The palace never truly slept. By the time the morning mist curled like silk around the white marble pavilions, Lin Qiyue was already seated before a bronze mirror, her dark eyes unblinking as a maid arranged her hair into a coronet of obsidian coils. Peonies of crimson silk adorned her locks, petals fluttering as though alive.
Today was not just another day of silent survival. Today, the Empress had summoned her to a poetry banquet—an honor, by all appearances. But Lin Qiyue knew better. The Empress Dowager's summons were rarely kind, and never without strategy.
"Make it tighter," Qiyue said softly to the girl behind her. "I want the pins to hold like blades."
The maid's hands trembled slightly. "Yes, Lady Lin."
Qiyue looked into her own reflection. Seventeen again. Still unmarred by time, betrayal, and poison. And yet behind the youthful eyes burned a spirit forged in blood. A rebirth not of peace, but of purpose. Each gesture, each word, would be her weapon. Today was not about poetry. It was war.
---
The Empress Dowager's Peach Pavilion was a marvel of deceptive beauty. Red-gold lattice windows filtered soft sunlight across polished jade floors. Servants floated in and out with porcelain trays, while high-born ladies giggled behind perfumed fans. But beneath the silken laughter lurked the thorns of politics.
"Lady Lin Qiyue," the eunuch announced.
All heads turned.
Qiyue entered not like a court maiden, but like a shadow cast long before her feet. Her gown, deep wine with phoenix embroidery, whispered with every step. She did not bow too low—just enough to be respectful, but never submissive.
"Your Majesty," she greeted the Empress Dowager.
The woman on the raised dais looked like a painted idol—gilded, immobile, eternal. Her eyes, however, flickered with interest.
"So this is the quiet little concubine I've heard so much about."
"Quiet, Your Majesty," Qiyue said, "but never deaf."
A ripple of laughter passed through the room—some genuine, some nervous.
The Empress Dowager smiled thinly. "Let's hope your tongue doesn't cut deeper than it should, my dear."
Qiyue inclined her head. "The sharper the tongue, the cleaner the cut, Your Majesty."
Another ripple, this time followed by a few muffled gasps. This was not a girl to be dismissed.
---
The banquet unfolded like a dance of daggers. One by one, the noblewomen were summoned to recite poetry, offer compliments, or pour wine. Most performances were bland; all were safe. Butterflies sipping on nectar, careful not to stir the spider.
When Qiyue's turn came, the Empress Dowager arched a brow. "Do you write verses, Lady Lin?"
"I write truths, Your Majesty. Some call them verses."
A dangerous answer—but intentional.
She stood, took the silk scroll handed to her, and began:
> "I was a petal in the storm, Bruised by hands that swore love. Now I rise, thorn-wrapped and bright, A flower with fangs above."
Silence.
The message was clear. She remembered. She did not forgive.
"Well." The Empress Dowager clapped once. "How colorful. And how unfortunate that flowers rarely survive winter."
Qiyue bowed her head. "Then I shall become the winter itself."
The chill that followed those words was palpable. Qiyue's voice had not been loud, but it echoed. Every lady present felt the tremor ripple through her spine. The Empress Dowager had been challenged—not publicly, but deeply.
---
Later, as she stepped into the shaded colonnade leading from the Peach Pavilion, someone fell into step beside her.
"Lady Lin," said a deep voice. "You provoke fate like a general draws a sword."
Qiyue did not turn. "Then let fate come. I have nothing to lose."
General Shen Yan's face, when she finally looked, was impassive but his eyes betrayed something else—amusement? Or was it warning?
"You've gained her attention now. The Empress Dowager will not ignore you."
"She never did. She merely pretended I was not worth the trouble."
"And now?"
Qiyue smiled faintly. "Now she knows I bite."
Shen Yan studied her for a moment. "You're different than you were. Harder. Sharper. That's dangerous."
"For her or for me?"
"Time will tell," he said, then walked away without another word.
---
By evening, her courtyard was no longer quiet. Spies, gifts, and veiled threats arrived like an avalanche.
A beautiful silk screen was delivered, painted with cranes flying into stormy clouds. The message was subtle: do not soar too close to thunder.
A small vial of perfume—roses and nightshade. A death reminder, laced in sweet deceit.
A poem embroidered onto handkerchief silk:
> "A bird that sings too loud in spring, Draws arrows before the summer's bloom."
Qiyue unwrapped each item calmly. She fed the perfume to her koi fish and waited until one floated belly-up. She burned the screen before her maids. Let them whisper. Let them report back.
That night, she wrote letters. Short, unsigned, and sent by hand:
To the Minister of Rites: "Your daughter's dowry has been noted for its... unusual generosity. One wonders what was traded in return."
To the General's wife: "Does he still visit that little tea house near Plum Street?"
To the Crown Prince: "You once said you hated hypocrisy. How heavy is the crown that guards it?"
Every word was a matchstick. Every recipient a tinderbox.
---
In the secretive Lantern Garden, she met with her old teacher, Grand Scribe Mo, under the guise of a poetry consultation.
"You court death," he said, watching the koi ripple the water. "The Empress Dowager has killed more subtle women than you."
"She buried me once," Qiyue replied. "Now I return with shovels."
He shook his head, but his smile was proud. "I taught you how to read between lines, not to write your own obituary."
"I'm not writing an obituary," she said. "I'm carving an epitaph—for a dynasty."
Mo leaned closer. "Do you intend to be Empress?"
Qiyue was silent. Then: "I intend to decide who is."
---
Days passed. Rumors bloomed. The Crown Prince sent her a book of rare poems—meaningless, unless one read the hidden code she taught him as a child.
"They watch. I cannot protect you yet. But I remember."
So he was waking too. Good.
---
By the time the Empress Dowager sent an invitation to a private tea ceremony, Qiyue was ready.
Dressed in mourning white, she entered the Phoenix Garden where the Empress waited. Plum blossoms were falling, red as blood.
"White?" the Empress asked, amused. "Someone has died?"
"Many things have, Your Majesty," Qiyue said. "Naïveté. Silence. Fear."
Tea was poured. Sipped. Poison was not expected today.
"I watched you for years," the Empress Dowager said finally. "A docile girl with no ambition. Now you sharpen words like blades."
"Perhaps you watched the wrong girl."
"You want vengeance for your past. That's why you've returned."
"I want justice," Qiyue said coldly. "And I will take it, inch by inch, face by face."
The Empress leaned forward. "Then let us make a wager."
Qiyue met her gaze.
"If you survive until the end of spring, I'll name you as one of the next candidates for Empress."
Shock flickered—only briefly.
"And if I fail?"
"You die. Quietly. Forgotten."
Qiyue smiled.
"Then Your Majesty," she said, "prepare the silks. I plan to be crowned in fire."
---
As she walked away, the Empress watched her go with a gleam of something like admiration. Or calculation.
The game had begun. But unlike last time, Qiyue was not a pawn.
She was the player.
And she was moving her first piece.