The palace at dawn looked deceptively peaceful.
Mist drifted over the tiled roofs, curling around carved beasts frozen in stone. Bells rang softly as servants moved through corridors, sweeping, carrying water, lighting incense. To most eyes, the storm had passed—Princess Zhi lived, the Dowager had recovered, the plague was declared over.
Only those standing at the center of the web knew the truth.
Some storms did not break loudly.
Some waited.
---
The Monk and the Emperor
The Emperor stood by the lake, hands clasped behind his back.
The water was still.
Too still.
This was the same lake where the Empress had almost stepped forward without knowing why. The same place where her eyes had gone empty, her body moving as if pulled by invisible strings.
The monk approached without sound.
His robes brushed the ground, his expression calm, but his presence pressed down like a mountain.
"Your Majesty," he said, bowing slightly.
The Emperor did not turn.
"Speak."
