Snow had fallen for days on end, wrapping the imperial city in a hush of silver and white. The cold cut to the bone—every breath bloomed into pale mist.
Wrapped tightly in a thick padded cloak, Qing Tian returned from a meeting at the Imperial Kitchen. She took a shortcut through a narrow, seldom-used passage behind the Western Palaces. The snow here had been trampled hard and slick with ice. She walked carefully—then stopped.
A sound drifted through the stillness.
Soft. Broken. Suppressed sobbing.
She turned toward the sound.
In the lee of a palace wall, sheltered from the wind, three young eunuchs huddled together. They couldn't have been more than twelve or thirteen. Their cotton jackets were thin and worn, faces flushed raw by the cold. They clutched a cracked clay jar filled with water that had already begun to freeze at the edges, using it to wash down bites of dark, rock-hard coarse buns.
Every bite made them shiver. Tears slid down their cheeks, mixing with melted snow.
They weren't from the Imperial Kitchen. They were cleaners assigned to this area—outsiders to the new meal system. In this bitter cold, this was their only lunch.
Qing Tian froze.
Something tightened in her chest.
She remembered her own first winter here—hunger gnawing, cold sinking deep into her bones. She watched silently for a moment, then turned away without disturbing them.
Back at Listening Rain Pavilion, the small kitchen glowed with warmth. On the stove simmered the night meal she had prepared for the Emperor: Angelica lamb soup with white radish and ginger—rich, fragrant, perfect for a snowy night.
Steam curled upward.
So did her thoughts.
She spread paper, ground ink, and wrote a brief memorial.
In the depth of winter, peripheral palace workers and guards labor in severe cold. Insufficient food invites illness and injury, threatening palace stability. I propose the establishment of fixed winter relief points providing hot soup and simple meals at midday. Funding may be minimized through efficient use of surplus and trimmings from the Imperial Kitchen.
She attached a simple budget and implementation plan.
Spring Peach delivered it first to Chief Steward Li.
Li read it and sighed deeply. "Director Qing… this is compassion," he said quietly. "Small as it seems, it touches many lives. I'll try to bring it before the Inner Affairs Bureau."
Before any reply came—
Yangxin Hall moved first.
On a clear afternoon after snowfall, Gao Dequan arrived in person, smiling warmly.
"Director Qing," he said, "His Majesty has read your proposal."
Her heart lifted—and tightened.
"His Majesty says: 'Thoughtful and humane. Approved. Funds will be drawn directly from the inner treasury. No need for protracted deliberation.'"
Qing Tian's breath caught.
"And His Majesty asked me to add," Gao Dequan continued with a knowing smile,"'The roads are slippery in snow. Take care when walking. The relief points—choose sheltered, stable locations.'"
For a moment, Qing Tian couldn't speak.
The Emperor hadn't merely approved it—he had bypassed bureaucracy entirely. And that last line… it wasn't an order. It was concern.
She bowed deeply, voice trembling. "This humble servant thanks His Majesty. I will carry it out with utmost care."
Within two days, simple windbreak shelters rose at key crossings—outside the kitchen walls, near guard rotations, along forgotten corridors. At noon, fires were lit. Huge iron pots bubbled with thick soup made from bones, vegetable stems, soybean pulp. Steam billowed. Baskets of hot mixed-grain buns were stacked beside them.
At first, only a few dared to come—those most desperate, bowls clutched tight, eyes wide with disbelief. Then they ate.
The heat spread through them.
Some cried into their bowls.
Soon the lines grew longer—cleaners, low-ranking maids, night guards. No shouting. Only quiet breathing, satisfied sighs, the sound of warmth returning to frozen bodies.
The news traveled fast.
In Changchun Palace, Consort Liu scoffed. "Buying loyalty with soup."Yet she issued no obstruction. Her temper, softened by weeks of calming food, seemed… steadier.
Consort De visited quietly one afternoon, watching from afar as workers ate. She said nothing. That evening, she sent fine charcoal to Listening Rain Pavilion with a single message: "Cold weather. Take care."
Even Consort Xian sent surplus cloth for sleeves and knee wraps.
Small gestures. But real.
Then came the Emperor.
On the fifth day, snow falling again, Qing Tian was preparing ginger milk curd—smooth, warming, gentle. The door opened.
He entered alone.
She knelt at once. He waved it away, eyes settling on the trembling white curd.
"What is this?"
"Ginger milk curd," she said softly. "Warming, not harsh."
He tasted it.
Warmth spread. So did memory.
"The relief points," he asked quietly. "Running well?"
"Yes, Your Majesty. Even more came today."
He looked out at the snow-lit night.
"When I was young," he said slowly, "winter hunts were brutal. A bowl of hot soup was priceless."
Then he turned back to her.
"You've done well. All of it."
He paused.
"In this palace, doing real things is hard. For you—harder still."
Her vision blurred.
"Continue," he said simply. "I stand with you."
The snow fell on.
But fires burned.
And warmth—real warmth—had taken root.