YUN RONG XIAN (雲榮羡)

  Day 2, 4th Month of the Lunar Calendar, 6000th Year of the Yun Dynasty, Taishan Province, Tian’an Sect

  Discontent murmured through the Imperial Court as the ministers arranged themselves by rank, each movement sharp with quiet resentment. For once, unity. Not in purpose or vision, but in fatigue. It was the first consensus reached in the long history of the Yun Dynasty: nothing would be accomplished today.

  Another session devoted to the same unresolved dispute. Shuishang and Taishan. Five years. No movement.

  I watched from my post as Lin Mengshi (林梦实), the Imperial Censorate, broke from his faction’s line. He stepped forward, lowering his imperial tablet with precision before bowing.

  “Your Majesty,” he began, voice low but distinct. “I have received word from Shuishang’s Grandmaster, Yu Haifei.”

  The Emperor didn’t speak. He only narrowed his eyes and extended one hand. Lin Mengshi bowed again, deeper this time, before summoning a eunuch with a glance. The minister procured a yellow-edged memorial from his chest pocket and placed it on the eunuch’s tray with exactness.

  The eunuch bowed and made his way forward, careful not to disturb the hush that had settled. The Emperor accepted the memorial and turned it over in his hands.

  “Your Majesty,” Lin Mengshi continued, slowly, “please read this correspondence. Minister Yu has…” a pause, measured, “refused to hold a hearing. He cites that the annual cultivation ceremony has not yet occurred.”

  No immediate protest followed as the room absorbed the statement. I studied the faces around me. Some concealed their disdain. Some did not bother.

  Then, a yellow memorial sliced through the air and struck the marble tiles. It hit with enough force to scatter its pages across the floor like fallen leaves. They reflected the temper of their sender.

  Grand Secretary Zhao Qingshan (赵青山) dropped to his knees and prostrated low, his body folded in submission before the Emperor. It had been his responsibility to secure Minister Yu’s signature on the peace treaty, and it was evident that he had failed.

  “Your humble servant begs Your Majesty to be calm,” he said, voice thin and trembling. The request meant nothing. The Emperor's fury was already past reason. And now, thanks to the Imperial Censorate's quiet exposure, that fury had a focus.

  The Emperor stared down at the crumpled figure. “Beloved minister, is that all?”

  At that point, the Emperor pegged a ceramic teacup at the minister. It narrowly missed his head but made him flinch.

  Five years ago, Shuishang Province declared political independence. But it was only this year that Shanhu Prefecture formerly cut ties with Taishan Province. As their subsidiary sect, Huadu was coerced to support.

  The timing had been precise. Taishan Province had always depended on Huadu Sect for its medicinal supplies and alchemists. Those born with the rarest inheritance: the power over disease itself. Now, with the sect siding with Shuishang, Taishan's Alchemist Guild sat empty. No one dared to offend Shuishang, nor the grandmaster who incited it all. Only the Emperor would dare.

  Imperial Censorate Lin inclined his head. “Your Majesty, Grand Secretary Zhao is most wrong to offend you.” He paused as if he was making an incredibly hard decision. “However, Your Majesty should guard your health. Anger disturbs your qi.”

  These old foxes, never letting go a single opportunity to bury each other in the mud. I imagined the faint smile hidden behind his tablet. The Imperial Censorate Lin would preserve his virtuous and magnanimity, whilst paving the way for Grand Secretary Zhao disgrace. The man had wasted the summer buying influence at banquets, which was one of the Emperor’s taboos.

  The Emperor set aside the shattered teacup and lifted his calligraphy brush. “Yun Hui,” he said. “What do you think of this?”

  The Emperor liked to use me for strategy. For the most part, I played the obedient mouthpiece when needed.

  But the court was a nest of knives, and attention was rarely a gift. It would be simpler if I could feign dullness all the time. A mute fool is rarely feared.

  But I also knew that the Emperor would never tolerate a blunt instrument in his presence. Uselessness invited death just as surely as brilliance invited envy.

  So, I carefully walked a measured line. Just useful enough to remain necessary. But never so clever as to become a threat.

  Only by perfecting this balancing act could I survive.

  I inclined my head. “Royal Father. Your son has a few thoughts. If it pleases you, may I speak?”

  The Emperor’s mouth twisted. I bowed lower.

  “As we know, Huadu Sect’s agreement to support Shuishang was not unanimous. Shanhu Prefecture controls their territory, but Huadu Sect’s cooperation is fragile. Their silence is surface level.”

  I looked to the Emperor again. He was listening.

  “In truth, their loss of access to medical trade routes—especially through Taishan’s Alchemist Guild—has diminished their influence. Their reputation weakens with each day they are excluded.”

  “So, what does the Crown Prince propose?”

  Grand Chancellor Deng Jinchen (鄧勁臣) spoke with dry voice, his stance tilted, and eyes dull. Although I did not take part in the faction system, my mother was deeply intertwined with Grand Secretary Zhao’s faction. Unfortunately, that earned me no favour in his eyes.

  I answered without turning toward him. “I suggest we use this political tension. Offer Huadu Sect access to the Guild once more.”

  I eyed His Majesty. I should let him finish the strategy. A filial son always leaves the best for his father. He should know where I was headed.

  The Emperor reached for a memorial on the table.

  ““Then Huadu would return to Taishan. Shanhu Prefecture would lose its leverage. It is feasible, Your Majesty,” said Eunuch Sun, voice steady, as he turned to face his monarch. Only he alone could speak so directly. The Emperor trusted him beyond question.

  Grand Secretary Zhao quickly jumped aboard, desperate to save his ruined reputation. “It also happens that Your Majesty’s birthday draws near—a perfect reason to ask Huadu Sect to showcase their skills. We could select some cultivators from the winners of Shuishang’s annual event.”

  The Emperor gave a small nod.

  I picked up my teacup and took a sip. The steam curled upward. The silence that followed was enough.

  But the Grand Chancellor would not yield ground so easily. He adjusted his imperial tablet, a subtle shift in posture that signalled he was preparing to speak.

  Yet he did not make it, before another minister interrupted.

  The Minister of Agriculture, Shuo Meng (朔孟), collapsed to his knees, the ironed folds of his white-and-gold court robes slumping around him. His back bowed deeply, a display of deference or desperation. Perhaps both.

  “Your Majesty,” he began, voice stretched thin with false humility. “Your servant rejoices in Your Majesty’s wise judgment. But I humbly beg a moment to submit a personal request. Surely Your Majesty, as a loving father of the nation, would be pleased to bless some suitable court marriages?”

  He gestured vaguely around the room. The plea was ill-placed. The timing was worse, given the Emperor’s recent fickleness.

  Across the hall, the Grand Chancellor exploded.

  “How dare you!” he shouted, rising to his feet in visible fury, just as the Emperor’s hand cracked down onto the memorial in front of him. A loud snap. The golden table vibrated under the impact.

  The Minister of Agriculture pressed his forehead into the stone floor again as the Grand Chancellor launched into him, voice ragged and unrestrained. “Have you lost your senses? How dare you insult His Majesty with this triviality—apologise!”

  The Minister of Agriculture lifted his face, but barely. “Your servant dares not anger Your Majesty.”

  The Emperor said nothing at first.

  Instead, he shifted his weight back into the throne and raised his hand with casual finality. A servant approached, clumsily retrieving the teapot to pour fresh tea into the jade cup at the Emperor’s side.

  The Grand Chancellor recognised the weight of the silence and dropped to his knees beside his subordinate. Minister Shuo was under his jurisdiction; his disgrace reflected poorly on the chancellor’s leadership.

  Imperial Censorate Lin kept his face hidden behind his tablet, shoulders held still, but even from this distance, I could sense the subtle shift. He was enjoying this. Minister Shuo’s ignorance had handed him the day’s entertainment.

  If only the Minister of Agriculture had a clue about the political climate at the moment, he wouldn’t have dared.

  The sound of tea hitting porcelain broke the silence. The Emperor lifted the cup and inhaled slowly. With practiced care, he brushed the rising steam with the lid, then returned the cup to the saucer.

  Black tea. Bitter. Reserved for darker moods.

  “Minister Shuo,” the Emperor finally said. His voice did not rise. It didn’t need to. “You often bring up this subject.”

  The minister opened his mouth. “Your Majesty, your servant understands—”

  “You do not understand.”

  His firm voice contained a deep seed of anger and the deafening silence somehow managed to become even louder. It was then, that I knew for certain, that the Emperor had conducted his own reconnaissance.

  “Minister of Agriculture,” the Emperor continued, eyes fixed like sharpened blades, “Your duty lies with the court. Courtiers are forbidden from interfering in the harem. The harem is forbidden from interfering in court decisions.”

  Beside him, Empress Huangmei’s (黃梅) jaw stiffened.

  I inferred as much that Shuo Meng had been soliciting marriage arrangements and not just for favour. He had been aiming for alliance, attaching himself to one of the dukes or princes. It was a common tactic among ambitious ministers. His mistake wasn’t the intent, but the complete of lack discreetness.

  “You speak of marriage,” the Emperor said quietly, “while Hongchen City lies amid a plague.”

  That was the final nail. An unknown disease spreading through Zhouwei Province had already rendered the capital city hollow. Bodies left shrivelled, drained of moisture, lined the alleys. A sickness without name, origin, or cure. A plague of silence.

  It should have been reported long ago.

  Minister Shuo had governed Hongchen City for years, appointed through a poorly made recommendation. But now, having been paid a little too much gold, he had forgotten his position and who held the real power in the court. He delayed the report, thinking secrecy would spare him consequence; no one would want to bring unnecessary attention to their own incompetence. But this was old news, to the Emperor who had eyes and ears everyone.

  The Grand Chancellor craned his neck like a senile tortoise and lowered his imperial tablet.

  The Emperor smoothed out the sleeves of his robe and rose slightly, his voice sharp and deliberate.

  “There was a time when this court recognised competence,” he said. “I was once a courtier too. I understand the desire to rise in power; to make alliances; to kill.”

  He leaned over the golden desk and his hands braced against it.

  “But if you must play your games—” his gaze swept across the chamber, cold and controlled “—then do it out of my sight.”

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  He flung a red memorial onto the floor and the court collectively flinched. With all the officials dumbfounded, the Emperor began writing some words on the sheet before him.

  When he finished, he spoke again.

  “Imperial Treasurer Wu Chengsi (武承嗣).”

  The minister stepped forward, head bowed, and his shoulders tensed in anticipation.

  “I give you an order: open the national treasury and allocate ten thousand silver taels to Zhouwei Province. Ensure every coin reaches its destination. If even a single tael is lost, I will have your head.”

  Wu Chengsi accepted the decree without question. But I saw the way his mouth shrivelled. I knew what he was concerned about. The national treasury was emptier than a coffin, ever since the Zhao and Lin families began to gain footholds in the court. By the time the funds reached the province, they would be skeletal.

  Still, he nodded. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  The Emperor turned his command to the Grand Chancellor.

  “Grand Chancellor Deng. You will oversee the distribution of medical personnel and protective equipment. Reassign all excess healers to Zhouwei Province. Any who refuse will be stripped of rank and imprisoned.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” the Grand Chancellor said.

  The Emperor moved to his next target.

  “Grand Secretary Zhao.” His voice now dropped in tone. “You failed to win Shuishang’s cooperation. Your salary is revoked for the year. To atone, you will collaborate with the inner palace and follow the Crown Prince’s strategy. I want only one answer from Shuishang Province.”

  The Grand Secretary bowed low, his body heavy with defeat. “Your servant obeys. Thank you for Your Majesty’s mercy.”

  He was lucky that the Emperor did not have his head. Shuishang had the greatest number of qualified medical staff amongst all the provinces. To not have their support for this plague was a significant disadvantage.

  The Emperor did not let the court rest as he called on the next.

  “Minister of War, Gao Yuchou (高虞椆).

  “Your servant is here, Your Majesty.”

  “Draft a plan for strategic monitoring of the epidemic. No one leaves or enters Hongchen City without full inspection.”

  Minister Gao prostrated before the throne. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  The directives were issued in swift succession. Precise, final. It was damage control, but necessary.

  “See, Your Majesty? They aren’t that useless after all.”

  A voice spun through the tension—to smooth to be anything but strategic—attempting to quell the Emperor’s wrath.

  “Your Majesty,” coaxed Empress Huangmei, her words gentle and rehearsed. “Perhaps you should take a rest. Allow me to manage the remaining matters.”

  My mother rarely sat in silence. When she did, it only meant she was calculating. Now that she had graced the political dance floor, it marked the second half of the day’s performance.

  I shifted my gaze across the hall and found my sister.

  Yun Shiqi (雲诗琪) sat still. But I could read the signs: the faint shifting of her wrists, the barely visible tension in her brow.

  The final straw to break the camel’s back wasn’t Shuo Meng. It was my dearest elder sister. Ironically, it had to do with a political marriage: a total taboo in the Emperor’s eyes.

  The princess had denied every marriage the Empress arranged—sensible, as those suitors were tools at best. Still, her defiance disrupted the power equilibrium the Empress sought to maintain between the Yun and Sui bloodlines. It was no secret that my mother’s maiden family was the deeply rooted Sui household.

  And now, she moved to checkmate.

  Empress Huangmei began. “With the court as witness, I propose a marriage between Princess Changping (長平) and—”

  My elder sister shifted uncomfortably in her seat and my observant father seemed to notice.

  The Emperor raised a hand and gently rested it on the Empress’.

  “Lan’er,” he said, not looking at her. “Ah Qi is still young. Look at her—she’s not ready. Let’s revisit the matter another day.”

  He had always been protective of her. Too protective. And that only complicated matters.

  My mother forced a smile. A calculated mask.

  “As Your Majesty wishes.”

  The Emperor returned her expression with one equally hollow, then turned his gaze on the court—this time, colder than before.

  “Zhouwei’s situation has told me much about your incompetence. It is time the court was reorganised.”

  ***

  As I surveyed the court, a pair of eyes met my gaze.

  My elder sister’s porcelain face held a bored expression: her chin was tilted and one hand rested against the armrest of her chair.

  “Another debacle?” Her voice brushed against my mind, quiet and measured.

  “What’s new?” I replied, mirroring her expression.

  She turned her head just slightly, a movement subtle enough to avoid detection.

  “It seems like the recent disease outbreak was planned.”

  I said nothing immediately. Her assessment wasn’t unfounded. Among all present, only three individuals had drawn the same conclusion: my father, myself, and Yun Shiqi. Most officials happily turned a blind eye and clung to ignorance. However, the timing of the epidemic, the selective nature of its spread, the delay in its official acknowledgement it was unlikely to be coincidence.

  And I, for one, had no doubt that a civil war itched to break out.

  The elegant princess brushed her hair over her shoulder, fingers smoothing through the dark strands. Her gaze slid across the hall.

  I followed.

  Kneeling before the dais were the low-level Minister Jing Cheng (靜誠) and the distinguished Minister of War, Gao Yuchou. On the surface, they performed the gestures of obedience. But their attention was far from that.

  The Minister of War’s head tilted slightly toward Minister Jing. Minister Jing’s movements were cautious, but not cautious enough. From the folds of his sleeve, he revealed a silk pouch. He bowed deeper, pressing his palms to the floor. His hat slipped, revealing a mess of hair escaping from his bun.

  Minister Gao’s snatched the pouch and concealed it within his own robes, the motion swift but clumsy. His jaw tightened as he adjusted his posture.

  “Probably a bribe,” my sister remarked.

  “We should be careful to jump to a conclusion,” I said.

  “You’re not convinced.”

  Yun Shiqi’s tone carried no irritation. If anything, she was pleased to be challenged. Court sessions were rarely stimulating. This one, at least, provided a trace of substance.

  Telepathy had been an inheritance from our shared paternal bloodline; Shiqi and I had the same primordial spirit: the White Dragon, a symbol of a powerful mage heritage.

  We had been playing in the forests along the Northern border of Taishan. It had recently rained, and the leaf-littered ground was slick with moisture.

  So of course, Fengxiu slipped into a cistern.

  She was always clumsy, and naughty, and she got away with it too. The perks of being the youngest.

  Naturally, Shiqi, ever the eldest, ever the most responsible sibling, tried to haul her out using the vines hanging over the edge.

  Instead—as I predicted—they both ended up at the bottom.

  There had been no one around to help.

  No one but me. But even I couldn’t hear them from above. The cistern was too deep, and they had fallen too far to scream.

  At the time, I thought they were hiding. That they were playing another one of their games to test my patience and dare me to find them. It was only when the sun started setting and night was ushered in, that I began to think otherwise.

  That was when I heard them.

  Whispers.

  One was a feminine, high-pitched voice. The other, a soft-spoken and mellow voice.

  Either way, neither voice were mine, even though they blared through my thoughts. Persistent and unrelenting.

  “Xiangē, save me! I’m scared!”

  “I hope Hui’er has got home safe.”

  Curiously, I followed the voices until I found them.

  Cold and wet in that cistern.

  Telepathy had brought us together.

  A collective cry rippled through the court as the Imperial Guards unsheathed their swords. Each one trained their eyes on the Emperor’s hand, awaiting the subtlest flick of his wrist.

  I looked at my sister again, trying to get her attention purely by staring. But with her head bowed, she refused to look at me.

  I turned my attention to my teacup. A few dregs remained—green and black, drifting like ash in tinted water. The details began to settle into place: a likely bribe exchanged between two ministers. A disease with symptoms matching Xuanji Province’s infamous bioweapons. And now, the Minister of War under scrutiny.

  Yun Shiqi was confident she had found the culprits. But her certainty raised questions. How did she know? If Gao Yuchou were involved, what would compel him to take such a risk? Weaponising a plague was punishable by the execution of three generations. Even the most ambitious man would tread lightly.

  Careful planning could not be found in this plan, but a motive was. A disease could justify military intervention. And Zhouwei had a long history of antagonism toward Xuanji Province.

  “It seems unusual for Gao Yuchou to be involved,” I said.

  “I think you’re overestimating his intellect.”

  Her swift response contained a hint of impatience. Her impulsiveness was strange. I had always known her to be calm.

  “He is a master strategist. This isn't his style.”

  “Politics aren't the same as warfare.”

  “They are. The only difference is that one’s in a room.”

  The Emperor slammed his palms onto the desk. His gestures were sharp, almost exaggerated. It lacked his usual restraint. Which meant it was for effect.

  Head Eunuch Sun (筍) bounced around like a flea, trying to settle the court. Most courtiers were unused to such displays from the Emperor. That explained the tension; uncertainty bred caution.

  Once the room fell quiet, the Emperor resumed his calm.

  Emperor Tai Quan placed his teacup down, rose from his throne, and reached for Empress Huangmei’s hand. A wave of his arm—a simple, wordless dismissal—signalled the end of court.

  I tracked their movement as they departed. The Imperial Guards filed out behind them in silence.

  I knew that everyone would be looking at me for answers soon. None that I wanted to provide.

  Quickly, I performed the courtesy to the exiting monarchs.

  Minister Jing and Minister Gao left separately. It could have been a calculated attempt to disassociate. Or perhaps they truly weren’t aligned. I would need more collateral.

  At last, the hall was empty.

  Yun Shiqi, who had pretended to exit, returned through the side door. Did she want something? She walked without urgency, her steps soundless against the polished stone. She didn’t speak as she approached the dais and seated herself on the table’s edge.

  As usual, she wanted me to speak first.

  Let’s start with a question. I folded my hands beneath my chin.

  “Why would they release a plague?”

  She poured tea into my cup, slowly. “Simple. Look at the chaos. A war wouldn’t surprise anyone now.”

  Interesting view. The timing had been perfect. Political tension had dulled the senses of even the most cautious officials. But the choice of Minister Gao as the executor still didn’t align. He was not known for clumsy operations.

  My elder sister seemed distracted. Unsettled, perhaps. Possibly related to the Empress’ recent attempts to arrange another marriage. Perhaps not, her detachment felt older than that.

  I shifted. “The Empress has been jittery lately. Please don’t take her words to heart.”

  A little empathy always proved a safe way to get people to relax.

  “Lately?” she muttered, almost amused. “I think you mean always.”

  I bowed over the table. There was a small blemish in the jade, and I decided to focus on that as I waited for my sister to think by herself.

  The thing about people is that they’re predictable.

  Probe them once, then twice.

  Then they’ll divulge all.

  Especially if they’re overthinkers like Shiqi.

  She frowned. “Are you suggesting the Empress is involved?”

  Your words not mine.

  She shook her head and scoffed. “If that were true, we’d all be dead.”

  I tilted my head. “Our mother’s not that terrible.”

  It was a deliberate move to use the phrase ‘our mother’, even though we both knew that woman would never acknowledge Shiqi as her daughter. Still, I wanted an emotive reaction from my sister. And what better way to bait someone than induced correction.

  Yun Shiqi cleared her throat. “That Empress is definitely involved. With what just happened, she can blame Xuanji Province for formulating bioweapons. No one would question it.”

  That was true as well. Xuanji Province had never maintained a stable alliance with Taishan. In fact, most provinces didn’t. It would be wrong to say my mother’s long-standing manipulations weren’t a contributing factor. But that alone wasn’t proof.

  Although it gave probable cause for investigation.

  She narrowed her eyes. “It can’t be Jing Cheng either. The bribe wouldn’t make sense. It has to be that Empress or Minister Gao.”

  She attempted to sip from my cup, but I took it back without comment. I would have wanted to probe further, but her lack of concentration told me that she wasn’t in the mood to discuss. Her eyes crinkled around the edges whenever she blinked, signing her lack of sleep.

  She yawned. “I don’t know.”

  Her statement had a sort of finality to it.

  It was just as well; she had already divulged some useful information. I can’t expect her to give me all the answers.

  “Should we tell His Majesty?” I asked.

  She stilled. “…No. Not yet. Only if you deem it necessary. They’re your parents. You know them best.”

  The emotionally correct response would be empathy. Reassurance. An apology for how our parents had treated her.

  I touched her hand. As her brother, I should comfort her, but the lie refused to come. There was no benefit to lying when we both clearly knew the truth. That would be a waste of breath.

  She slid off the table. “Don’t say it. I know you want to. It’s written all over your face. I don’t need your pity.”

  Pity. What a strange choice of words.

  Pity was not something I gave to people.

  Pity was not something I felt for others.

  I used people. I used her.

  But I didn’t intend to harm her. Not like my mother did. Maybe that difference mattered. Maybe not.

  Is that why Shiqi thought I pitied her? I see now. She still had to pay respects to my mother before the day was out.

  Then I do pity you.

  I quietly replied. “I know.”