~In warmth, frost remember itself.~
-*-
The Phoenix Palace basked in early light, its red-lacquered pillars glowing as sunbeams slipped through silk curtains. Incense curled upward in pale strands, mingling with the faint fragrance of plum blossoms drifting from the courtyard. Peace lay over the hall—deceptive, like a pond gone still after a stone has sunk from sight.
The Empress sat behind a low sandalwood table, gaze resting on the steam rising from an untouched cup. The servants had cleared the dishes Murong Chen left behind, yet the faint ring of condensation from his cup lingered on the polished wood.
"He left hungry again," she murmured, almost to herself.
Yin Deng, kneeling a few paces away, lowered her head. "Your Majesty, this servant—"
"Rise." The Empress's gesture was gentle, her tone weary but calm.
"You may go. Stop him before he reaches the outer gate."
Yin Deng bowed deeply and hurried out.
***
Across the courtyard, Murong Chen had already crossed the flagstones, Yin Li following a few steps behind. His pace was unhurried; each footfall made no sound against the polished tiles. He moved as though nothing in the palace could concern him, as though the world itself were a passing view behind gauze.
A eunuch caught up and delivered the Empress's message. Murong Chen did not answer at once. He only stopped, the sunlight catching on the silver of his headpiece, and after a breath said, very softly, "Very well."
He turned and walked back, robe hem whispering over stone.
***
Inside the hall, the Empress's expression softened as he entered. "Chen'er," she said, gentler than before, "come sit."
He returned to the same seat he had left moments ago. The servants bowed out, leaving only the faint rustle of silk and the soft curl of steam between two porcelain cups.
"Have some tea," she said, lifting the pot.
He accepted it, fingers brushing the glaze before he set the cup down again. The warmth against his skin felt faint—fainter than it should.
For a time, neither spoke. The quiet stretched, broken only by the remote cry of cranes in the inner garden.
"Chen'er," the Empress said at last, eyes on the rim of her cup, "you cut Consort Lin's hair because of a hairpin?"
Murong Chen's gaze did not waver. His voice was light, almost casual. "It did not match."
"Only that?"
"She was noisy."
The Empress pressed her fingers to her temple, half sigh, half smile. "You frighten people, you know."
He did not reply.
She poured more tea—the click of porcelain marked the calm rhythm between them. "You're too calm for your own good," she murmured. "Sometimes I wish you'd lose your temper, just once."
He looked up then, eyes dark as ink. "Losing it won't make me better, Mother."
She studied his face. Beneath that stillness lay the familiar chill—colder than it should be. She had felt it from the day he was born. No brazier, no blanket, no herb had ever driven it away.
"Has Doctor Wen been this week?" she asked, though she already knew.
"Yesterday," he said. "The same as always."
"Then the end of the month is near." Her tone softened; her eyes sharpened.
He said nothing. The slight pause in his breathing was answer enough.
"Sometimes," she said quietly, "I think Heaven envies you. Gifted beyond measure, and each month you pay for it like interest."
Murong Chen lowered his gaze. "It's only pain," he said. "Pain reminds me I'm alive."
The words pierced something inside her. She forced a faint smile.
"You and Jing," she said. "He worries too much. You—perhaps too little."
"I worry enough," he answered, barely above a whisper. "Only not for myself."
"For whom, then?"
He met her eyes. For an instant, warmth flickered there—so brief it could have been imagined. "For you. For him. For her"
Her eyes softened. She did not answer.
***
Outside, Yin Li waited on the steps, head lowered as if studying the grain of stone. He knew his master's symptoms had worsened of late. The tonics held for fewer hours than before. Doctor Wen never spoke plainly, but worry had been clear in his eyes.
When Murong Chen rose to leave again, the Empress stood as well. She looked at his face—pale, composed—and held back the urge to touch his cheek.
"You're going to your grandfather's residence?"
He nodded. "He asked me to come before dinner."
She smiled faintly. "Then go. Take Yin Li, and rest when you return. And, Chen'er—"
He paused at the threshold.
"Be quieter than the world," she said.
His lips curved—too slight to be a smile.
"Yes, Mother."
He stepped into the light and was gone, his shadow swallowed by the brightness beyond the doors.
On the marble path outside, they passed beneath carved phoenixes and over the wooden bridge toward the imperial garden. The fragrance of plum blossoms lingered, mingling with the colder air that clung stubbornly to him.
"Master," Yin Li said carefully, "Doctor Wen prepared the next batch of Heartfire Dew. Shall I have it sent to the residence tonight?"
Murong Chen kept his gaze ahead. "Tomorrow night."
"If you delay—"
"It will hold." His tone closed the matter.
Yin Li bowed his head. His master's will was stronger than his body. Sometimes that frightened him more than the poison itself.
Two court ladies came along the path with baskets of flowers. They stopped and bowed. One, perhaps too curious, lifted her eyes. The moment their gazes met, she flinched and looked down.
That look—quiet, cold, not cruel—was like a winter lake: still, beautiful, utterly beyond reach.
***
At the gate of the inner palace, Murong Chen paused. Not far away, the Crown Prince's carriage stood waiting. Murong Jing stepped down, already in court robes.
"Xiao Chen," Jing greeted, smiling. "Mother kept you for breakfast again?"
Murong Chen inclined his head. "Briefly."
Jing's eyes moved over his face, concern flickering. "You look pale. Was it—"
"The same as always."
"Tomorrow is the end-of-month court," Jing said. "If you prefer not to attend, I'll speak for you."
"I'll be there," Murong Chen said evenly.
Jing hesitated, then nodded. "Don't push yourself."
A faint smirk touched Murong Chen's mouth. "If I didn't push myself, I'd be dead already."
Jing let out a helpless breath. "You never change."
"I hope not," Murong Chen replied, stepping into his carriage. "Change is for those who have time."
The wheels began to turn, the sound fading along the avenue. Jing stood watching long after the carriage vanished, fingers tightening around the jade token at his waist. Every month, every attack, he feared it would be the last. Yet Murong Chen endured—all ice and elegance, a blade hidden in snow.
Behind them, the Phoenix Palace gleamed in morning light. A thin chill stirred in the air, one even the sun could not warm.
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