The jade hairpin felt heavier than its weight should allow. For days, Li Yue kept it hidden in a silken pouch, close to her skin. Not yet, she told herself. The moment had not arrived.
The palace, however, seemed eager to hand her opportunities.
During the monthly court banquet, the emperor appeared in high spirits. Lanterns glowed, music filled the grand hall, and concubines paraded their talents in turn. Poems, dances, songs—each display a silent battle for his attention.
Wan Mei, radiant in a flowing crimson gown, stepped forward to dance. Her sleeves fluttered like wings, her beauty glowing beneath the lamplight. The emperor watched, entranced.
When her performance ended, applause rippled through the hall. Wan Mei knelt gracefully, her cheeks flushed as if with modesty. "This humble one dedicates her dance to His Majesty."
The emperor rose, personally helping her to her feet. "Exquisite." His smile was warm, indulgent.
Li Yue sipped her wine, her expression serene. Inside, she recalled the trembling maid's words: Wan Mei's kindness is a mask.
When her turn came, Li Yue did not step forward with fanfare. She rose quietly, her pale gown trailing like mist. She chose no music, no elaborate movements. Instead, she recited a tale—one of loyalty and betrayal, of beauty turned poison, of a kingdom nearly destroyed by a smiling face.
Her voice, steady and low, carried through the hall. By the end, the silence was heavier than thunder. Even the emperor's smile had dimmed, as if a shadow lingered in his mind.
Li Yue bowed deeply. "It is but a story, Your Majesty. Yet stories, like history, often remind us to look beyond appearances."
Her words were not lost on him.
Later, as the banquet dispersed, the emperor summoned Li Yue privately.
"You spoke with strange weight tonight," he said, studying her intently.
Li Yue lowered her gaze. "Your Majesty, I only fear that in your boundless kindness, some might take advantage."
The emperor's brow furrowed. "Do you speak of someone in particular?"
She hesitated, then reached into her sleeve. Her fingers brushed the jade hairpin—but she withdrew empty-handed.
"No," she whispered. "Merely a caution. I ask only that you guard your heart."
The emperor's eyes lingered on her. There was a flicker of doubt now, a seed planted.
As she left, Xiao Han appeared in the corridor. His sharp gaze swept her face.
"You held something back," he said quietly.
Li Yue smiled faintly. "Perhaps."
"You play a dangerous game."
She met his eyes, steady. "Is it not better to play than to be played?"
That night, Wan Mei tossed restlessly in her chamber, unaware that the emperor's once-steadfast gaze now carried a shadow of suspicion.
The game had begun.