Chapter 7: Daughter of Darkness
As time went on, Wu Zhao's pregnancy progressed, but danger loomed in the shadows,
silent, patient. She did not know it yet, but the storm that would shake her world was drawing near. During her pregnancy, Emperor Gaozong made sure to pay her extra attention and care, perhaps out of guilt, or perhaps to silence the voices already rising within the palace.
One night, Wu Zhao had a terrible nightmare. In her dream, she saw a pair of hands hurling her baby into a blazing fire. She screamed, running toward the flames, trying to snatch her child back
,but her arms passed through the smoke. She couldn't reach the baby. She couldn't stop it. She woke up panting, her skin damp with sweat, heart pounding in her chest. Realizing it was only a dream, she clutched her belly, trying to steady her breath.
"It was just a dream, Wu Zhao," she whispered to herself. "No need to panic."
But some dreams are warnings dressed in smoke.
The day of her delivery arrived. Thunder rumbled low in the heavens, the storm rolling in long before the first cry. Within the inner palace, servants moved swiftly like ants beneath black clouds, carrying basins of hot water, medicinal herbs, and folded cloths. The empress's quarters, Phoenix Hall, were eerily quiet. But in the chambers of Zhaoyi Wu Zhao, tension thickened the air.
Wu Zhao gritted her teeth, her fingers clutching at the embroidery sheets soaked in her pain. Her hair stuck to her cheeks, and her breaths came in short, harsh gasps. The chamber was heavy with incense, sweat, and the sharp scent of iron.
"Push, Zhaoyi!" a midwife urged, her voice lined with forced calm.
Wu Zhao let out a cry,
not of fear, but of determination. Outside, lightning cracked across the sky, casting monstrous shadows along the walls. Her loyal maid, Mei Lin, dabbed her forehead with a cool cloth, whispering steady prayers under her breath.
Just outside the chambers, Emperor Gaozong paced like a restless spirit. Every scream from within made his steps falter. His usually immaculate robes were rumpled, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white.
"How long has it been?" he snapped at no one in particular. No one answered. No one dared.
Then it came, a faint, trembling cry. Weak, but unmistakably real. A maid rushed out, bowing deeply.
"A girl, Your Majesty!"
Without hesitation, the emperor burst into the room. His heart thundered louder than the storm above. Wu Zhao lay limp against the cushions, her face pale as the moon, but her lips curled into a soft, weary smile.
"She's here," Wu Zhao whispered, her voice barely audible.
The emperor's eyes welled up as he gently took the swaddled infant from the midwife's arms. His daughter. His legacy. Her tiny face was delicate, her eyes fluttering open, then slowly closing again. Her breath was soft, fragile.
"She's perfect," he murmured, cradling her gently.
But something wasn't right.
The crying didn't grow stronger, it dwindled.
A midwife leaned forward, placing two fingers on the baby's chest. Her brow furrowed. "She's… she's not breathing well," she murmured.
Panic rippled through the room. Another midwife took the child, tapping her back gently,
then more forcefully. Someone shouted for herbs, water, the imperial physician.
"No," Wu Zhao said suddenly, her voice trembling. She sat up, wincing through the pain. "Give her to me."
The baby was placed in her arms once more. Wu Zhao pressed her daughter close, brushing her lips against the baby's forehead. Her tears streamed freely now.
"Breathe," she whispered. "Breathe, my little Phoenix."
The infant's chest rose once more, then fell.
And did not rise again.
Silence. A thick, suffocating silence.
Wu Zhao rocked her daughter gently, her sobs muffled against the baby's blanket. The emperor stood motionless beside her, stunned. The child's tiny hand slipped from her mother's gown, lifeless.
A long, anguished wail erupted from Wu Zhao. It wasn't loud, but it was raw, ancient. It echoed like thunder, then faded into nothing.
Eventually, she stopped crying. She lay back against the cushions, her face drained of all expression. Her arms were empty. Her eyes stared blankly at the ceiling.
"Leave us," she said.
Even the emperor hesitated. But her voice carried no emotion, like it came from someone already halfway to another world. The room emptied.
Wu Zhao lay still.
Outside, the storm raged on, uncaring. Within the palace, silence fell like a heavy curtain. A princess was born, and in the same breath, she was gone.
The mourning was brief, but the whispers were not.
First, the maids, quiet chatter over chamber pots and laundry basins.
"They say the Empress was seen near the child's quarters before dawn," one muttered.
From the kitchens to the courtyards, the rumors grew legs.
"It must be jealousy," another whispered. "Wu Zhao gave the emperor a child. A girl, yes, but still royal blood."
Others, more fearful, turned their suspicions toward Wu Zhao herself.
"She's ambitious," they hissed. "She studied strange scrolls when she was a nun. Maybe… maybe she sacrificed her own child for power."
In days, two versions of the truth clashed like swords. No one knew where the tales began, but they spread like fire in dry grass. Even the emperor heard them. At first, he waved them off. Then he grew quiet. Distant. His nights beside Wu Zhao became fewer, his thoughts tangled in shadow.
Wu Zhao remained calm,
too calm for a grieving mother. She sat quietly in her chambers, staring at nothing, speaking only when spoken to. But behind her silence, a storm brewed. She had heard the whispers, too.
And she knew one thing the others didn't.
She did not kill her daughter.
But someone did.
A pale morning mist cloaked the imperial courtyard as the funeral began. The tiny coffin, carved from sandalwood and draped in embroidered silk, was barely larger than a scroll chest. Wu Zhao walked behind it, her white mourning robes trailing like shadows. Her hair was unbound, her eyes dry. The emperor walked beside her, his face hollow.
The consorts gathered at the sides, some dabbing their eyes with embroidered kerchiefs, others hiding behind fans. The coffin was lowered into a secluded corner of the imperial ancestral garden. A solitary monk chanted soft prayers.
Wu Zhao stepped forward, placing a small hair ornament beside the coffin, a phoenix-shaped pin meant for a royal daughter.
As the final handful of earth was thrown upon the grave, Wu Zhao's breath caught in her throat. For the first time, she trembled. But the tears still would not fall.
Grief could wait. Vengeance could not.
She turned away, her spine straight, her hands folded. Behind her, the grave was sealed.
The rain did not stop.
That night, Wu Zhao entered the emperor's private study. No jewels. No rouge. Just plain white silk.
"Your Majesty," she said, voice flat and steady. "There must be an investigation. My daughter did not die naturally."
Emperor Gaozong looked up slowly, eyes clouded with sorrow and confusion. "The physician said....."
"The physician is a coward," she interrupted. "He trembled with fear more than sorrow. Someone interfered."
"You believe it was the Empress?"
Wu Zhao's eyes were cold. "I believe snakes do not strike without leaving venom behind."
The emperor flinched. He gave no order. No comfort. His silence was both protection and betrayal.
That same night, Empress Wang and Consort Xiao sat by the Moonlight Pond.
"She's quiet," Xiao said. "Too quiet."
"Grief does that," Wang replied, her face unreadable.
"No… not grief. Revenge."
Wang sipped her wine. "Let her try."
"But what if the emperor...
?"
"He's weak. He mourns the child, not the mother. He'll cling to whoever comforts him most."
They both smiled.
Days passed. Rumors swirled. The emperor did nothing. But Wu Zhao moved in silence. She replaced her maids with orphans loyal only to her. She prayed loudly at the ancestral shrine, drawing the attention of the Grand Historian. She donated generously to temples, gaining favor with monks and scholars.
The emperor, desperate for peace, leaned on her more.
"Your insight calms me," he whispered.
"Yet," she replied softly, eyes distant, "they see me as the serpent."
Then, a secret report reached Wu Zhao through trusted eunuchs. The midwife who delivered her baby had been replaced two nights before the birth,
by one trained in Empress Wang's household.
Wu Zhao read the scroll in silence.
"So it's true," she whispered.
She folded the parchment and fed it to her lamp's flame.
That night, she stood before her daughter's tiny tombstone, whispering to the wind.
"They fear you, even in death, little one. But I promise... you will not be forgotten."