The hall fell into a hush.
At Princess Mingyao's command, the attendants withdrew, leaving only the qín before Shen Qingwan. Its lacquered surface reflected the lantern light, dark and still as winter water.
Qingwan stepped forward.
She seated herself slowly, arranging her sleeves so that they did not brush the strings. For a brief moment, her fingers hovered above the qin slender, steady, without the slightest tremor.
Princess Mingyao watched her closely.
WIll she falter, the princess wondered, or will she repeat the same mistake?
The first note sounded. It was low. Not gentle. Not ornamental.
They sound like a winter wind sweeping across an empty riverbank clear, restrained, yet carrying an ache that could not be hidden. Conversation vanished at once. Even the braziers seemed to burn more quietly.
The melody rose, slow and deliberate.
It spoke of a britgh moon hanging over a silent world, of frost settling upon eaves, of footsteps that never returned. The notes were sparse, yet every one struck true, heavy with longing. There was no attempt to please, no softness meant to flatter the ear.
Only sorrow. Only endurance.
As Qingwan's fingers moved, a poem took shape within the sound itself,
The moon in bright, the night serene, Yet whose home still waits beneath light?
COld shadows strect across the jade steps, And old vows echo, unanswered.
The hall seemed to breathe with the music.
Several young ladies lowered their heads, eyes reddening. One quietly dabbed at her sleeve. Even the palace maids standing at the edges felt their throats tighten, as though remembering losses they had never spoken aloud.
Princess Mingyao's fingers stilled upon her cup.
Something brushed against her heart unexpectedly, unwelcome.
The music carried no accusation, no plea. Yet within its stillness lay a quiet dignity, as though the one who composed it had long since accepted pain and chosen to walk forward regardless.
Mingyao's brows drew together slightly.
Three full minutes passed.
The final note lingered, trembling faintly in the air before dissolving into silence.
Shen Qingwan lowered her hands.
For a heartbeat, no one spoke.
Then applause broke out soft at first, then swelling until the hall rang with it.
"How moving…"
"I've never heard such a piece…"
"Who would have thought Miss Shen possessed such depth?"
Praise rippled through the hall like waves upon thawing ice.
Shen Qingwan rose and bowed, her expression composed, as though she had merely completed a courteous task. No triumph showed upon her face only calm restraint.
Princess Mingyao forced a smile and joined in the applause.
"Well played," she said slowly. "Your qín carries both skill and feeling. Rare, indeed."
Yet beneath the table, her fingers tightened.
Beside her, Zhu MingXue's smile was faint, almost brittle. Her eyes flicked toward Qingwan, cool and sharp, the admiration in the hall reflected nowhere in her gaze.
So this is her talent, Mingxue thought. No wonder she dares sit so camly.
Not far away, Shen Yu's nails dug into her palm beneath her sleeve. She stared at Qingwan in disbelief, her earlier confidence souring into resentment.
She was supposed to embarrass herself; Shen Yu thoght bitterly.
But instead, She had shone.
Amid the applause, Shen Qingwan lifted her eyes briefly.
They met Princess Mingyao's gaze.
For the first time, the princess did not see a timid noble girl awaiting judgment.
She saw a woman who had already walked through sorrow and returned intact.
Princess MingYao smiled, and thought she was the one foolish to listen to others.
The applause had scarcely faded when Princess Mingyao lifted her hand once more, her expression once again composed and gracious.
"Tonight's joy should not rest upon one person alone," she said lightly. "Since Miss Shen has begun so beautifully, the rest of you need not hold back."
Encouraged by the atmosphere, the noble ladies stepped forward one after another.
One recited poetry in a clear, ringing voice; another painted winter plum blossoms with swift, confident strokes; yet another danced, her sleeves fluttering like snow caught in a rising wind. Each performance was met with polite praise, yet no matter how refined their talents were, an unspoken comparison lingered in the hall.
The sorrow of the qin had not yet dispersed.
Few noticed that beyond the carved lattice windows of the Hall of Quiet Snow, a tall figure had come to a halt.
Prince Cheng QI, son of Consort Zhao, had been on his way to pay his respects. The path he followed curved past the outer courtyard of the hall, and he would have passed by without a second thought,
Had it not been for the music.
The sound had reached him faintly at first, carried by the winter air. Not lively. Not festive. But deep, restrained, and heavy with a sorrow that seemed to brush against the soul.
Cheng Qi stopped.
His attendant, surprised, hesitated behind him.
The prince turned slightly, gaze drawn toward the hall. Through the open doors, between flickering lantern light and drifting silk, he saw her.
A young woman seated before the qin.
Her posture was straight, her movements unhurried. Beneath her calm exterior lay a stillness that felt… solitary. The melody flowed from her fingers like moonlight over frozen water cold, clear, and impossibly distant.
Cheng Qi's eyes narrowed slightly.
He did not know why he stood there.
He was not a man who lingered for music, nor one who concerned himself with courtly gatherings. Talent and beauty alike had long ceased to interest him.
And yet, He did not look away.
Even after the final note faded, even after applause rose within the hall, the prince remained where he was, gaze fixed upon Shen Qingwan as she rose and bowed.
Something unseen tightened in his chest.
Strange, he thought.
He could not name the feeling only that it was unfamiliar, heavy, and faintly warm, like embers buried beneath snow.
He watched as others performed, as laughter returned, as the night resumed its gentle flow.
Still, he did not leave.
"Your Highness."
The attendant finally dared to speak, bowing low. "Consort Zhao awaits you."
Cheng Qi startled slightly, as though waking from a dream.
Only then did he realize how long he had been standing there.
He turned away, his expression once again cool and indifferent. "I know."
As he stepped forward, he glanced back once more just once toward the Hall of Quiet Snow.
The woman was gone from sight.
The music, however, lingered.
Inside the hall, the banquet drew to its close. Servants cleared the tables, lanterns dimmed, and the winter night pressed closer.
Princess Mingyao rose.
The noble ladies followed suit, offering their farewells with practiced grace.
"This subject takes her leave."
"May Your Highness enjoy lasting peace."
Shen Qingwan bowed among them, her expression serene, unaware that beyond the palace walls, someone had already carried the echo of her qin far into the night.