Long Rui had not used his real name out loud in three years.
Not after he sipped poison intended for a puppet emperor and disappeared behind a veil of shadows and silence. Not after he saw his courtiers bow before the betrayers with smiling, wine-spoiled lips.
He observed them all—warily, unseen. But only one memory remained warm in that long winter of betrayal.
A girl, barely sixteen, kneeling at his side in a puddle of spilled blood and ink, speaking barely above a whisper:
"If I assist you, will you recall my name?"
He had not forgotten. And now, her hand shook in his.
The carriage was unadorned, its windows draped in gray. It smelled of cedar and aged parchment, not perfume or gold. That had been by design. Lavishness would only serve to hone suspicion.
Opposite him, Shen Lian sat veiled still, her hands in her lap. She hadn't asked a question. Not even when he extended his hand.
Long Rui watched her in silence.
She was different.
She was thinner. Whiter. But quiet dignity—that unattainable composure—prevailed.
They pounded her name into the mud, he thought. And she still moves like porcelain that won't shatter.
He cleared his throat, voice low and level.
"You remember nothing of me, do you?"
There was a pause.
Then, quietly, "Should I?"
The response cut deeper than it ought to have. He pulled off his mask, laughing dryly.
"I guess not. You only ever saw my face once. When I was dying."
Her breath hitched.
She glanced up—not all the way, but enough to get a glimpse of him.
Dark hair. Chiseled features. Eyes that missed nothing.
"The boy in the ink shop," she said slowly. "You were—"
"The poisoned runaway. The 'servant' no one cared to help," he murmured. "Except you."
She blinked. Her lips parted, then closed again.
"I didn't expect repayment," she said.
"I know," Long Rui replied. "That's why I'm repaying you."
The carriage rolled on in silence for several heartbeats.
Then she asked, "Are you… truly the Emperor?"
His gaze met hers. Steady. Unflinching.
"I was. I will be again. But this night, I am nothing more than a man paying a debt. And taking back what was stolen from me."
She dropped her eyes once more.
"Then… what do I do now?"
A small sadness crept into his tone. "You'll rest. You'll eat. You'll live someplace where no one can reach you."
"Until the nobles retrieve me once more?"
"Until I retrieve them first."
His tone contained no blaze. No theatrics. Only assurance.
Shen Lian did not say a word for a long time.
Then, barely above a whisper, "Why bid on me at all?"
"I might have stolen you away in the dark," he confessed. "But I wanted the court to witness what they discarded. I wanted them to observe me raise you above their reach."
Shen Lian's fists cramped up in her lap.
"I am not a person worth raising."
"You are," Long Rui said, "the sole individual in this whole empire who witnessed me dying… and chose not to step over my corpse but rather to kneel beside me instead."
"And that," he continued, "is worth ten thousand gold. And much more besides."
The following silence wasn't oppressive—it was awed.
Outside, the moon arose.
And under its silver glow, the empire moved in silence. One breath at a time.