The sun rose over the palace like a wound that refused to heal — red, burning, slow to fade.
By midday, the Inner Court simmered with tension, though no one dared speak too loudly. Rumors were as dangerous as blades here, and one name was being whispered again behind fans and behind walls:
Lady Yan.
Eira.
But this time, the whispers were not about favors from the Emperor or her sudden return to prominence.
This time, they spoke of poison. Again.
In the Pavilion of Fragrant Harmony, Eira sat beneath a canopy of gauze silk, sharing tea with three other consorts — a gathering orchestrated by the Grand Chamberlain, who insisted that all favored ladies of the court attend to "foster harmony."
It was a trap, and she knew it.
Seated to her left was Consort Ruoyi, elegant and aloof, daughter of the Minister of Rites. To her right, Noble Lady Shun, who had once served as a handmaiden to the late Empress and had never smiled once in Eira's presence.
Across from her, hidden behind false kindness, sat Lady Zhen's younger cousin — Lady Minghua.
The moment Eira lifted her teacup, she paused.
There was something off.
Not the smell. Not the color. But the way Lady Minghua was watching her with too much interest.
Too much expectation.
Eira lowered the cup and smiled coolly.
"I've heard the peaches from the southern orchards are sweeter this year," she said, placing the teacup down without drinking.
Lady Minghua blinked. "You didn't taste the tea?"
"I'm afraid I'm feeling light-headed," Eira replied. "Perhaps another time."
Silence fell.
Then, as if on cue, Lady Shun gasped, clutching her throat. Her body jerked once, then collapsed, shaking violently.
Chaos erupted.
Servants screamed. Guards rushed in. A physician was summoned. And the blame, like a hawk, swooped instantly to Lady Yan — the only one who hadn't sipped the tea.
"You planned this," hissed Lady Minghua as Eira was dragged away. "Just like before. You pretend to be innocent, but you're still the snake that bit Lady Zhen."
That afternoon, Eira was thrown into the House of Inquiry — a small, windowless stone chamber used for questioning nobility under suspicion.
She sat alone in the cold, wrists bound loosely with ceremonial red silk — the Empire's way of pretending restraint was still civilized.
Her thoughts didn't run to escape.
They ran to him.
The Emperor.
Would he believe her? Would he see through the obvious setup? Or would he, once again, become Kai Ren — the man who never looked twice?
The door creaked.
And there he was.
Not in dragon robes, but in plain garments, as he had worn in their quietest conversations. His crown was absent. His expression unreadable.
"Lady Yan," he said quietly.
She stood, stiffly. "Your Majesty."
"Tell me everything."
So she did.
She told him about the gathering. About the teacups. The weight of the glances. The years-old venom still bleeding through the courtiers' smiles. And when she was done, she met his gaze and asked him one question.
"If I had been poisoned instead, would you have cared?"
He didn't answer right away.
But then he stepped forward, slow and deliberate, and reached for her bound wrists. He untied the ceremonial silk, letting it fall between them like blood on marble.
"I would've burned this palace down," he said.
She stared at him, stunned.
Then he turned and left.
That evening, Lady Minghua was dragged screaming into the same inquiry chamber, her servants confessing that she had laced Lady Shun's tea with foxglove petals — a poison known to cause seizures. Her intention had been to incriminate Lady Yan, restoring her family's lost honor.
Lady Minghua was sentenced to exile before nightfall.
But Eira didn't feel vindicated.
She felt hunted.
She stood once more beneath the plum tree, alone, arms wrapped around herself.
The Emperor found her there, again, as if fate kept pulling them toward that place where truth could breathe.
"You shouldn't be out here," he said.
"I have nowhere else to be."
He walked beside her, his steps quieter tonight. For a long time, they said nothing.
Then, she asked softly, "Do you remember who I am?"
"I don't," he said. "But I feel it. Like a song I heard in another life. Like a name I've never spoken, but miss saying."
"Eira," she said quietly.
He turned to her.
"That's my name," she added. "From the world before."
He repeated it.
"Eira."
She nodded.
And when he said it again, softer, as if tasting it, her chest ached with something between grief and hope.
"You were the girl I never saw," he whispered. "But now I can't stop looking."