Li Wei's POV
That first day, the silence was the first thing I noticed ,not the quiet kind that settles after a long day, but the kind that holds its breath. Even the horses stopped snorting, ears twitching, as we passed through the outer gates.
I got out awkwardly, my borrowed robes dragging behind me like something heavy and useless. They were too long—I almost tripped getting out.
No lanterns. No steward. No one is calling my name.
I'd expected more. A call. A sign. Maybe even a face I could follow. But there was nothing. Just stone and silence.
The palace walls rose high in the fading light, tall and cold and bigger than I expected. Not a single lamp lit the path. Only shadows. Shadows on the walls. Shadows moving behind stone pillars. Shadows in silk shoes that made no sound.
I stretched my legs, stiff from the cramped ride. The sky was starting to turn purple, the last light of day slowly fading away. Two guards stood at the gate, faces empty of expression, spears upright, watching me like they knew I didn't belong.
My new robes were stiff, the color of dull ash, and several sizes too large. I looked like a child dressed for a funeral I didn't know I was attending. I tugged at the sleeves, trying to look less nervous, but my hands wouldn't stop fidgeting.
Behind me, the carriage rolled away without a word.
No instructions. No goodbye.
Only the gates ahead, and the feeling that I'd just been delivered, not welcomed.
A servant walked past me without even looking. Another rushed out from behind a pillar, holding a scroll like it might break if hee dropped it. I watched the edge of her uniform disappear down a side hallway.
Then a voice shouted behind me. "Out of the way."
I stumbled forward, almost tripping over the long edge of my robe. The servant looked barely older than me, but his face had the blankness of someone who'd seen enough to stop looking as he walked past, his tray of covered dishes steady even though he was moving fast.
"You new?" he asked, not waiting for an answer before motioning me to follow. "Figures. You've got that stupid 'what have I done' face."
I hurried after him, trying not to step on my own clothes. "My name is Li Wei. I was told to report to the outer kitchens."
"They all say that at first. You think you'll be scrubbing pots, and then bam—you're pouring tea for people who could order your execution because the cup rattled." He glanced at me sideways. "Chen. That's my name. I don't like repeating it, so remember it the first time."
I scrambled to follow. My slippers caught on stone.
He led me down a narrow hallway that smelled like damp wood and ink. Everything around us had hard edges and smooth stone. Even the air was cleaner—too clean, like the whole palace had been wiped of anything out of place.
Chen didn't say much more. Just:
"Keep your head down."
"Don't speak unless asked."
"And whatever you do, don't try to be noticed."
I blinked. "The Emperor doesn't like conversation?"
"He doesn't like noise," Chen said. "Or questions. Or beauty. Especially not beauty."
I blinked. "He doesn't like beauty?"
"Pretty things don't last here." Chen said, not kindly. "Useful ones do."
He didn't look at me when he said it. Like maybe he'd once tried being pretty himself.
We passed a line of gardeners kneeling in the dusk light, trimming bushes into perfect shapes. No one looked up.
"You'll be in the outer cleaning staff for now," Chen continued. "Wipe walls. Sweep floors. Nothing that gets you too close to the inner court, unless someone requests you."
"Requests me?" I repeated.
"It happens," he shrugged. "Sometimes people pull strings. Get someone brought in for a reason."
I hesitated. "You think that's what happened to me?"
Chen paused. "No family name. No records. Just a scroll that said 'Accept.' So yeah. Someone pulled strings. Who? Doesn't matter. Just know they wanted you in here. That's not always a blessing."
I didn't know either.
Master Xu, the old physician I'd studied under, had handed me the letter with shaking hands. He hadn't said who sent it, only that this was my chance.
I'd thought it was fate. That maybe all those years spent studying medicine, patching up drunkards and stubborn farmers, had finally paid off.
Now I wasn't so sure.
He stopped at a plain wooden door and pushed it open without knocking. Inside was a small room with a mat on the floor and a folded blanket on top. Nothing else. Not even a window.
"This'll be yours. Congratulations. Get some rest. Morning call starts before dawn. And whatever you do, don't drink anything unless someone else tastes it first."
I froze. "Why?"
He shrugged again, already turning to go. "Just a habit. You'll thank me later."
Then he left.
I stepped inside. The door closed behind me with a quiet sound, leaving me alone in the dim light.
I let my fingers touch the mat—it felt scratchy against my skin. The room smelled like cedar and soap. Clean, yes—but empty. Too empty. Like just standing here was enough to make me disappear.
I sat down slowly. My knees were sore from the ride. My thoughts hurt even more.
This was supposed to be a chance. A fresh start. A better life. Someone—someone important—had pulled strings to get me in. I still didn't know who. The letter had no name, only a seal I didn't recognize. But I'd believed it.
I still wanted to believe it.
But something was wrong.
And somewhere deep in my chest, something small curled up in fear. The feeling of being utterly alone, vulnerable, and utterly insignificant is still with me, a shadow following to my heels.
The cup trembles in my hand.
Not enough to be obvious. Just a small, almost invisible shake. But I can feel it—the faint rattle of porcelain against the silver tray. It betrays me more than any confession could.
This silence doesn't feel peaceful. It feels cold and tense like it's waiting for something to go wrong, just like it did on the first day.
Breathe, I tell myself. Keep your eyes down. Walk steady.
The hall is too quiet for a morning session. Dozens of eyes line the chamber, all tucked behind embroidered sleeves and unreadable expressions. Ministers. Generals. Courtiers. Each of them with their own games, their own secrets.
But none of them know what I know.
I take three steps forward and kneel slowly. My joints ache from staying still too long, and the cold from the smooth stone floor seeps through my clothes. The cup feels warm in my hands, but it's not comforting—it's too light, too easy to break. I bow low, exactly as I was taught.
One small mistake, and everything could fall apart.
"Tea for His Majesty," I say.
I sound calm. I'm not.
My stomach twists. My chest feels tight, and I'm breathing too quickly. Doubt digs at me from the inside, sharp and painful, like something trying to get out.
Then a hand—elegant, gloved in black silk—reaches out and takes the cup from my tray.
I don't look up. I've learned better than that.
I can't.
But I feel him.
His presence is heavy. Colder than it should be, somehow—like standing in shadow that shouldn't exist in daylight. His gloved fingers brush the rim of the cup, lifting it with a grace that feels deliberate.
He drinks.
I count the seconds in my head.
One.
Two.
Three.
And I hold my breath.
I wait for a gasp. A cough. A body hitting the floor.
And then—
Nothing.
No stumble. No reaction. Just a slow exhale from the Emperor, followed by the rustle of a scroll as a minister begins to speak, droning on about border grain taxes and bandit raids in the west.
As if the moment wasn't hanging over us like a blade ready to fall.
As if nothing happened at all.
The cup is returned to the tray. I lower my head deeper, trying to hide the cold sweat sliding down my back. My knees press harder against the floor. I can feel the pulse in my neck, loud and panicked, like it wants to give me away.
I saw the powder disappear when I opened the lid. A thin puff of it rose, then faded into the steam.
I'd bet my life there was something in that tea.
Did I get it wrong?
No—no, I smelled it. Bitter almond, just a trace.
The cup was laced with something. I saw it with my own eyes—twice before I left the kitchens.
So why is he still breathing?
Someone wanted him dead.
But he didn't die.
And now I don't know if I should be relieved… or afraid.
The Emperor says nothing. Not to me. Not to anyone.
The silence is more terrifying than a scream.
"Dismissed."
The word is calm but final.
I stand up slowly, carefully. My legs feel stiff. I hold the tray tight as I retreat without lifting my head. Eyes down. Steps steady.
As I walk past the line of ministers, I feel the mood change.
Someone coughs quietly into their sleeve. I hear the faint sound of a bead brushing against a jade ring. A small movement—someone tilting forward, trying to see better.
They're not watching me.
They're watching to see what happens to me.
And yet… nothing.
No summons. No punishment. No signal.
As I pass through the grand doors, something catches my eye.
A figure seated near the edge of the court. Not one of the old ministers. Younger. Robes pale gray. Modest, but expensive.
He's not watching the Emperor.
He's watching me.
His face looks calm, even gentle. But there's something in his eyes—cold, cruel, almost like he's enjoying this.
He lifts a hand and adjusts his sleeve.
That's when I see it.
A ring. Silver. A lotus flower carved into the band.
The same flower carved on the box that held the poison.
A coincidence?
No. Nothing in this palace ever is.
He sees me notice.
And then he smiles.
Just barely.
It chills me more than the poison ever could.
I keep walking. Because if I stop—if I react—I won't leave this hall alive.