archaic glyphs no longer used in court.
He didn't need to decipher it again. He knew what it said.
It was an old lesson from the Hall of Stars, smuggled out in the palm of a dead informant's glove, years ago.
"The strongest poison is not brewed in darkness. It is spoken in bright rooms, in the language of loyalty."
A phrase circled beneath it, in faded ink, scrawled by someone else.
"Trust no one who smiles before the Emperor."
His fingers tightened.
He remembered that handwriting.
The boy who'd written it hadn't survived past seventeen.
He exhaled slowly and slid the scroll back into its sheath.
---
Elsewhere — The Silk Hall
Meanwhile, the Seventh Consort twirled a wine cup between her fingers as she listened to her attendant read aloud.
"...the Southern Princess has sent another mirror lacquered with star-glass. She claims it's a wedding gift for someone not yet betrothed."
The consort laughed.
"Everything in this court is a gift for someone not yet deserving."
The attendant hesitated. "There's also word that the scholar has not returned."
"Returned from what?" she asked lightly, eyes sharp beneath painted lashes.
"No one knows. But they say he hasn't shown himself. Not even to the Emperor."
The Seventh Consort's expression sobered just slightly. She leaned forward, the candlelight catching the fine gold dust in her hair.
"You know what that means, don't you?" she said softly.
"That he's fallen from favor?"
"No," she said, smiling now. "That he's watching."
---
Back in the Scholar's Room — Midnight
The night deepened.
Yao Qing had long since left her post by the door, resting in the adjacent chamber. But Xie Lan remained awake, seated beside the open window.
He looked out at the still water of the pond.
At his side sat a thin, leather-bound book — unmarked, save for a frayed ribbon tucked halfway through.
A journal.
He hadn't opened it in years.
But something tonight — the silence, the moonlight, the air's tension like a drawn bow — pulled his hand toward it.
He opened to the page with the ribbon.
"Day 32 since departure from Baisha.
Wind from the west. Food supply low.
I asked him why he still smiled when his ribs showed through his robe.
He said, 'Because if I don't, you'll forget how to.'
I hated him for that. And loved him.
And now I carry both — like twin blades."
Xie Lan stared at the ink until the words blurred.
Then slowly, he picked up the brush again.
Beneath it, in fresh ink:
"I still remember how to."
He closed the journal, sealing it in a drawer only he could unlock.
---
Final Segment — The Wind Changes
Just before dawn, a shadow detached from the rooftop.
A figure cloaked in grey touched down soundlessly in the courtyard, no louder than the koi stirring beneath the water.
He reached the outer veranda — then paused.
A faint click sounded before the door opened.
Xie Lan stood there, perfectly calm, robe unruffled.
"You're two days late," he said.
The shadowed figure knelt.
"I couldn't move through the Hall of Records unnoticed. They've tripled the sentries."
"Then they're scared," Xie Lan said.
He extended his hand. The figure placed a folded scroll into it.
He opened it, eyes scanning quickly.
A breath later, he folded it again — this time tighter, more precise.
"Everything's in place," he murmured. "The Crown Prince will move soon."
The figure hesitated. "What if he doesn't take the bait?"
"He will," Xie Lan said coldly, stepping back inside. "That's the thing about snakes. They don't resist warmth. Even when it's from a fire."
And with that, the door slid shut.
Only the koi stirred.
Only the wind whispered.
And dawn began to bloom behind the bamboo..
---
The Court Beneath Murmurs
Some silences do not soothe. Some silence carries a blade beneath its breath.
There was no formal announcement.
No decree, no scroll, no whispered directive from the Emperor's favored eunuch.
And yet...
Xie Lan was gone.
Not exiled, not imprisoned, not disgraced in ceremony. Simply... absent.
The palace, that great golden cage of etiquette and ambition, shifted like a beast aware of missing prey. Servants still polished his favorite tea set. Guards still bowed in the direction of the Scholar's Courtyard. But when the morning bell tolled on the eighth day, and the inner court resumed its rituals...
He was not there.
And silence, that old conspirator, began its work.
---
"Perhaps the weight of court broke him," whispered one concubine to another behind an ivory fan.
"He always did seem too refined to endure real war."
"But he has," replied the second, lips barely moving. "That's what frightens them. Quiet men who survive battle are never to be trusted."
---
In the Garden of Wisteria, an old Minister adjusted his robes.
"He was always too sharp," he muttered to his attendant. "Too young. Too clever. The court does not like foxes unless their teeth are dulled."
"And now?" the attendant asked.
The Minister's eyes flicked toward the Eastern Hall, where the Crown Prince's banner flew.
"Now, the fox disappears. And we wait to see if he returns... with fire or with flowers."
---
Within the kitchens, whispers moved faster than steam.
"He's dead."
"He's plotting."
"He's fled south to the mountains."
"He's not gone. He's listening."
---
In the Hall of Painted Lanterns, Consort An strummed her qin as if the strings might divine the truth.
Her courtiers waited, watching her fingers — delicate, cruel — trace a melody that was not hers.
"A man like Xie Lan does not vanish," she said, not looking up. "He molts."
---
In the servants' quarters, one girl folded a torn piece of parchment into the shape of a fox and set it adrift on the lotus pond.
"Come back," she whispered, to no one. "Before they forget you were kind."
---
By nightfall, bets had been placed.
That he would reappear at the Mid-Autumn Ceremony.
That the Crown Prince would strike first.
That the Emperor already knew everything — and was waiting.
That the silence itself was Xie Lan's move.
---
And somewhere, in the shadow between two stone lanterns, a voice murmured:
"He's not retreating. He's coiling."
---
The rain had stopped, but the silence it left behind did not.
Even the palace wind moved differently now — slower, as if uncertain.
Within the Vermilion Pavilion, the scent of sandalwood curled like a question through the lacquered air, mixing with something colder. Not incense. Not tea. Something older.
The kind of quiet that grew where war had once whispered.
And yet, everything appeared serene.
Silken drapes hung undisturbed. Servants stepped lightly, their heads bowed a breath lower than usual. The court officials who had gathered outside the main antechamber whispered not in debate, but in caution. Their glances slid sideways. Their greetings stiffened.
Because the Crown Prince was not speaking.
And no one knew why.
---
He sat alone in the inner chamber — a room so richly adorned it ought to have dulled the senses.
But none of it mattered now. Not the inkstones gifted from the western prefects. Not the rare white jade calligraphy stand carved by monks from Mount Kun. Not even the ancestral mirror, polished until one could see their soul split in half.
Xie Yan did not glance at any of it.
He sat with his back straight, hands resting upon his knees, gaze fixed not outward, but inward.
A scroll lay open before him. The brush remained untouched.
One line of ink had dried across the page.
Crooked. Incomplete.
"When the fox vanishes, the hunters divide."
He did not need to name the fox. Everyone in the palace already had.
---
The Crown Prince had been the first to notice Xie Lan's absence.
And perhaps the last to speak of it.
While ministers whispered of the Favored Lord's withdrawal — some with disdain, others with restrained unease — Xie Yan had held his tongue. Not even the Empress could stir a single word from him about it.
A week ago, he might have sent a note. A gift. A summons.
Now, he waited.
Not out of fear.
But because something didn't sit right.
His silence was not stillness.
It was strategy.
---
Two days prior, he had instructed his Shadow Guard to track the ripple effects of Xie Lan's disappearance.
Not where he had gone.
But how the rest of the court was reacting.
The reports had arrived wrapped in black silk:
- The Prime Minister's son had resumed sword practice with uncharacteristic fervor.
- The Chancellor had cancelled a banquet.
- General Huang's southern troop movements had paused.
And at the very bottom of the scroll:
The Hall of Stars has not spoken. Not even in rumor.
That alone chilled him.
Because the Hall of Stars always spoke, when it served them.
Their silence now was deliberate.
Which meant they knew more than they should.
Or worse — that they were waiting for someone to misstep.
---
Xie Yan rose slowly from his seat. The long sleeves of his robe brushed against the scroll, smudging the ink. He did not pause to correct it.
He moved toward the north alcove, where a carved screen of phoenixes and plum blossoms shielded the ancestral offerings. Behind it: a hidden drawer, nearly imperceptible to anyone but him.
He slid it open.
Inside, a folded letter.
Yellowed. Unsealed.
He had kept it for five years.
Unread.
It was the only thing Xie Lan had ever left him without explanation.
"If one day I vanish, do not chase me.
Not unless you're ready to face the truth you buried to protect me."
He had laughed when he first received it.
Lan'er always did have a flair for dramatics.
But now… he wasn't sure it was a warning at all.
Maybe it had always been a challenge.
---
When the Empress arrived unannounced — her robes trailing like snowfall, her perfume thick with peonies and crushed pearls — the guards outside bowed with immediate deference.
She did not wait to be summoned.
She entered his chamber as if it still belonged to her.
In many ways, it did.
"You've been silent too long," she said, voice as soft as snowmelt, but twice as cold.
"You leave the court guessing. You leave me guessing. Have you lost your tongue—or your nerve?"
The Crown prince did not rise.
"You're worried," he said simply.
She did not deny it.
"Worry is a weapon, my son. It keeps the blade close to the skin. I taught you that."
He looked at her then. Slowly. Deliberately.
"You also taught me to watch who puts the blade there in the first place."
The Empress's gaze narrowed.
"Do you think I don't see what you're doing?" she whispered.
"Your silence has power, yes. But don't forget so does mine."
---
She left without another word.
Crown prince Xie Yan remained seated, the old letter still in his hands.
He turned it over. Once. Twice.
And then — for the first time — broke the seal.
---
Outside, the bells rang for dusk.
Somewhere beyond the eastern wall, someone began lighting lanterns.
In the fading light, the Crown Prince began to read.
And when he finished,
he did not move.
But in the stillness of his gaze,
something changed.
Something cracked.
Something remembered.
---