"In the palace, there are no accidents, only performances."
The Temple of Wind, nestled behind the western concubines' quarters, was rarely visited. It was quiet, with wind chimes hanging from every eave and a single bronze censer in the center that never went cold. The eunuchs claimed the air there always smelled of lotus smoke, even when the burners were empty.
That evening, long after the sun had dipped behind the palace walls, Lady Zhenluo entered alone.
She walked softly, her sleeves trailing across the smooth stone like water. There was no need for guards. She did not need protection. Not because she was safe — but because no one dared cross her.
She reached the small interior chamber, lit only by the faint glow of moonlight through a rice-paper window. A figure was already waiting.
Commander Ji Fenglin knelt with his head bowed, his sword removed and set neatly before him — a sign of trust, or submission.
"You summoned me, Your Grace," he said.
"Only because you've been watching her." Her voice was calm. "The maid."
"She's being watched by others too," Ji replied. "Including Prince Ruiyan."
Zhenluo turned her gaze to the moon outside. "Then he's not as disinterested as he pretends."
"She may be dangerous."
"Or she may be bait." Her tone did not waver. "Either way, I don't want her removed… yet."
There was silence. Then Ji Fenglin spoke slowly, as if tasting the edge of his own doubt.
"You knew her face the moment you saw it."
Zhenluo did not answer.
In the Southern Garden, the chrysanthemums had begun to fall.
Petals gathered along the edges of the courtyard like forgotten blessings. Mo Lianyin knelt alone, sweeping them into a basket. She moved slowly, almost absently. Her thoughts were not in the garden.
They were in the Hall of Silent Scrolls, where the prince had questioned her just hours ago.
He hadn't accused her. He hadn't even raised his voice.
He had simply… asked.
Where did you learn that style of calligraphy?"
"You hold your brush like a scholar's daughter."
"Your silence—was it taught? Or earned?"
She had answered as best she could.
"I watched from the shadows. I learned what was allowed."
"I was raised among ruins, not scholars."
He had looked at her then with a stillness that unnerved her more than anger ever could. Like someone staring into a well—trying to see if the reflection was real, or just the surface of something deeper.
She hadn't told him the truth. Not all of it.
There were things not even her own memory could grasp clearly.
A fire.
A jade ring.
And a voice, saying:
"If you live, forget me. If you return, do not speak your name."
That night, in the Eastern Pavilion, Prince Ruiyan stood before a hanging scroll.
It was a painting of chrysanthemums in ink and silver, signed only with a single character: 音 — Yin.
It wasn't his. He had found it sealed in an old trunk left behind by the former court painter, who had vanished twelve years ago after the fall of the Southern Rebellion.
And now, a maid appeared… with the same brushstroke.
"Who are you really, Mo Lianyin?" he murmured.
Behind him, an old servant entered with a tray. "Your Highness, a message."
He unfolded the note. It bore only a symbol — a crimson chrysanthemum, drawn in blood-red ink.
He looked at it for a long time.
Then burned it.