The Emperor's Choice
Autumn crept into Chang'an with a subtle chill, cooling the marble floors of the palace and sharpening the air with the scent of fallen leaves. The court gathered beneath high roofs and heavier silences. What had once been whispers now lingered openly in the pauses between words.
Emperor Xuanzong felt it pressing in from all sides.
Petitions arrived wrapped in courtesy, each one carrying a reminder of ritual, law, and precedent. No accusation named Yang Yuhuan directly, yet her presence hovered over every discussion like an unspoken question. A ruler could ignore many things—but not the collective unease of his court.
He dismissed the ministers early that day.
Alone in the Hall of Radiant Governance, Xuanzong stood before a painted screen depicting mountains shrouded in mist. He had commissioned it years ago, believing it symbolized balance—strength softened by restraint. Now it felt like a rebuke.
A eunuch entered quietly. "Your Majesty, Lady Yang awaits your command."
Xuanzong closed his eyes for a brief moment. Then he nodded.
Yuhuan entered with measured steps, her composure intact despite the weight she carried. She knelt, head bowed, the rustle of silk the only sound between them.
"Rise," he said.
She did.
"I have read the petitions," he began, his voice calm, controlled. "They demand clarity."
Yuhuan's hands tightened slightly. "Then give it to them."
Xuanzong studied her. There was no fear in her eyes—only resolve. That, more than anything, forced his hand.
"The court wishes me to distance myself from you," he said. "To preserve harmony."
"And do you?" she asked quietly.
The question hung between them, dangerous in its simplicity.
"For the empire," he said slowly, "every choice becomes a sacrifice."
Yuhuan lowered her gaze. "Then let me be the one offered."
The words struck him harder than any protest could have. He stepped closer, stopping just before the line propriety demanded.
"I did not summon you to discard you," he said. "I summoned you because I must decide what I am willing to lose."
She looked up then, eyes steady. "And what have you chosen?"
Xuanzong turned toward the open doors, where the palace stretched endlessly beyond. Power waited there. So did judgment.
"I choose responsibility," he said at last. "But responsibility does not always mean retreat."
He faced her once more. "You will remain under my protection. Publicly, I will reaffirm your role. Privately, nothing changes."
Relief and dread tangled in her chest. "That will anger many."
"Yes," he replied. "Let it."
When she departed, Xuanzong remained standing long after her footsteps faded. He knew what this decision meant. Favor once defended became a challenge. A challenge invited consequence.
Across the palace, word spread quickly—carefully—that the emperor had spoken.
And in choosing not to step away, Emperor Xuanzong had done more than protect a woman.
He had drawn a line.
One the court would not ignore.