It was just past the fourth hour before sunrise. Yet the capital of the Yuan Dynasty had already awakened with fervent purpose.
The cobbled roads echoed with the wheels of carts and clatter of hurried footsteps. Merchants flung open their doors, calling out half-prepared greetings. Servants rushed with baskets, ribbons, bolts of silk, and fresh fruits balanced over their shoulders.
Tired-eyed citizens pulled themselves into motion, grumbling, but even they could not hide the curious excitement burning behind their yawns.
Today was no ordinary day.
It was the seventh day of the grand Autumn Festival, and more importantly, the wedding day of General Mao Tung Ku's eldest son, Khan Chi Tung Ku, to Princess Mei Wen Hao Xi, younger twin sister of the Emperor.
A day meant for joy. For union, and for the celebration of peace.
General Mao, now 45, was the empire's steadfast sword known not only for triumph in battle but also for keeping the blood of civil unrest from staining the capital.
With his son's marriage sanctioned by the Emperor himself, today was to mark a powerful alliance, one rooted not in conquest but in loyalty and quiet affection from years past.
The palace, usually a fortress of poise, also buzzed with urgency. Servants had been awake since the second hour, arranging ceremonial garb, steaming rice wine, and preparing rooms for an imperial banquet that would last from sunup to moonrise.
Guards stood alert. Musicians tuned their zither and drums. Yet none of them noticed the softest shadow, a feminine silhouette that glided across the rooftops like a ribbon of smoke silent, swift, and untraceable.
By the time the eastern sun crested the horizon, the final touches were falling into place.
Within the Emperor's personal residence, Eunuch Li, a man who had served the throne for more than forty years, moved with the weary dignity of one who carried the weight of the world upon his shoulders. His voice was soft, yet it allowed no disobedience.
"Prepare the bath quietly," he whispered.
"No heavy steps. His Majesty must wake gently today."
The servants bowed and obeyed at once. Curtains were drawn open. Incense was lit. Warm water was poured into waiting basins.
Eunuch Li approached the imperial bed, lowered his head in respectful greeting, and waited. For acknowledgment, and for instruction, but there was only silence.
"Your Majesty?" he called softly.
No answer came. Slowly, unease tightening in his chest, he lifted his gaze, only to see the bed was neatly made.
Untouched.
The porcelain pillow lay perfectly arranged, yet the figure meant to rest upon it was nowhere to be seen.
A faint crease formed between Eunuch Li's brows.
"…Your Majesty?" he called again, louder now.
Still nothing.
With growing unease, he stepped toward the Emperor's study. Lifting the silk canopy, he peered behind the carved partition.
Nothing. The chamber was pristine, and undisturbed.
Anxiety settled heavily upon him. He returned to the bedchamber, scanning every corner, behind screens, beside curtains, and along the walls. Yet there was still no sign of the Emperor.
"Your Majesty… where could—" The words died on his tongue.
The Emperor was not a man who left his chambers unattended, nor one who moved through the palace without escort.
Something was wrong.
Eunuch Li exited the chamber at once and ordered all servants to assemble before the courtyard.
Every servant assigned to these quarters had been personally appointed and approved by him.
At the Emperor's own request, only twenty-eight servants were permitted within his residence. Few enough to be watched, trusted, and accounted for.
They stood in two orderly lines before him.
Eunuch Li immediately counted them once, and again. All were present.
"Did any of you see His Majesty leave the residence this morning?" he demanded, and they answered as one.
"No."
The chill in his chest deepened. His thoughts raced back to the empty bed, the untouched chambers, the silence where there should have been life.
Fear creeped through him. He turned and hurried over the residence gates, his composure finally breaking as his voice rang out across the palace grounds.
"Guards! GUARDS!"
All servants froze in terror. A high-ranking eunuch calling for guards from within the Emperor's own residence could mean only disaster.
"Something has happened to His Majesty!" Eunuch Li screamed.
"He is not within his chambers! Raise the alarm! Seal the gates! Form search parties at once!"
Palace guards quickly sprinted in from every direction. Doors were flung open. Search teams scattered through corridors and courtyards. Two mounted messengers were dispatched at once, galloping toward General Mao's estate with the unthinkable news.
The Emperor had vanished.
Back in the Emperor's chamber, no one noticed the simple gold seal resting on the desk. Or the parchment beneath it, inked with the imperial dragon and sealed with wax, a decree left behind without explanation.
Like thunder breaking across heaven, two massive ceremonial drums sounded across the capital.
The heartbeat of the city stopped, and all the joyous air curdled into panic.
Shutters slammed shut. Children were yanked from the streets. Merchants abandoned their stalls mid sale. Lovers, families, and strangers all rushed indoors. Some whispered prayers. Others stared at the sky in silence.
Everyone knew what it meant. Two drums meant one thing, the capital was in danger.
Moments later, the stone gates of the city were sealed shut with a final, echoing thud.
Hundreds of soldiers marched in rhythm, flooding the streets and alleys, sweeping through the city with eyes sharp and weapons drawn. The Yuan Dynasty, in an instant, fell into a state of intense lockdown.
At the General's residence, laughter had barely begun before it was silenced.
General Mao, who had just finished adjusting his eldest son's wedding robe, stared into the face of the messenger who dismounted on a horse, dust in his breath and panic in his words.
There was no hesitation.
"Saddle the horses," he said.
He mounted at once, flanked by both his sons. One still dressed as a groom, the other hurriedly tying his boots. They rode fast for the palace.
Inside the throne hall, silence loomed. Princess Mei sat like a figure carved from stone. Her wedding veil had been discarded. Her eyes, swollen from crying, now held only dread.
The Emperor's two royal guards stood behind her unmoving, expression unreadable.
General Mao entered the first gate with fury of a storm, and ordered his two sons to quickly go over the Emperor's residence to investigate.
"Do not trust the Bureau. I want my own eyes on that chamber." He commanded.
After his son's departure, he turned to meet Adviser Mong, the Emperor's most loyal councilor, who was already waiting in front of the closed throne room.
Together, they entered the hall, and saw all the empire's senior officials already present, standing like statues, none daring to speak. Only the sound of the wind scraping against the palace doors reminded them time was still moving.