Crimson Phoenix: Rebirth of the Vengeful Empress
Chapter 1 — The Betrayal
The moon hung low above the Eastern Palace, veiled by a drifting web of cloud. Lanterns burned crimson along the marble terraces, and the scent of osmanthus wine drifted through the open halls. Beneath the banners and music, danger shimmered like perfume.
Empress Lian Yue sat upon the high jade throne, her posture carved from ice. Gold-threaded silk wrapped her slender frame; the phoenix crown upon her head caught the candlelight like living fire. To her courtiers, she was a vision of serenity. To herself, she was a woman surrounded by wolves.
Tonight marked the seventh year of her reign beside Emperor Zhao Shen—a reign won through blood, sacrifice, and cunning. The court celebrated the empire's peace, but Lian Yue felt only the cold whisper of warning crawling up her spine.
> "Your Majesty," murmured her maid, Lady Mei, bending low. "The Emperor approaches."
Trumpets blared from beyond the throne room. The guards straightened, their spears glinting under torchlight. When Zhao Shen entered, the crowd dropped to their knees as one. He was every inch the ruler the empire adored: tall, graceful, his robes the color of the night sky after rain.
His smile reached no deeper than his lips.
He ascended the dais and offered his hand to her. "My Empress," he said softly, his voice a blade wrapped in silk. "You have served this empire beyond measure. Tonight, the heavens themselves celebrate you."
The crowd erupted in cheers. Lian Yue lifted her cup of plum wine in response, her smile practiced, her gaze sharp.
> Too sweet, she thought as she drank. Always too sweet.
For a moment, warmth slid down her throat—and then the warmth turned to fire.
Her fingers twitched around the goblet. The sweetness curdled into metal on her tongue. Across the hall, she caught the faintest glance exchanged between Zhao Shen and Lady Mei. The maid's eyes were cold and still.
The music swelled, drowning her silence.
"Your Majesty?" Zhao Shen asked smoothly. "Is the wine not to your liking?"
The words carried hidden laughter.
Lian Yue set the cup aside. Her heartbeat thundered, the poison already burning its path through her veins. She rose slowly, as though to make a toast, and the courtiers applauded again—none daring to see the truth in her eyes.
"Long live the Emperor," she said. The words scraped her throat raw. "Long live the man I once believed was my salvation."
The hall went still.
Zhao Shen's smile froze. "Lian Yue—"
Her knees buckled. The goblet fell and shattered across the marble, red wine blooming like spilled blood.
She tasted iron, and betrayal.
Guards surged forward. The Emperor's hand lifted lazily, halting them.
"There is no need," he said. "The Empress is… tired."
> Tired? Her mind screamed though her body failed her. I built this throne with my hands! I buried every rival who stood in your way!
Her vision blurred. Through the haze she saw Lady Mei step closer, expression unreadable.
"I should thank you," Lian Yue rasped. "For teaching me the cost of loyalty."
Lady Mei's lips curved in a smile too small for joy. "And I should thank you… for giving me the chance to replace you."
Steel flashed. A thin blade, hidden in the maid's sleeve, slid between Lian Yue's ribs. She felt the cold kiss of metal and the rush of warmth that followed.
The world tilted. She fell against the jade throne—the same throne she had guarded with her life—and the marble drank her blood.
No one moved. Ministers bowed lower, pretending not to see.
Zhao Shen's voice was calm. "Take her away."
The last thing she saw was his hand, resting lightly on Lady Mei's shoulder, as though rewarding a faithful hound.
Then the world went dark.
---
Silence.
She expected nothingness, but instead came sound—soft, distant, like the beating of wings.
> So this is death?
Flames burst behind her eyes. A cry echoed through the void—piercing, ancient, furious. A phoenix, wings of fire tearing through the darkness. Its gaze met hers.
> Rise, it whispered. Burn again.
Pain became heat; heat became breath.
---
When she opened her eyes, the world had changed.
The ceiling above her was low and wooden, the air heavy with the scent of herbs and smoke. A rough blanket covered her body. She bolted upright, her chest heaving, expecting guards, executioners—anything.
But there was only quiet.
Her hair spilled over her shoulders, black and tangled. Her hands—small, unscarred, the hands of youth.
She staggered to a mirror on the wall, its surface warped but clear enough. The reflection staring back at her was seventeen at most. Pale, delicate. Familiar.
"No…" Her voice trembled. "No, this can't be."
The girl in the reflection was Mu Qing, a forgotten servant from the Lin estate. Lian Yue remembered her only vaguely—a timid thing who died before ever seeing the capital.
Yet here she was, breathing through Mu Qing's body, her soul burning like the sun.
A rustle at the door made her turn. An elderly woman entered, carrying a bowl of steaming congee.
"You're awake, child!" she said with relief. "Heavens be praised. We thought you wouldn't survive that fever."
Lian Yue blinked, forcing calm. "Where am I?"
"The servants' quarters of Duke Lin's manor," the woman said. "You were found by the river three days past. The steward said to feed you once you woke."
Duke Lin. The name struck like lightning.
He had been among the first to betray her—selling military secrets to Zhao Shen for gold and power.
Her fists clenched beneath the blanket.
"Thank you," she said softly.
The woman smiled and left.
When the door closed, Lian Yue exhaled shakily. The wooden walls, the straw mattress, the faint chirp of crickets—it was all real.
She was back.
Back in the empire that had buried her alive.
For a long while Lian Yue simply listened—to the drip of water outside, to her own heart hammering in her ribs. Everything felt too vivid: the rough weave of the blanket, the smell of ash and herbs, the faint tremor in her hands. It was proof that the heavens, cruel or kind, had returned her to the mortal world.
A flicker of light drew her eyes downward. The small jade pendant at her throat glowed faintly red before dimming. She remembered that glow—the final heartbeat before her death, the spark of the phoenix that had wrapped itself around her soul.
She touched it reverently.
> "So, you followed me back through the flames," she whispered. "Then we are bound by vengeance."
She rose, steadying herself on untrained legs. This body was weak, but youth pulsed through it—clean, new, unscarred by poison or steel. She flexed her fingers and smiled without warmth.
> I built an empire once. I can build my revenge from even this.
Outside, voices drifted from the courtyard. She peeked through the shutter. Servants hurried about, sweeping snow, hanging lanterns. Their chatter floated through the chill air.
> "The young master returns from the capital today!"
"They say he's to escort a guest from the palace itself."
Lian Yue's breath caught. The name Duke Lin echoed again in her mind. If his son was returning, it meant the household would soon crawl with officials, guards, and gossip—perfect cover for her to observe, to plan.
She spent the next hours pretending to rest, cataloguing everything: the way servants moved, which doors led to storerooms, which corridors echoed least. Old habits of power returned like muscle memory. By nightfall she already knew more of the Lin estate's rhythm than most maids who'd lived there for years.
When the sky purpled toward dusk, the door slid open. The same elderly woman entered, carrying folded clothes.
"Here, child. The steward says you'll return to work tomorrow. Wear this uniform."
"Thank you," Lian Yue said softly. "You've been kind."
The woman chuckled. "Kindness costs nothing. Now sleep. Tomorrow, everything begins again."
When the door shut, Lian Yue unfolded the servant's dress and stared at it—plain gray linen, coarse and dull. She slipped it on anyway, feeling the cloth rasp against her skin.
A queen's hands once held the imperial seal; now they scrubbed dust.
Yet as she tied the sash around her waist, the fire in her chest only grew.
> "Let them see a servant," she murmured to the darkness. "Let them never guess the Empress walks among them."
---
The Next Morning
Snow fell like sifted ash, layering the courtyard in silence. Lian Yue joined the servants before dawn, sweeping paths until her shoulders ached. Each motion, each breath, reminded her of how fragile this new body was.
> I will make it strong again.
As the first light broke, horns sounded at the main gate. Horses clattered across stone. The young master had arrived.
Servants scrambled to line up in neat rows. Lian Yue kept her head bowed, heart steady. Through the fringe of her lashes she saw Lin Jian, the Duke's only son—tall, sharp-eyed, carrying the arrogance of youth like armor.
He dismounted, scanning the line of servants. When his gaze brushed her, the jade pendant burned hot against her skin. For a heartbeat his expression faltered, as if he'd seen a ghost.
Then he blinked, the moment gone. "Carry on," he said curtly, and strode toward the inner hall.
Lian Yue's pulse slowed. Even fate recognizes me.
---
Later, as she hauled water from the well, two girls whispered nearby.
> "Did you hear? The Duke hosts a banquet tomorrow for an envoy from the capital."
"An envoy? From whom?"
"From the palace! A lady of high favor—Lady Mei, they say."
The bucket slipped from Lian Yue's grasp and struck the stones with a hollow clang.
Lady Mei.
The name curdled the air around her. She forced a smile to hide the storm behind her eyes. "I must have lost my grip," she said and retrieved the bucket.
Inside her, the phoenix stirred restlessly.
> So soon? The gods tempt me.
---
Nightfall
The servants' quarters slept early. Lian Yue waited until the snores around her deepened, then rose and crept outside. The courtyard shimmered silver under the moon. She walked barefoot to the edge of the gardens, where a frozen pond reflected the stars.
Kneeling, she touched the pendant again. "Show me," she whispered.
Heat pulsed outward. Crimson light spiraled across her palm, faint but alive. The flame did not burn her—it curled and danced, delicate as breath.
She remembered the legend told in temple murals:
> When a phoenix dies, it burns. When it burns, it is reborn from its own ashes.
She let the tiny flame rest on her skin until it sank back into her veins. The warmth lingered, thrumming with promise.
> I was ashes once. Now I am the fire.
A gust of wind rippled through the snow-laden trees, scattering flakes across her face. Somewhere in the distance, temple bells tolled midnight.
Lian Yue looked up at the sky. "Zhao Shen. Lady Mei. Duke Lin." Her voice was steady, almost gentle. "Sleep well while you can."
---
The Banquet
By the next evening, the Lin estate glittered with light. Lanterns hung from every eave; servants scurried through halls scented with roasted duck and spiced wine. Lian Yue kept to the shadows, carrying trays where ordered, eyes everywhere.
Lady Mei arrived shortly after sunset, veiled in silk and arrogance. She had not changed—still graceful, still venom disguised as beauty. The sight of her set Lian Yue's pulse thrumming with fury barely contained.
From behind a pillar, she listened.
> "His Majesty sends his regards," Lady Mei said smoothly to Duke Lin. "He values your loyalty."
"I live only to serve," the Duke replied, bowing.
Lian Yue's hands tightened around the tray she carried until her knuckles whitened. Serve, he said—the same word he had used years later when signing her death decree.
As the guests laughed and drank, she slipped through the crowd, unnoticed. The pendant's heat guided her toward the inner courtyard. There, a cluster of oil lamps burned around an ancestral shrine. She knelt before it, heart hammering.
> "Heaven has given me another dawn," she whispered. "Let the night belong to vengeance."
She placed her hand over one of the lamps. A thin thread of crimson leapt from her skin to the flame, merging with it. The light flared—then steadied, burning slightly brighter than the rest.
A test, nothing more. Yet the gesture filled her with fierce satisfaction.
When she returned to the hall, Lady Mei passed close enough that their sleeves brushed. For an instant Lian Yue caught the faint perfume she remembered from the night of her death. The poison in the wine had smelled of it.
Lady Mei glanced at her idly, not recognizing the servant she had once stabbed.
Lian Yue bowed low. "My lady."
Their eyes met briefly. Something ancient and furious stirred behind Lian Yue's calm expression, but her voice remained soft. "May the evening please you."
"It already does," Lady Mei said lightly and turned away.
The phoenix inside Lian Yue laughed—a sound only she could hear.
---
After the Feast
When the last guests retired and the torches dimmed, Lian Yue slipped back to her small room. She closed the door and leaned against it, trembling not with fear but with the exhilaration of control regained.
She opened her hand. A faint ember danced above her palm, pulsing in rhythm with her heartbeat.
Tomorrow, she would begin weaving her web.
The Duke's steward. The guards who took bribes. The maid who struck her.
One by one, she would learn their secrets.
And when she reached Zhao Shen himself—when the Emperor finally looked into her eyes and saw the fire he thought he'd extinguished—
the world would remember what it meant to betray the Phoenix.
She extinguished the flame, lay back on her straw bed, and smiled into the darkness.
Outside, snow began to fall again, muffling the world in silence.
Inside, vengeance burned bright enough to melt it.