"Some flowers bloom above water. Others rot beneath it."
Winter struck early that year.
Snow had not yet fallen, but the palace air had taken on a sharpness — a cold that crept not only into the hands but into the hearts of those who lived behind red walls and golden tiles.
At dawn, the Lotus Pavilion remained empty, its pond half-frozen, its once-singing fountains silenced by the weight of the season.
Only the koi remained — sluggish beneath the ice, as if waiting for spring that may never come.
Beneath the stone bridge, in the soft mud hidden by frozen petals, something stirred.
A small, burnt piece of silk — a remnant buried years ago — finally rose to the surface.
The edge of a name was still visible.
One character: 音 (Yin).
Prince Ruiyan stood in his private chamber, robes still unfastened. His eyes were locked on the painting again — the one Lianyin had refused to admit she created.
He had not slept.
Not because of fear.
But because memory had begun to flood back.
"Yinyin, don't chase the fireflies. You'll burn your sleeves again…
Shh… Mama's gone to sleep. Come, let's not wake her…
If I disappear one day, find the lotus pond. Look under the ashes. What you see will be the truth…"
It hadn't made sense then. He was barely eleven. And his mother — Empress Yingwen — had spoken in riddles.
But now, he saw them for what they were:
Instructions.
A legacy buried not in gold, but in ash.
That morning, within the Fragrance Chamber, Lady Zhenluo sat behind an incense screen, surrounded by quiet handmaidens preparing the court tea ceremony.
She was graceful. Serene. Every movement measured.
She lifted the delicate white teacup and tapped the rim.
"The chrysanthemum blend," she said.
One of the girls brought forward a small porcelain jar. Pale yellow petals curled inside, mixed with osmanthus and a hint of ginseng.
Zhenluo took a pinch between her fingers — but as she dropped it into the pot, she added something else.
A faint, reddish powder.
Almost invisible once steeped.
A whisper of bitterness.
"Just enough," she said.
"Enough for what, Your Grace?" asked the girl beside her.
Zhenluo smiled gently. "To cloud the mind. Not to kill. Not yet."
That evening, the Council of Ministers was summoned for an unscheduled audience with the Emperor.
All princes and consorts were invited — rare, and never a good sign.
In the Jade Audience Hall, the Emperor sat high upon the dais, his eyes sunken but sharp. Though his hair had gone white, his gaze still cut like a blade.
Lianyin, disguised as one of the tea attendants, entered with the others. She wore the same robes. The same veil. But her hands trembled slightly as she carried the lacquered tray.
She had been summoned, not by name — but by favor. Ordered by Lady Zhenluo to personally serve the tea during the meeting.
Ruiyan saw her the moment she entered. His brow furrowed slightly, but he said nothing.
Then came the clinking of porcelain. The sound of cups passed, of pleasantries spoken in political tones. All smiled. All bowed. All lied.
Until the Emperor raised his hand.
He pointed to the girl holding his cup.
Lianyin stepped forward, bowed, and knelt.
She offered the tea.
But before the Emperor could take it—
"Wait."
The voice was low. Calm. But firm.
Prince Ruiyan stepped forward, his hands behind his back.
Zhenluo's eyes turned slowly.
"My Emperor," Ruiyan said, "forgive my rudeness, but I believe something's been overlooked."
The ministers stirred.
The Emperor's gaze sharpened. "Explain."
Ruiyan motioned to Lianyin. "That servant. She does not belong to the Tea Bureau. She is from the Southern Garden."
Zhenluo spoke then, voice smooth. "Your Majesty, the girl was chosen by me for her
discretion and silence. I believed it fitting."
Ruiyan's eyes locked onto hers.
"So fitting you'd risk letting an unvetted girl pour the Emperor's drink?"
Zhenluo's smile thinned. "Are you accusing me, Your Highness?"
"No," Ruiyan said, stepping forward. "I'm protecting you."
Then he took the cup from the Emperor's tray.
And drank it.
The entire hall fell silent.
He set the cup down slowly. His jaw tightened, but he remained standing.
Zhenluo's fingers curled beneath her sleeve.
"It's bitter," Ruiyan said quietly. "Very bitter for chrysanthemum."
The Emperor raised a brow.
"I've had sweeter poisons in poems," Ruiyan added.
It was a joke.
But no one laughed.
The Emperor waved his hand. "Enough. Let the ceremony continue."
But as the meeting resumed, Lianyin stood frozen.
Because she knew what Ruiyan had done.
He had protected her.
By drinking it first.
By testing the tea meant for the throne.
And in doing so…
He had declared something.
Not just to her.
But to everyone.