A Palace Whisper
Morning light spilled across the inner court of the palace, catching on golden tiles and polished stone. Chang'an awakened slowly, but within the imperial walls, nothing was ever truly at rest. Eunuchs moved in quiet lines, court ladies whispered behind silk sleeves, and officials rehearsed words that might one day save or ruin them.
Yang Yuhuan entered the palace grounds behind Prince Li Mao, her steps measured, her expression composed. Though she had visited the palace before, today the air felt different—thicker, as though it carried unseen eyes and unspoken intentions.
She felt them again.
From the raised pavilion overlooking the court, Emperor Xuanzong observed the procession below. He recognized her instantly. Not by her beauty alone, but by the calm gravity she carried, as though she moved to a rhythm separate from the world around her. It unsettled him.
"Who is she?" the emperor asked casually, though his gaze did not leave her.
A court attendant bowed. "Your Majesty, she is Princess Shou, wife to Prince Li Mao. Born Yang Yuhuan."
Xuanzong's fingers tightened slightly around the jade railing. The name lingered in his thoughts longer than it should have.
Later that day, the palace garden bloomed with spring flowers, their fragrance drifting through winding paths. Yuhuan walked slowly, accompanied by a single maid, grateful for the quiet after the formalities of the morning. The garden had always felt safer than the halls—open, alive, less suffocating.
"Princess Shou."
The voice came from behind her.
Yuhuan turned, her heart faltering as she faced the emperor himself. She immediately lowered herself into a deep bow, her movements precise, respectful.
"Your Majesty," she said softly.
Xuanzong studied her up close now. The serenity he had seen from afar was real, not practiced. It disturbed him more than boldness ever could.
"Rise," he said.
She did, carefully, her eyes still lowered. Silence stretched between them, heavy but not uncomfortable.
"You move through this palace as though you do not belong to it," the emperor said at last. "Yet you do."
Yuhuan hesitated. "I belong where duty places me, Your Majesty."
A faint smile touched his lips. "A wise answer."
From a distance, unseen behind flowering branches, Lady Yang watched the encounter unfold. She noted the emperor's lingering gaze, the way he did not dismiss her daughter quickly, the pause that spoke louder than words. She folded her hands, her thoughts already racing ahead.
When Xuanzong finally turned away, Yuhuan exhaled slowly, only then realizing how tightly she had been holding herself together. Her pulse raced, her calm shaken by something dangerously close to curiosity.
That night, as palace lanterns glowed softly in the corridors, the emperor sat alone in his chambers, staring at a half-written decree. His brush hovered, unmoving.
Yang Yuhuan's face rose unbidden in his thoughts—her quiet composure, her measured words, her presence that lingered long after she had gone.
In another wing of the palace, Yuhuan lay awake, listening to the distant sounds of the court. She told herself the encounter meant nothing. It must mean nothing.
Yet somewhere between heartbeat and breath, both emperor and woman knew the truth.
A whisper had begun to move through the palace.
And once spoken, it could never be taken back.