The bedchamber is a world unto itself, draped in a luminous half-darkness that spreads from a cluster of amber candles perched on a narrow bedside table. Long, heavy drapes of brocade hang across the tall windows, muffling the howls of a raging snowstorm outside. Within this hush of low-lit opulence, shadows drift in a slow dance, drawn in by the flicker of candle flames that lick the air with gold-tinged warmth.

  A faint, resinous perfume smolders in a bronze censer near the Emperor’s bed. Its tendrils of thick, curling smoke infuse the chamber with a languorous weight, as though each breath must part a veil of ancient incense. Overhead, the arched ceiling swallows the hush of the night, leaving only the muted rush of wind behind the shuttered windows and the crackle of candlewicks.

  The Emperor sits at the edge of the bed, robed in pale, loose-fitting silks that pool around his limbs. His shoulders slump forward, taut with worry. In one restless hand, he fidgets with a small jade ornament, turning it over and over until the quiet abrasion of stone against palm becomes its own soft refrain. Lantern light grazes the Emperor’s face, revealing every subtle tremor beneath his eyes—eyes that brood and flicker with the burdens of a thousand midnights. There is a weight upon him that even the thick drapes cannot keep out.

  A gentle shift of air announces another’s arrival before he is seen. Yile steps through the tall doors, silken shoes gliding over polished marble in near-perfect silence. He bows deeply, yet forgoes any customary greeting, as though he knows words would only grate against the Emperor’s fragile calm. The hush in the chamber deepens, as though it recognizes Yile’s presence and closes around him.

  At the slight groan of the hinge, the Emperor glances up. For a moment, his eyes appear haunted—dark circles etched beneath, carrying unspoken anxieties that the storm outside cannot eclipse. He lifts one hand in quiet invitation, an almost imperceptible gesture, prompting Yile closer.

  “Yile,” the Emperor murmurs, his voice hushed and trembling, like a thread of tension ready to snap.

  Yile moves forward, a sleek figure in a green robe whose understated patterns catch and swallow the candlelight. His expression is tranquil, yet a flicker in his gaze reveals watchfulness—an alertness that suggests he reads every line etched into the Emperor’s face. The brazier’s glow illuminates Yile’s features as he inclines his head in wordless acknowledgment.

  He halts beside the bed, careful to keep a delicate distance. The Emperor's breathing hitches slightly, hinting at an internal chaos. Outside, the snowstorm hurls flurries of ice against the tall windows, a muffled roar that invades the half-silence.

  “Your Majesty,” Yile finally says, voice carrying only enough volume for the Emperor’s ears. The words slip into the room like an opiate, at once calming and charged with an unspoken promise.

  The Emperor exhales, setting aside the jade ornament. Though his fingers refuse to remain still, there is a faint relief in his eyes, as if Yile’s presence alone can force the storm at bay—even if only for a fleeting instant.

  “I... I cannot sleep,” the Emperor admits, the confession hushed. Candlelight highlights his trembling knuckles. His posture screams of longing for comfort, though his dignity traps him on the bed’s edge. “Too many thoughts. Too many regrets.”

  Yile inclines his head once more, stepping closer so that the murmured hush between them takes on an air of undeniable intimacy.

  “I am here,” he says softly, each syllable carefully measured. “The night may be cold and restless, but you do not face it alone, Your Majesty.”

  A brittle sigh escapes the Emperor. He gestures vaguely at the chamber’s confines, at the tapestries half-draped in shadow, the forgotten books heaped on a table with unread scrolls.

  The Emperor’s voice is barely louder than the distant whisper of snowfall, a tremor threading each syllable. “Sorry, I made you come late…” He doesn’t glance up at first, fingers twisting anxiously at the loose ties of his sleeping robe. The low flames in the bedside candles catch in the gold accents on his collar, throwing wavering sparks across his tense shoulders.

  Yile’s presence is gentle, almost reverent, as he settles onto a carved stool by the bed. He does not intrude too close—yet there’s a calculated proximity that spares no chance for the Emperor to forget him. Yile’s hands fold inside his broad sleeves, his posture impeccably collected. A faint, amber glow outlines the smooth line of his face, and his gaze radiates what appears to be genuine concern. But there is something else, too—an undercurrent thrumming just beneath his polished composure, an unspoken current tying them in these stifled quarters.

  “I would come at any hour,” Yile says, his voice low enough to match the hush of the snow-lashed windows, “if it quiets Your Majesty’s troubled spirit.” His words caress the tension in the air like a confidant easing the pain of an old wound, but the glimmer in his eyes betrays a subtle satisfaction at being so indispensable.

  A rustle of silk as the Emperor inhales, letting his restless hands relax. He looks Yile fully in the face now—an intersection of vulnerability and a half-suppressed yearning, though he can scarcely name that longing himself. The bed’s edge creaks softly beneath him as he shifts his weight, a gesture that hints at how thin the line is between regal composure and raw need.

  “Stay,” he murmurs, his eyes flicking over Yile’s delicate features. “If you can bear my confessions. I’ve dreamt of too many sharp shadows, too many hungry ghosts—long-lost allies turned adversaries.” His lips quiver with a bitter half-laugh. “All the illusions I must maintain, day after endless day.”

  Yile inclines his head, letting silence stretch only long enough to deepen the intimacy that cracks the barrier of station. “Your burdens weigh heavier than most can imagine,” he offers quietly. “But you are not alone.” He leans forward, the faint perfume on his robes drifting across the Emperor’s senses. “Let me share them. My eyes watch for hidden threats. Let me be your shield in the dark.”

  He lifts a hand, hesitating just an instant—allowing the Emperor’s anticipation to rise—before touching the Emperor’s forearm in a light, fleeting gesture. Their gazes lock. Yile’s expression remains steady, angelic, but there’s a hushed ripple of tension in his posture, a suggestion that contact like this is anything but innocent.

  The Emperor exhales a sigh that trembles in the quiet, as though that single point of contact siphons some fraction of his dread. “If only the corridors weren’t so full of lurking eyes,” he mutters. “My mind conjures all manner of betrayals… or perhaps they are no imaginings at all. Might each official hold a dagger hidden behind polite smiles?”

  A shadow passes through Yile’s face—sympathy, concern, maybe the faintest excitement. He sweeps his gaze downward, letting lashes veil the flicker of cunning that leaps within. “Sire,” he begins, voice coursing with a seductive calm, “I fear some may indeed wish your undoing. The more they flatter and charm you in the throne room, the sharper their knives might be.”

  It’s a discreet infiltration of suggestions—just enough to nudge the Emperor’s unease. Yile shifts, lace cuffs brushing over the embroidered coverlet, and leans in slightly. The distance between them closes further: the Emperor’s breath quickens as though the air is suddenly scarce in the room.

  A subtle smile ghosts across Yile’s lips as he continues, “Unrest festers with each passing day. Rumors from the frontier say barbarians gather. Inside these palace walls, certain governors jockey for your favor—some desire more than mere influence.” His voice drops lower, the cadence velvet-smooth, implying storms on all sides. “We must remain vigilant, Your Majesty. Some advisors whisper loyalty but sharpen blades behind closed doors.”

  The Emperor’s eyes drift half-shut, as though the swirl of candlelight and Yile’s quiet intensity lulls him into a confessional haze. A cold knot of tension tightens at the corners of his mouth. “Yes… yes, you might be right,” he concedes, weariness lacing each syllable.

  He sinks back, letting an inaudible tremor run through his body. One hand reaches for Yile’s. Yile meets the Emperor’s gaze steadily, his brow creasing as though sharing the burden of sorrow. “Your dread is not baseless,” he murmurs, “but know: I can unmask the conspirators before their webs tighten around you. For example, the vile leader of the Western Bureau, whom I’ve witnessed conspiring against Your Majesty multiple times, but fear not, as he is powerless while I am here.”

  A hush follows, and the Emperor’s breath rattles in his throat—a trembling exasperation with everything beyond these walls.

  Soft, intimate shadows play over their features, flickering at the edges of the Emperor’s parted lips. The tension in his shoulders gradually slackens; a fragile sense of comfort seeps through him, as if Yile’s presence alone holds the night’s terrors at bay. The Emperor’s eyes grow half-lidded, and for a moment, neither of them speaks. A hush settles: the crackling of the candlewicks, the snowfall’s hush beyond the curtains, the soft rasp of the Emperor’s robes as he shifts in place. It almost feels like a reprieve from the lingering dread that has weighed on their conversation.

  “And….” The Emperor’s voice is no more than a breath. His gaze flickers upward, searching Yile’s face for any sign of hesitation. “Have you news of Kuan?”

  The question hangs in the smoky air, as though the candlelight itself recoils. Threads of resinous incense coil under Yile’s nose, but any sense of calm it might have imparted evaporates at once. In the palpitating silence, Yile’s expression falters. He forgets himself: a single beat of panic sears through his features, a fleeting rawness in his eyes that the Emperor—keenly perceptive—cannot fail to note.

  “Kuan…” Yile echoes, voice cracking ever so slightly. For the barest second, he cannot disguise the tension in his throat. Candlelight dims, or perhaps it merely feels that way, as if the very flame leans in to gauge the war inside him.

  Yile can almost taste the name in his mouth—Kuan. Meicong’s blade glinting in the half-dark… He imagines, in a crackling instant, that brutal image: how Kuan’s eyes flared with pain, hot blood spilled onto the ground, how it feels to realize Kuan might never cross words with him again. A near-feral thrill spiked through Yile that moment he realized Kuan was possibly gone—a dark, triumphant wave of relief. At last Yile could plan his revenge his own way. The memory sparks a sharp, secret ecstasy that feels both liberating and vile.

  But even in the space of a heartbeat, another emotion crackles under his thoughts, an unease that threatens to rend him from inside. Why does this sting so fiercely? Over their childhood with Hunan, Yile had found Kuan’s intelligence, his stubbornness, his willingness to stake everything on improbable gambles compelling. He had dismissed that connection, told himself it was a necessary means to an end. Yet some part of Yile wonders: Have I severed an ally or something else entirely? Did I trust Kuan more than I dared admit?

  A swirl of guilt and a taste of something akin to regret floods his lungs. He forcibly smooths his brow, tries to steady his breath. He must not see this turmoil, Yile repeats in his mind. The Emperor waits, frown deepening, as though sensing the ripple of tension that has abruptly seized Yile’s posture.

  With a slow, measured inhale, Yile tucks away every hint of his disquiet behind the mild fa?ade he has so carefully perfected. Letting a sympathetic hush pass between them, he gives a tiny, apologetic bow of the head. “I’ve heard no new tidings, Your Majesty,” he says softly. Though the note of tension in his voice is minute, it hangs there like a half-lost chord. “The last reports indicated he was far from the capital. Perhaps he remains beyond our reach.”

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  The Emperor studies him from the corner of his eye, weariness tinged with curiosity. “I see,” he murmurs, the syllables weighted. He does not press further. But the hush that follows feels laden with unspoken questions.

  For the briefest instant, Yile wonders if the Emperor discerns the tumult in him—recognizes how his heart hammers. A single droplet of sweat beads at his temple, quickly dabbed away with the casual grace of a man used to concealing any sign of vulnerability.

  Yile forces a gentle smile, letting his fingertips brush the Emperor’s wrist in an echo of earlier comfort. His tone, measured and humble, aims to soothe the half-formed suspicion he senses in the Emperor’s stare. “Forgive me, Sire,” he murmurs, “if I cannot offer clearer word.”

  He breathes the last phrase with a reverent hush, allowing it to linger—an unspoken vow of loyalty. The Emperor, though still faintly troubled, nods in cautious acceptance.

  The Emperor inches nearer, letting his weary body list closer to Yile until the warmth of his breath mingles in the shared space. His fingers brush across Yile’s knuckles in a delicate movement. “If you do learn something…” The Emperor’s voice trails off into a hesitant pause, as though uncertain if he should voice his yearnings. “I— I wish to see him again. Kuan… he was so vital to us both, like Hunan was to me before you two.” The Emperor exhales, tangling the tip of one finger into the wide cuff of Yile’s sleeve, absorbing the silky texture almost as a comfort. “You’d tell me, wouldn’t you?”

  Yile nods mutely, lashes lowering as though to shield the swirl of conflict brewing behind his outward calm. Inside, his thoughts churn like some submerged undercurrent, dark and unpredictable. So the Emperor still cares… And I… did I truly want him gone? What about Hunan? Wasn’t he the one who ordered his death?

  Softly, Yile’s voice emerges—lower, quivering at its edges. “Of course,” he says, each syllable a measured act of control. “I will find a way… to keep Your Majesty informed.” He presses the Emperor’s hand in a fleeting, instinctive show of reassurance, but the gesture reveals his own unsettled nerves. Why does my chest tighten like this? he wonders.

  The Emperor’s eyes glitter with concern. He senses something in Yile’s voice, but cannot read it fully. Yile sees the questions forming in that gaze and lowers his own, feigning humility or perhaps hiding the tremor in his stare. For an instant, he is paralyzed between the relief at Kuan’s apparent removal and the nagging twinge of regret that wraps around each memory—those stolen conversations, that conspiratorial spark in Kuan’s eyes, the push-pull that once galvanized them both.

  “Tire yourself no further with worry.” Yile’s own words ring hollow to his own ear, but he persists, smoothing the tone to lull the Emperor’s doubt. “Let me handle the searching, the scanning of every rumor. You have burdens enough.”

  In the hush that follows, the Emperor lifts his free hand to graze Yile’s cheek. Meanwhile, Yile’s mind flits through recollections: Kuan’s arrogant smile, the hush in the corridor after they’d plotted together, that pang of mutual recognition bridging them for a breath. He understood me more than I admitted, Yile thinks. And I fed him to the wolves the moment I suspected his betrayal. Another wave of guilt throbs, too ephemeral to fully articulate yet impossible to ignore.

  His hand tenses around the Emperor’s, pressing firmly enough that the older man’s eyebrows rise in gentle surprise. “Is something troubling you?” the Emperor begins, voice hushed with concern. Yile’s lids flutter, then he shuts them for a moment, as if taming some roiling beast behind them.

  This was my doing, he tells himself, jaw tightening. I set the pieces in motion. I manipulated Meicong, whispered the seeds of Kuan’s betrayal. I forced him out. Yet here he stands, unsettled by the phantom sense of having lost a vital fragment of himself in the process.

  The Emperor’s body leans in, perhaps reading the faint tremor in Yile’s breath. “Yile?” he prompts, searching Yile’s face with a quiet intensity.

  With a drawn-out exhalation, Yile lowers his gaze. He can’t decide which pang is stronger: the satisfaction of removing a rival or the whisper that this victory tastes far too bitter. The chamber’s stillness stretches, embracing him in the swirl of incense, candle-smoke, and storm-winds. Yile slips his other hand atop the Emperor’s, an unvoiced apology for that momentary slip. He wills himself to exude the confident warmth of a trusted confidant.

  “Forgive me,” Yile says at last. He steels himself in the hush, tears unwept behind his carefully lowered lashes. He finds no words that mend the internal war between triumph and regret. All he can do is cling to the Emperor’s quiet presence, letting the older man mistake it for devotion, while he battles a ghost of something deeper: the question of whether, in removing Kuan from the board, he has torn out a piece of his own heart.

  In that moment, the Emperor draws him closer still, until their breaths mingle in the thick, perfumed air. Yet even as Yile surrenders to that embrace, he wonders which is stronger—his desire for the Emperor’s favor or his unadmitted love for Kuan.

  ...

  Yile sweeps out of the Emperor’s chamber, pressing a trembling hand against the lacquered door until it clicks shut behind him. The corridor outside is vacant at this late hour, illuminated by only a meager row of lanterns whose light seems too faint to pacify the darkness. His breathing, shallow and ragged, echoes off polished stone walls. He can still taste the censer’s incense from the bedchamber, clinging to his clothes like an unwanted memory.

  He strides down a side passage, every step landing harder than the last, forging a clipped, furious rhythm. The distant hiss of a snow-lashed courtyard drifts through the palace’s tall windows. Yile’s voice cuts across the hush like a blade:

  “Meicong!” He calls, the name lashing out. No reply.

  He crosses an archway and tries again, louder now. “MEICONG!” The timbre of his voice reverberates off the tiles, sending a knot of fear into the hearts of distant servants who slip away before his wrath can find them.

  A third time, louder, angrier: “MEICONG—COME NOW!”

  Finally, a figure steps into the dim corridor, silhouette rigid and unflinching. Meicong stands there, her face devoid of apology. Candlelight captures the faint scars around her eyes and the cold set of her mouth.

  Yile doesn’t bother with niceties. He closes the distance in a flash, grabbing her by the collar of her tunic. The abruptness makes a ragged grunt tear from Meicong’s throat. She doesn’t fight back immediately, though her muscles tense like a coiled spring.

  “Why?” Yile hisses, nose nearly brushing hers. His breath is hot with fury, and his eyes flash with a madness she’s seldom seen. “Why did you kill Kuan? Did I give you that order? Did you see me sign his death?”

  Meicong yanks his hand away from her collar, but he still hovers close, fists trembling. Her glare is defiant. “It was your will,” she retorts, voice low. “You told me of his betrayal. You told me he was a liability. You stood there with that smug grin, saying you were… pleased if he disappeared. Did you think I’d let him roam free, then?”

  “I never gave the word,” Yile snarls, though the rawness in his voice scrapes at his composure. “I never told you to— to carve him open, damn you.”

  Her eyes narrow. “Your reaction baffles me,” she says, stepping forward so the candlelight reveals how her pupils remain black and steadfast. “Weren’t you the one who was glad when I said he was done for? That day you looked almost… euphoric at the thought. And now you rage as though I betrayed you. You make no sense.”

  He can’t answer. Instead, he staggers backward with a frustrated cry, turning on his heel, snatching the first stack of scrolls in reach and flinging them against the opposite wall. Paper flutters and crashes, losing its neat binding in a swirl of dusty parchment. The next set of documents follows, tossed wildly, one smashing into a lantern sconce so violently that the flame gutters, casting half the corridor in flickering gloom.

  “You imbecile—” Yile begins, cursing through gritted teeth. He rakes trembling fingers through his hair, breath quickening. “You… don’t you realize how everything is undone now? How you might have skewed our entire operation?!”

  Meicong’s eyes blaze. She shoves him, not hard enough to break his balance but enough to spark a fresh jolt of fear. Before he can hurl another scroll, her dagger is out, the cold edge pressing to his neck. It is a whisper of steel against flesh, a threat that hushes his tirade into a stunned silence.

  “Accept the result of your own actions,” Meicong spits, voice throbbing with cold fury. “Or I kill you now. Because your whining is… insufferable.” Her knuckles whiten on the dagger’s hilt. The faint glow from an overhead lantern reflects in her eyes, turning them into mirrors of deadly calm.

  Yile’s pulse pounds; he feels the blade’s threat so keenly that the next breath sears his lungs. Then something else cracks within him. His tears pool at the corners of his eyes, not in loud sobs but in a quiet, trembling heartbreak he can barely hide. The flicker in his gaze begs for an answer he hasn’t dared voice all this time.

  “Tell me—” Yile’s voice breaks into a hoarse whisper. “Tell me the truth, Meicong. Kuan isn’t dead… is he? It can’t be that simple. I— I need to hear you say it.”

  Meicong’s jaw sets. Her dagger remains poised, unmoving at his throat. “I stabbed him in the chest.” She does not sugarcoat or waver. “If that means he’s dead, so be it. If he clings to life, that’s on him. I don’t track corpses.”

  A high, ragged laugh wrenches from Yile’s mouth. It’s half madness, half despair. He tilts his chin up, pressing deliberately into the cold steel so a bead of blood wells at the point of contact. The sting draws a gasp from Meicong, though she doesn’t back down.

  “Then cut deeper,” Yile snarls, mouth twisting into a smile that is part delirium, part challenge. “Kill me. Carve me up for the crows. Because what use is all of this if he’s gone?”

  An instant later, footsteps echo in the corridor, quick and delicate. Kexing appears at the threshold, eyes flaring wide at the tableau: Yile pinned against the wall, a dagger to his throat, half the floor strewn with torn scrolls. She freezes, pressing a fist to her chest. “Uh… I can leave if this is—”

  Yile lifts a hand, palm outward. “Wait.” His command is immediate, quivering with tension. He flicks a glare at Meicong, and she withdraws her blade at once, though her gaze remains ice. “Scram,” he growls at her, voice still trembling, “before I regret not letting you take my head.”

  Meicong sneers, wiping the dagger on her sleeve as though ridding herself of Yile’s taint. In two swift steps, she disappears down the corridor, boots echoing angrily until the shadows swallow her presence.

  Kexing stands there, uncertain, twisting a small wooden box in her hands. She edges closer to Yile, scanning him for injuries. The sight of the faint cut at his throat makes her inhale sharply. “Master Yile,” she says, voice meek but concerned. “I can fetch bandages, if—”

  He exhales, forcing a semblance of composure, though his chest still heaves. “No. No bandages.” He steps back, leaning heavily against a carved column. Candlelight quivers over the tears still gathering at the corners of his eyes, though he quickly dabs them away with the cuff of his robe. “What is it?”

  Kexing clears her throat, softly. “I… The second maid of Young Master Liwei… She drank her poison tonight.”

  A beat of silence. Then a slow spark of satisfaction coils through Yile’s expression, though it’s tempered by the rawness left by Meicong’s blade. “Good,” he murmurs, voice husky. “Very good, Kexing. You are… doing quite well. Much better than someone else.”

  Kexing inclines her head, stifling whatever moral conflict might flicker behind her eyes.

  He pushes off the column, forcing what passes for a calm posture. “You may go,” he says, dismissing her with a curt nod.

  As soon as Kexing leaves, Yile stands alone with the chaos of scattered documents, the tang of adrenaline still fresh in his veins. The corridor’s silence grinds on his nerves. Everything’s unraveling, he thinks, or perhaps he hopes it is. One more step, and…

  Without warning, he turns and strides out into the open courtyard, ignoring the gasps of a couple of wide-eyed clerks. The night’s storm has worsened: whirling snow slaps against the marble balustrade, layering the ground in a thin, treacherous white. Icy wind pricks at his cheeks, driving shards of frost into his hair. He hardly notices. Instead, he laughs—a high, wild noise that shatters the hush.

  Suddenly, he collapses onto his back in the snow, arms flung wide, breath coming fast and uneven. White flakes dust his eyelashes and settle along his robes. It’s as if the cold offers a fleeting antidote to his racing heart. He closes his eyes for a moment, caught between mania and exhaustion.

  Meice’s voice jolts him from the hush. She stands over him, liquor bottle in hand, eyes half-lidded with that insolent detachment she often flaunts. “You dead yet?”

  He opens his eyes, meeting her gaze with a slow, humorless smile. “Not yet,” he murmurs. In a single fluid motion, Yile lunges upright, snatching the bottle from Meice’s loose grip. She doesn’t resist, only watches with mild surprise as he lifts it to his mouth, tilts his head back, and gulps the burning liquor. The biting warmth scorches down his throat, a defiant act in the face of the freezing wind.

  A rivulet spills over the edge of his lips, stinging as it meets the small cut on his neck. Still, he doesn’t stop until the bottle’s contents are gone.

  He exhales, breath steaming in the frosty air. And then, with a suddenness that makes Meice flinch, Yile’s eyes blaze. He lowers the empty bottle, letting it roll carelessly onto the ice-slick cobblestones. “Meice,” he says, every inch of him trembling with pent-up agitation. “Your older sister is quite annoying.”

  Meice lifts a brow, face flushing with the liquor’s effect. “Huh. Yeah I know.” The question in her gaze is overshadowed by the savage amusement curling her lips. She watches Yile standing there, face pale under the whirling snow, tearstains half-frozen on his cheeks.

  For an instant, the courtyard’s hush envelops them. Snow spins, the wind howls, and the palace’s lanterns flicker in swirling gusts. Yile stands unsteady, arms limp at his sides, each ragged breath crystallizing into a pale mist. But in his gaze is a new, ferocious resolve. He speaks the demand, softly this time:

  “Kill her.”

  Meice’s grin widens, revealing a feral glint of acceptance. The bottle rattles by her feet, meager drops of liquor shining on the stone like fresh blood. She nods, no further words needed, and stalks off into the gloom. Meanwhile, Yile tilts his head back, letting snow assault his face, his laughter winding through the storm—unhinged, triumphant, and haunted all at once.