The Great Yin Dynasty · Year 27 of the Zhaoming Era · Winter
Snow had fallen over the Imperial City for three days and nights. The sky hung low, leaden and heavy; snowflakes drifted down like torn cotton, soundless as they blanketed the vermilion palace walls, only to be swept up again by the bitter wind into swirling flurries between the palace lanes.
The watch drum had just sounded the hour of Hai. The final echo still lingered over the roofs when, in the northwest corner, a long-forgotten gate of the Cold Palace creaked open—just a narrow crack. The hinges, untouched by oil for perhaps a decade, gave out a noise like the cough of a dying crone—hoarse and grating—startling the crows from the eaves. Their black wings surged into the night, blotting out the waning moon, drowning its dim silver light.
"Move quickly!" barked Chief Eunuch Qi Youchang, clutching his black cloak trimmed with fox fur. A jade ring encircled his finger, yet his shrill voice, caught by the wind and snow, still rasped like a rusty file against the ear. "If you wake any noble from their slumber, you'll pay with your skins!"
Behind him, two young eunuchs—boys of fifteen or sixteen—struggled to carry a rolled straw mat. Their noses were red from the cold; their arms trembled under the weight. What lay within the mat was stiff as a carcass, blood seeping through the coarse weave and frozen into dark red shards that crumbled to the ground with every step.
The glow of snow revealed what trailed from the mat's edge—a lone hand, pale to translucence, the bones showing sharp beneath the skin. Its nails had been torn out at the root, leaving blackened, frozen flesh that still oozed sluggish drops of blood, staining the snow with spreading crimson.
Qi Youchang halted. He prodded the finger with the wooden handle of his whisk; the ice clinked faintly as it fell. "Dead through?" he asked, his voice utterly without feeling.
"Y–Yes, Grand Eunuch," one boy stammered, his teeth chattering. "She's been gone more than half an hour. Only… she—this Lady Shen—was once the Empress's own sister. Should we not… inform Her Majesty?"
"The Empress?" Qi Youchang sneered, brushing snow from his robes. "She can scarcely save herself. You think she cares for another's corpse? A fallen concubine—dead or alive, what difference? Shall we ring the bells and hold mourning rites?" His gaze flicked toward the dark corridor beyond the door, black as spilled ink. "Take her to the cremation grounds. Burn her clean. I don't want her stench lingering here."
"But… but she carried the imperial heir," the other eunuch whispered. "Nearly nine months—if perhaps—"
Before he could finish, the whisk lashed across his face. The soft horsehair left a welt burning red and purple.
"What heir?" Qi Youchang's voice rose to a shriek. "His Majesty himself declared it—a bastard of debauchery, the spawn of sin! Call it dragon's seed again and I'll rip out your tongue and feed it to the dogs!"
The eunuch dropped to his knees with a thud, forehead thumping the snow. He dared not make a sound as blood seeped from the scrape. The mat, jarred by his motion, came loose; a corner flipped open, revealing the face within—Lady Shen, once one of the famed "Shen Sisters of the Capital," the younger sister of the Empress herself.
Now her hair was matted with blood and snow, her lips torn and frozen stiff, eyes wide open—clouded yet blazing with boundless hatred. Those dead eyes stared straight into the night, as if to carve the hypocrisy and cold of this palace into eternity.
Qi Youchang shuddered. A chill climbed his spine. Muttering a prayer, he tried to close her eyes—but some unseen force resisted; her lids would not fall.
"Your grudge is with your sister, Shen. Seek her, not me," he hissed. He drew from his sleeve a yellow talisman, scrawled with crooked inked charms from the Temple of National Protection, and slapped it onto her brow. "Take her away! Now!"
The eunuchs dragged the mat off, leaving a dark streak across the snow—like a frozen trail of blood. Soon, fresh snow fell again, erasing it. It was as if no one had ever died there at all.
At the far end of the Cold Palace stood a nameless room, its only sign a rotting plank with three faded characters—Shenxing Si ("Bureau of Discipline")—the cinnabar ink flaked and dull, like dried blood. The door hung askew. Wind moaned through the cracks, crying like a ghost.
Inside, the air reeked of mold and old blood. On the dirt bed lay damp straw, black with rot. A ragged quilt twitched in the draft. And at its center, a newborn child—a girl, small as a kitten—curled upon herself. Her face was wrinkled, her skin an unhealthy red-purple, her cries faint but unyielding, as if declaring with every breath: I am still alive.
The door creaked. A thin girl stumbled in, holding a chipped bowl of cold rice broth. She was fourteen—A Ruan, once Lady Shen's handmaid, now cast into the Cold Palace as her mistress's "attendant," which in truth meant she was left to die with her.
"Little one, don't cry… hush now…" A Ruan knelt by the bed, scraping the frozen broth from the bowl's edge and dabbing it on the baby's lips. The cold touch made the infant suckle instinctively, and her weak cry grew a little stronger.
Tears welled in A Ruan's eyes. "Just hold on, little one. When morning comes, I'll beg the kitchen for milk. They wouldn't dare starve royal blood… right?"
"Royal blood?" A mocking voice came from the doorway. A harsh-faced matron entered with an empty bucket, her eyes sharp and cold. "Dreaming again, girl? That bastard will die before dawn. Chief Eunuch Qi has ordered it—leaving her alive this long is mercy enough. Anyone who meddles—" She drew a finger across her throat. "The Bureau's instruments don't miss."
A Ruan trembled but shielded the child with her body. "She's only a baby! She's done nothing wrong!"
"Baby?" The matron spat. "Her mother bedded that man! You think a creature born of that sin deserves to live? If you pity her, die with her. I'll see you buried together." She turned and left, slamming the door so hard that snow cascaded from the roof.
The oil lamp flickered wildly. Shadows on the wall stretched long and twisted, like clawing ghosts.
A Ruan looked down—the baby's face was turning blue, her cries fading to weak gasps. Stripping off her own thin coat, A Ruan wrapped the child tightly to her chest. The warmth was faint, like cradling a block of ice, but she clung to her still.
"You don't even have a name yet," she whispered. "Last night, Mistress murmured something before she died—'Ru Hui, life born from darkness'… Then that shall be your name. Shen Ruhui. You must live, little one. Live to see the sun beyond these walls."
As if understanding, the baby stopped crying and gave a soft sigh, bubbles at her lips. Tears spilled down A Ruan's cheeks. She kissed the child's forehead—the taste of salt and faint blood on her lips.
By fifth watch, the sky was paling, but snow fell thicker. A Ruan knelt outside the kitchens for hours, her knees buried in snow, numb and senseless. When the steward finally emerged, carrying steaming soup, he kicked her aside.
"Get out! You think a Cold Palace rat can beg here? Want warmth? Lick it from the gutters!"
A Ruan fell backward; the child wailed. Blood trickled from a cut on her brow, splattering onto Ruhui's face. The baby's cries sharpened in the still air.
Panicking, A Ruan wiped the blood away, whispering hoarsely, "Don't cry… We'll go home… I'll make you rice gruel…" She staggered back toward the Cold Palace.
Near the garden gate, she heard the clatter of armor—the Imperial Guards. She dropped to her knees, pressing her forehead to the snow.
A golden carriage, drawn by eight white horses, rolled past, flanked by guards in flying-fish uniforms. A Ruan prayed they wouldn't notice her—but the carriage stopped.
A hand lifted the curtain. Inside sat a pale-faced youth, features cold as winter jade—Emperor Zhaoming, seventeen years of age.
"From the Cold Palace?" His voice was clear and toneless.
Qi Youchang rushed forward, bowing low. "Your Majesty, just a servant girl—she offended Your Sacred Presence. This slave will remove her at once—"
"What is that she carries?"
The Emperor's gaze fixed on the bundle in her arms. Ruhui whimpered and, as if on cue, began to cry.
Qi's face blanched. He raised his foot to crush the baby—but the Emperor's hand halted him.
"Bring it here."
The guards dragged A Ruan forward. She clung to the baby until her fingers were pried open. From within the carriage, a slender white hand emerged—smooth as glazed porcelain, rimmed with frost. It drew back the swaddling cloth.
Ruhui stopped crying. Her dark eyes blinked up at the Emperor's face—and she smiled.
For a long moment, he said nothing. Then his hand withdrew.
"Bestow a name—'Qi' (Abandon)."
From this day, she is my abandoned slave. Leave her in the Cold Palace. No need to interfere."
The curtain fell. The carriage moved on.
A Ruan collapsed in the snow, clutching the baby—now named Qi—who gurgled and smiled, unaware that her name meant discarded.
Qi Youchang sneered. "You heard His Majesty. She's been granted a name—what an honor. But rules are rules." He crouched close, whispering, "Tonight at third watch, she goes where she belongs."
"You dare! She bears His Majesty's own name!"
"His Majesty said not to bother with her. Her life or death is no concern of the throne. Be smart, girl—or die with her." He turned away, his footprints marking the snow like ugly scars.
Night fell again. The Cold Palace lay in silence. A Ruan huddled by the window, the baby asleep on her chest. Footsteps crunched nearer—killers.
She looked down. Ruhui slept soundly, fists clenched as if grasping the last thread of life.
"Little one, I won't let you die."
She bound the baby to her back, the cloth digging into her bleeding hands. A drop of blood fell onto Ruhui's brow—a mark bright as cinnabar.
The door crashed open. Guards burst in with torches. Without hesitation, A Ruan slipped out the back window into the snow.
She knew of a dog hole at the far wall—an escape passage leading to a dry well in the imperial gardens. If she could reach it, there might be hope.
She was almost there when a shadow lunged out, seizing her mouth and waist. She thrashed, until a low voice hissed in her ear:
"Want to live? Don't move."
The voice was that of a boy—clear, rough-edged, but calm. A Ruan froze. In the dim light, she saw him: thirteen or fourteen, dressed in a black cloak, hood low, a tiny mole beside his lip.
"Who are you?"
"Your rescuer." His gaze fell to the bundle on her back. "Hers too."
Torches flickered nearby—the guards were close. The boy pressed something into her hand: a black wooden token, carved with two characters—晦月 (Huiyue).
"Go to the southeastern pavilion of the Imperial Garden. Find Ningxiang Hall. Say Huiyue sent you. They'll help."
"Why are you helping us?"
His fingers brushed Ruhui's cold cheek. "Because… she was never meant to be abandoned."
Before she could speak, he was gone—vanished into the snow like a shadow.
A Ruan clutched the token, its edge cutting her palm. Blood seeped into the carved words, glowing darkly like a spell. She crawled into the tunnel and disappeared.
The snow fell heavier still.
In the depths of the palace, one lonely lamp burned. Beneath it crouched the same black-cloaked youth. With a knife, he pried up a floor tile, revealing a small sandalwood chest. Inside lay an old imperial decree and half a tiger tally.
His fingers traced the blurred signature—Shen Ruhui.
"So… you're alive."
A faint smile ghosted across his lips. "Then this game of death—shall begin anew."
The lamp sputtered, a spark flaring—reflected in his eyes, twin shards of crimson fire.