Chapter 6
"But silence did not mean peace."
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The Liang Palace stirred awake long before the sun dared to peek over the distant mountains, its vast kitchens and laundries humming like a hidden beehive buried deep within the grand stone walls. The air was thick with the steam from massive iron pots bubbling over open fires, where cooks stirred congee and soups that would feed hundreds—from the lowliest servants to the emperor's own table. The scent of ginger and garlic mixed with the sharp tang of soap from the laundry basins nearby, where maids scrubbed silk robes and linens under the dim glow of oil lamps. Shadows danced on the rough brick floors, cast by the flickering flames, making the whole place feel like a secret world far from the polished halls above.
In the heart of the kitchen, a group of servants gathered around a wooden table, their hands busy chopping vegetables or kneading dough for the morning mantou buns. They worked in rhythm, but their voices were low and quick, like whispers carried on the steam. No one knew where the talk had started—maybe from a guard who overheard something in the halls, or a eunuch who served at the celebration—but it spread fast, like wildfire through dry grass.
A young maid named Mei, her sleeves rolled up and face flushed from the heat, leaned in close to an older cook as she sliced green onions. "Did you hear about the Yan prince?" she said, her voice barely above a murmur, eyes wide with excitement.
"At the big celebration, His Majesty asked him to sing—said his voice is sweet as honey. But the prince just said no! 'My throat isn't right,' he claimed. Can you believe it?"
The cook, a stout woman with flour-dusted hands, snorted as she pounded dough on the table. "Throat ache? Ha! That's just a fancy way to say he thinks he's too good for us. Coming from that weak Yan kingdom, acting like he's still a big shot. No respect for the emperor who could have crushed them all."
Another maid, rinsing rice in a big bowl, joined in, water splashing softly. "I heard from the hall servants—he didn't even bow low enough when he refused. Like spitting in His Majesty's face! Arrogant, that's what he is. Thinks his pretty looks make him special."
The talk rippled out from there, jumping from one group to another like sparks from the fire. In the laundry side, where big tubs of soapy water steamed and women wrung out wet clothes, the whispers grew bolder. A tall laundry woman hung a silk robe to dry, shaking her head. "Yan people are all the same—proud even when they're beaten. The prince struts around like he owns the place. If I were His Majesty, I'd send him back where he came from."
Her friend, folding dry linens into neat stacks, nodded. "Right? The palace was peaceful before he came. Now it's all tension. Whispers say he's bad luck—refusing the emperor's wish like that? It's an insult to the dragon throne."
As the pre-dawn light started to creep in through small windows high on the walls, the gossip kept flowing, weaving through the servants like threads in a tapestry. Guards passing by the kitchen door caught bits of it and carried them to the gates, where they muttered to each other while sharpening swords. Eunuchs, slipping through to fetch trays for early risers, picked up the words and let them drop in other corners of the palace.
No one could pin down who said it first, and in the dim light, it all felt like just harmless talk—the kind that fills the long hours of work. But deep down, it was building, layer by layer, turning one small refusal into something bigger, something that could sting like a hidden thorn. The palace was alive with it now, and as the sun rose higher, those whispers would climb up from the depths, reaching ears that mattered.
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The morning light slipped into Prince Li Xian's chambers like a quiet thief, filtering through the thin silk screens that covered the tall windows. The room was simple but elegant, with dark wooden furniture carved with soft patterns of clouds and mountains—a reminder of Yan's faraway hills. A low table held a half-finished cup of tea from the night before, its steam long gone, and scrolls of poetry lay scattered on a nearby shelf, untouched since the whispers started. The air felt heavy, carrying the faint scent of jasmine incense from a small burner in the corner, meant to calm the mind but doing little against the growing unease.
Li Xian stood by the window, his robe loose over his shoulders, the red silk edges brushing the floor. He had woken early, his sleep broken by strange dreams of shadowed halls and distant battles. Now, he leaned against the frame, looking out at the palace gardens where servants moved like ants in the distance. But his ears caught something closer—voices drifting up from below, where the paths wound between the buildings.
At first, it was just a murmur, like wind through leaves. Then words sharpened: "The Yan prince... refused to sing... arrogant..." A servant's laugh followed, low and mocking. "Thinks he's better than us... no respect for the emperor."
Li Xian froze, his hand tightening on the windowsill. His face stayed calm, but his eyes narrowed, jade-green like storm clouds gathering. What is this? he thought, heart beating a little faster. The words stung, twisting in his mind like a thorn he couldn't pull out. He had refused the song because his throat felt tight from the long journey and the weight of everything—but now it sounded like something worse, like he meant to insult.
The door slid open softly behind him, and Han Shen stepped in, his guard's tunic neat and dark, a sword at his side. He carried a tray with fresh tea and simple buns, but his steps slowed when he saw Li Xian's stiff back. Han Shen set the tray down quietly on the table, glancing at the window. He could hear the voices too, faint but clear enough: "...proud from that weak kingdom... bad luck for the palace..."
Han Shen's brow furrowed, his usual steady face showing a flicker of confusion. He moved closer to Li Xian, standing beside him without a word at first. The two men exchanged a quick glance—Li Xian's eyes questioning, Han Shen's mirroring the same puzzle. What did those words mean? Who started them? It felt like a shadow falling over the room, something they couldn't see but could feel.
Li Xian turned away from the window, crossing his arms over his chest. He didn't say much, just a soft "Hear that?" His voice was low, like he didn't want to give the whispers more power.
Han Shen nodded once, his mouth a thin line. "Yes... strange." He looked back at the window, then at Li Xian again, their eyes meeting in silent worry. Neither knew what to make of it— was it just idle talk, or something deeper? Han Shen's hand rested on his sword hilt, a habit when things felt off, but he stayed quiet, waiting.
Li Xian paced a few steps, the floor creaking softly under his feet. The rumors swirled in his head, making his chest tight. He thought of the celebration, the emperor's cold eyes when he refused—had that sparked this? Or was it Princess Chen Shuyin, stirring trouble like always? He glanced at Han Shen once more, the confusion shared in that look, no need for long words. They both felt it: the palace walls closing in, whispers like invisible chains.
For a moment, the room was silent, save for the distant bird calls from the garden. Li Xian sat at the table, picking up the tea but not drinking, his mind far away. Han Shen stood watch, ready as always, but the puzzle hung between them, unsolved and growing.
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The midday sun hung high over the Liang Palace, casting warm golden light across the gardens where peony flowers bloomed in bright pinks and reds, their petals wide open like proud fans. Tucked away in a quiet corner of the grounds stood Madam Zhao Yan's pavilion—a small but fancy building with curved roofs tiled in deep blue, like the scales of a dragon. Thin silk curtains hung from the open sides, fluttering gently in the breeze, letting in just enough air to cool the space without chasing away the sweet smell of blooming jasmine vines that climbed the wooden pillars. Inside, low tables were set with fine porcelain tea sets, painted with delicate birds and clouds, and soft cushions lined the floor for sitting. It was a place for secrets, far from the busy main halls, where whispers could flow free without prying ears.
Madam Zhao Yan sat gracefully on one of the cushions, her robe a rich shade of purple silk embroidered with silver threads that caught the light like tiny stars. She was an older woman, her face sharp and knowing, with eyes that missed nothing—like a hawk watching from high above.
Across from her lounged Princess Chen Shuyin, the emperor's childhood friend, her hair pinned up with jade combs shaped like butterflies. Princess Chen Shuyin's dress was lighter, in soft green, but her smile had a sharp edge, like she was always ready for a fight.
A maid had just poured fresh osmanthus tea into their cups, the steam rising with a sweet, flowery scent that mixed with the garden air. The maid bowed low and stepped back, leaving them alone.
Chen Shuyin picked up her cup, blowing gently on the hot tea before taking a small sip. She leaned forward, her voice low but excited, like she was sharing a fun secret.
"Auntie, have you heard the talk buzzing through the palace? It's everywhere now—the Yan prince refusing to sing at the celebration. People are saying he's arrogant, like he thinks he's too good for His Majesty. No respect at all!"
Madam Zhao Yan set her cup down slowly, her fingers tracing the edge of the porcelain as she smiled—a thin, clever smile that didn't reach her eyes.
She nodded, her voice smooth and calm, like she had expected this all along. "Yes, I've caught the whispers. From the kitchens to the guards' posts, it's spreading like wildfire. They call him proud, a bad fit for our court. Refusing the emperor's wish? It's like slapping his hand away in front of everyone."
Chen Shuyin laughed softly, covering her mouth with her sleeve as was proper, but her eyes sparkled with mean joy.
"And the best part? We didn't even have to lift a finger. The palace is doing the work for us. Let them talk more—soon, it'll grow so big that ministers will start complaining. Imagine if they ask His Majesty to send him back to Yan for 'peace in the court.' One less thorn in our side."
The aunt leaned back against her cushion, her gaze drifting to the garden where birds chirped in the trees. She picked up a small fan from the table, waving it slowly to stir the air. "Whispers are like wind, Princess Chen Shuyin—they start small but can topple trees if you let them blow. We stay quiet, watch it build. The prince's pride will be his own trap. And with my son Rui back from the borders, his sharp mind can help tally the 'debts' this caLat"
Chen Shuyin tilted her head, curious. "Rui's home? Good timing. He's always so smart with numbers—maybe he can find a way to make this hurt the prince more. If Li Xian falls, His Majesty's eyes will turn back where they belong... to me."
Madam Zhao Yan's smile widened just a bit, like she was pleased with the thought. She took another sip of tea, the steam curling up like little secrets rising.
"Patience, dear. Let the rumors do their dance. The court loves a good story, and this one paints the Yan boy as the villain. Soon enough, it might push things our way without us getting our hands dirty."
The two women sat there a while longer, the breeze rustling the curtains as they chatted in low tones about small things—the latest silk from the markets, a new poem from the music master. But under it all, their words circled back to the prince, their glee hidden behind polite smiles.
Outside, the sun climbed higher, but in the pavilion's shade, the shadows felt deeper, full of plans waiting to unfold. The maid returned quietly to refill their cups, bowing without a word, as if even she knew better than to interrupt the quiet storm brewing between them.
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A few days had passed since the first whispers stirred in the palace depths, and now the rumors had grown like weeds after rain, twisting through every corner of the vast Liang court. What started as quiet talk in the kitchens and laundries had spread upward—guards sharing it during shifts, maids repeating it while changing linens, even some lower ministers murmuring it in side halls.
The story had swollen: the Yan prince's refusal to sing wasn't just a small thing anymore; it was painted as a bold insult, a sign of arrogance from a conquered land. People whispered it behind hands during meals or walks in the gardens, the words gaining strength with each retelling. The palace felt heavier, like a storm cloud hanging low, waiting to break.
In the grand imperial court hall, the afternoon sun slanted through high windows, casting long shadows across the red-tiled floor etched with golden dragons. The air smelled of sandalwood incense from burners at the throne's base, and ministers stood in neat rows, their robes in shades of blue and green, heads bowed in respect.
Zhao Wei sat on the raised throne, his dark robe simple but powerful, embroidered with silver threads that caught the light like distant stars. He looked calm as always, his face like smooth stone, but his eyes scanned the room with the sharpness of a hawk.
The session had been going for a while—talk of taxes, border reports, small matters of the kingdom. Zhao Wei turned his gaze to Zhao Rui, his cousin, who knelt at the front in a clean robe, fresh from his border trip but with a hint of dust still on his boots. Rui had arrived back just yesterday, his bags full of ledgers and notes from far lands.
"Cousin," Zhao Wei said, his voice steady and even, like he was asking about the weather. "How did the border work go? Any issues with the taxes or supplies?"
Rui bowed lower, his voice clear and respectful. "Your Majesty, the borders are steady. Taxes came in as expected—no big shortfalls. A few villages needed more grain, but I handled it. The numbers balance out."
Zhao Wei nodded once, showing little reaction, like it was just another small thing in a long day.
"Good. Keep an eye on the southern areas—report back if anything changes."
The room stayed quiet for a moment, the ministers shifting slightly on their feet. Then Fang Xu, the advisor with his thin beard and sharp eyes, stepped forward a bit. He bowed deep, his robe rustling.
"Your Majesty," he said carefully, "there's been talk in the palace these past days. Whispers about the Yan prince—people say his refusal to sing was arrogant, like he doesn't respect the throne. It's spreading... some wonder if it brings bad luck."
Zhao Wei leaned back on his throne, his fingers tapping once on the armrest. He looked almost bored, like the words were a fly buzzing around his head. His eyes flicked to Fang Xu, then around the room, but he didn't raise his voice or show anger.
"Talk like that?" he saidSuppor.
"It's nothing. Who spreads empty words? Let it stop—focus on real duties, not shadows."
The ministers nodded quickly, a few exchanging quick looks. Fang Xu bowed again. "As you say, Your Majesty."
With that, Zhao Wei waved a hand, moving on to the next matter—a report on the rice harvest. The room relaxed a little, but the air still felt thick.
By evening, the edict would spread: no more slander, by the emperor's word. The rumors, after building for days, started to fade like smoke in the wind—quelled without much fuss, as if the emperor couldn't be bothered with such small things. But in the quiet, it left a mark, like a question hanging unspoken: why shut it down so easy?
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Late Afternoon – Ally Support
As the sun dipped lower in the vast azure sky of the Liang realm, casting a warm amber glow over the palace grounds, the whispers that had festered for days seemed to linger in the air like unseen vapors from a distant incense burner.
The rumors had taken root, blooming in the fertile soil of courtly discontent, where every glance and murmur carried the weight of hidden intentions. In the heart of this sprawling imperial domain, inspired by the graceful splendor of ancient dynasties where emperors ruled under the Mandate of Heaven, the Empress Dowager Zhao Hua's private garden offered a rare sanctuary of tranquility amid the brewing storm.
The garden was a masterpiece of harmonious design, reminiscent of the Tang era's poetic landscapes, where nature and human craft intertwined like the threads of a finely woven brocade. Willow trees with slender branches swayed gently in the breeze, their leaves whispering secrets to the koi-filled pond below, where golden fish glided lazily through lily pads floating like jade discs on the water's surface. Peony bushes, the flowers of prosperity and honor, stood in full bloom along winding stone paths, their petals unfurling in shades of crimson and pale rose, symbolizing the fleeting beauty of life under the heavens. Low stone benches, carved with intricate patterns of phoenixes and dragons—eternal emblems of imperial power and feminine grace—dotted the edges, while a small pavilion with upturned eaves provided shade, its roof glazed in tiles of deep emerald green that shimmered like dragon scales in the sunlight.
The air was perfumed with the subtle fragrance of osmanthus blossoms, mingled with the earthy scent of damp soil from a recent light rain, evoking the balance of yin and yang that the wise sought in all things.
Empress Dowager Zhao Hua, the elegant matriarch of the Liang court, glided through this haven with the poise of a willow in the wind. Her robe was a flowing masterpiece of silk, dyed in soft hues of lavender and embroidered with silver threads depicting cranes in flight—symbols of longevity and wisdom, befitting a woman who had navigated the treacherous waters of palace politics for decades. Her hair was pinned high with jade ornaments shaped like blooming lotuses, and a subtle layer of rice powder graced her face, enhancing the gentle lines of age that spoke of quiet strength rather than frailty. She moved with measured steps, her embroidered slippers whispering against the pebble path, accompanied by her most trusted maid, a young woman named Lan, clad in simpler gray silk, who carried a tray of porcelain tea cups and a small brazier for warming water.
As they reached the pavilion, Lan set down the tray on a low lacquered table, bowing deeply with hands clasped in respect.
"Your Grace," she said in a soft, deferential tone, her voice like the murmur of a gentle stream, "the osmanthus tea is ready, as you requested. But... there is talk in the servants' quarters that weighs heavy on the air."
Empress Zhao Hua seated herself on a cushion of brocade, her posture straight as a bamboo stalk, unyielding yet flexible. She nodded once, her eyes—dark and perceptive, like polished obsidian reflecting the court's hidden depths—meeting Lan's gaze.
"Speak freely, child. The garden walls have no ears but those of the wind and the willows. What shadows do these whispers cast?"
Lan knelt beside the table, pouring the hot tea into delicate cups painted with scenes of mountains and rivers, the steam rising in lazy curls that carried the sweet, floral aroma of the brew. Her hands trembled slightly, a sign of the unease that had gripped even the most loyal.
"It is about Prince Li Xian, Your Grace. The talk has grown these past days—from the kitchens to the outer halls. They say his refusal to sing at the celebration was an act of arrogance, a slight against His Majesty. 'A Yan flower too proud to bloom for Liang's sun,' some call it. It spreads like autumn leaves in the wind, turning hearts sour."
The empress lifted her cup, inhaling the tea's fragrance before taking a slow sip, her expression serene as a still pond, though a faint crease formed between her brows—a rare crack in her composed facade. In the traditions of their dynasty, where harmony was the pillar of rule and discord invited the wrath of the ancestors, such rumors were like poison dripping into a well, tainting all who drank from it. She set the cup down with a soft clink, her voice measured and wise, carrying the weight of one who had seen emperors rise and fall.
"Whispers are the weapons of the weak, Lan, but they cut deep if left unchecked. Prince Li Xian spared my son's life on the battlefield—a mercy that echoes the Mandate's grace. To paint him as arrogant is to twist the willow's branch until it snaps."
Lan bowed her head lower, her voice a respectful murmur. "Your Grace is wise. But the talk grows bold—some say it brings ill fortune to the palace, like a fox spirit stirring trouble."
Empress Zhao Hua gazed out at the pond, where a koi surfaced with a gentle ripple, its scales flashing like imperial gold. In the old ways of their land, inspired by the Song dynasty's reverence for balance and scholarship, a mother's role was to guide from the shadows, weaving threads of influence like a master embroiderer.
She turned back to Lan, her tone firm yet kind, like a gentle rain nourishing the earth. "Then we shall counter with truth, as the sages teach. Spread word quietly among the loyal ones—the maids, the cooks, the guards who remember mercy. Say this: Prince Li Xian is a guest under our roof, bound by the rites of union. His voice may have faltered, but his heart honors the throne. He who spared the dragon's heir brings no curse, but balance to our halls."
Lan nodded, her eyes bright with understanding. "As you command, Your Grace. I will speak to those I trust—let the whispers of kindness flow like spring water, washing away the mud."
The empress rose slowly, her robe whispering like silk leaves in the breeze, and walked to the edge of the pavilion, her hand resting lightly on a pillar carved with intertwining vines—a symbol of enduring alliances. The garden's peace wrapped around her, a brief respite from the court's endless games, where every word was a move on an invisible go board. Yet she knew the rumors would not die easily; they were seeds sown in fertile ground, and only time—and careful tending—would reveal what harvest they bore.
As the afternoon light softened, casting long shadows across the peonies, Empress Zhao Hua allowed herself a quiet sigh, her thoughts turning to the young prince caught in the web. "May the heavens grant him strength," she murmured to the wind, "for the path of harmony is ever fraught with thorns."
Lan gathered the tea tray, bowing once more before slipping away to carry out her task, leaving the empress alone with the garden's gentle symphony—the rustle of leaves, the distant call of a bird, and the unspoken hopes of a mother who saw beyond the whispers to the fragile bonds that might yet mend a fractured dynasty.
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The palace corridors were quiet now.
Not the quiet of sleeping halls —
but the quiet of obedience.
Li Xian walked alone beneath rows of hanging lanterns. Their golden light swayed with the night breeze, casting moving shadows across the polished stone floor. His robe brushed softly with every step. Yet his footsteps sounded heavy — like each one carried the weight of five restless days.
No whispers followed him anymore.
No hidden laughter behind sleeves.
No darting eyes.
The rumors had been severed at the root.
By imperial command.
Li Xian knew this. The court had announced it that morning — calm, cold, unquestionable. Any further spreading of false talk would be punished. The palace had listened. The palace had obeyed.
And so, the world had returned to silence.
But silence did not mean peace.
He reached his residence.
Two guards bowed and opened the doors. Warm lamplight spilled onto the threshold. Li Xian stepped inside, crossing from the cold breath of night into stillness.
Only when the doors closed behind him did his shoulders loosen slightly.
He walked to the inner chamber. His fingers undid the jade clasp at his collar. He removed his outer robe and let it fall over a chair like discarded armor.
Then he sat.
Slowly.
As if the act itself required strength.
Across from him, Han Shen stood waiting, hands folded inside his sleeves, eyes lowered in respect.
For a long moment, neither spoke.
The oil lamp crackled softly. Outside, bamboo rustled.
Finally, Li Xian poured tea into two cups. The stream trembled slightly before steadying.
"Five days," Li Xian said quietly.
"We gave them five days to sharpen their knives."
Han Shen accepted the cup with both hands. "And on the sixth, the Emperor ordered them to sheath those knives."
Li Xian's gaze sharpened. "Yes. His decree was clear. Absolute."
He took a sip of tea. Bitter.
"The court did not push for my removal," Li Xian continued.
Han Shen nodded once. "So Plan One… has failed."
Li Xian exhaled through his nose — almost a laugh, but without humor.
"We wanted the court to despise me enough to send me away."
He leaned back against the seat.
"Instead, they were reminded that I am under imperial protection."
His fingers tightened slightly around the cup.
Not knowing.
Not understanding.
That this protection was a cage.
A brief silence.
Then Han Shen spoke, voice low.
"I was careful. No one traced the rumors back to us. I changed faces, voices, routes. Even the kitchen maids believe the talk began naturally."
Li Xian looked toward the lamp flame.
"I do not doubt your skill," he said. "The failure was not in the execution."
He paused.
"The failure was in underestimating how firmly the Emperor holds this court."
He did not say Zhao Wei's name aloud.
Yet both knew.
Li Xian rose and walked toward the open window. Moonlight poured across his face — pale, thoughtful, sharp.
"So be it," he said quietly. "If one stone cannot break the wall…"
He turned.
His eyes met Han Shen's.
"…then we carve a deeper crack."
Han Shen lowered his head.
"As you command, Highness."
The wind stirred the curtains.
The lamp flame flickered.
And within the Yan Prince's chamber, a new plan began to form — unseen, unheard, but already moving.
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- End of Chapter 6 -