FYM - 6

The young emperor had fallen ill.

After all, he was but a fragile child, unable to bear the weight of so many calamities that tore at the heart. Following the late emperor’s final rites, he had developed a high fever and remained unconscious for days on end.

He had already moved from the Eastern Palace to Guanfeng Hall. This hall, which only days ago had witnessed the mourning of a sovereign, now welcomed a new occupant. Perhaps this was how dynasties passed from one generation to the next—no one was irreplaceable. All the lamps in the inner chamber were lit, illuminating the flushed face of the young emperor, beaded with sweat. In his delirium, he alternated between calling out for “Father Emperor” and “Mother Empress,” his frail hands reaching out aimlessly, as though yearning for someone to grasp them.

And indeed, someone did take hold of him.

A pair of gentle, delicate hands—the very same that, just half an hour prior, had been reviewing petitions in Chongxun Hall—now cradled a bowl of medicine like a true mother, carefully ladling the bitter liquid.

“Chaohua,” Song Shuyan called wearily to the palace maid by her side, “help His Majesty sit up.”

Chaohua obeyed swiftly, her movements both steady and efficient. Yet Crown Prince Wei Xi still groaned in discomfort, his breathing labored and heavy. Song Shuyan’s brows remained furrowed, but her voice was soft and soothing. Perhaps the young emperor sensed her presence even in his illness, for he gradually relaxed and drank the medicine, much to the relief of the attendants in the inner chamber.

“Send someone from the Imperial Medical Bureau,” Song Shuyan instructed, handing the empty bowl to Xixiu. “Stay in the outer hall tonight and keep watch over His Majesty.”

Xixiu replied with a respectful “Yes,” taking the bowl and bowing as she retreated. As she passed Chaohua, she subtly signaled with her eyes—a reminder to urge their mistress to rest. Chaohua understood and, after Xixiu had left, hesitantly stepped forward to advise: “Your Majesty… it is late. Please retire to Jishan Palace soon.”

“Your Majesty.”

This title still felt somewhat unfamiliar. After entering the palace in the third year of Taiqing, she had always been addressed as “Empress.” It was only since the coup d’état a fortnight ago that people began using the new title, and she had yet to fully adjust.

Indeed… how could a woman of merely twenty-five years already be an empress dowager?

She smiled faintly, her expression distant. Shaking her head, she said, “You may go. I will stay a little longer.”

Ah, even her self-reference had changed.

Chaohua hesitated, torn between speaking further and holding back. Just then, an eunuch knelt in the outer hall and announced, “Your Majesty, General Song has arrived and awaits your presence outside.”

These words brought a flicker of light to Song Shuyan’s eyes, faint and fleeting. After a brief hesitation, she gently tucked the covers around the sleeping child emperor, then slowly rose and turned to walk out of the hall.

________________________________________

The night was still bitterly cold.

With the Lunar New Year approaching, snow often fell in Luoyang. Tonight was no exception, though it was not as fierce as it had been a fortnight ago. In this quiet snowfall, Song Mingzhen waited for his younger sister. When Song Shuyan emerged from the hall, his eyes brightened. The ferocity he had displayed during the coup—brandishing a single word, “Execute,” to terrify the court—was nowhere to be seen now.

He moved to kneel before her, but she steadied his arm, her voice carrying a rare hint of amusement. “There is no one else around. There is no need for such formalities, Brother. Please rise.”

Indeed, this was Song Mingzhen, second son of Song Dan, Lord of the Song clan, and holder of the rank of Xuwei General. He was Song Shuyan’s elder brother from a different mother and the closest among her many cousins to her.

“Etiquette must not be neglected,” he said with a smile, still insisting on bowing deeply.

“Your servant pays respects to Your Majesty.”

Song Shuyan sighed softly, memories of her arrival at the palace seven years ago flooding back. Back then, even her father and uncles had knelt before her. Time had passed, yet she still found it difficult to grow accustomed to the solitude of standing alone.

“Rise.”

But there was no other way to respond.

Song Mingzhen rose as instructed. She looked at him, then at the lightly falling snow, and said, “There is no wind tonight—it is rare to have such a calm night. If you do not mind, let us walk and talk.”

The night was indeed windless.

The solemn imperial palace had not been so quiet in a long while. The upheaval of a fortnight ago seemed like a distant dream, leaving no trace behind save for the occasional glimpse of soldiers clad in black armor from the Shenlue Army stationed every few steps.

Song Shuyan walked alongside her elder brother, who naturally held the umbrella for her. Chaohua, Xixiu, and the rest of the palace attendants followed closely behind. The vast palace seemed exceptionally tranquil, and the unfamiliar soldiers appeared especially stern.

“Xizhou…”

She suddenly spoke, then paused mid-sentence. At that moment, Song Mingzhen seemed to sigh, his gaze tinged with a subtle pity as he looked at his sister. After a moment’s consideration, he replied, “According to the military report received two days ago, Zhong He has retreated to Yanzhou after his defeat. The situation in Xizhou has temporarily eased, and there should be no issues for the next few months.”

The young emperor was too young to govern, so all state affairs required the empress dowager’s oversight. She had already read these reports, but the terse phrases in official documents always lacked the visceral impact of real battlefield life and death. Though Zhong He had retreated, Wei Zheng still lingered. What if he launched another attack in a few days? Xizhou lay to the north, not far from the Eastern Turks. What if they seized the opportunity to invade the south?

This time, Song Mingzhen had personally led twenty thousand elite Shenlue troops to rescue Luoyang. These forces, the finest of the Yingchuan army, had stabilized the political situation in the Eastern Capital. But what of the front lines?

“It was still too risky,” her voice was soft.

Song Mingzhen glanced at her, then sighed again. For a moment, he might have wanted to ruffle her hair like he did when they were children, but recalling how much had changed, he refrained.

“The Eastern Capital is of utmost importance. Both you and His Majesty are here,” he said, his tone restrained. “…He had to come.”

“He.”

That single word carried unimaginable weight, causing her eyelashes to tremble slightly.

“Mm,” she murmured in response.

“Unfortunately, twenty thousand troops are still insufficient to intimidate that old fox Wei Bi,” Song Mingzhen narrowed his eyes, his tone growing severe. “What do you plan to do next?”

Indeed.

While the twenty thousand Shenlue soldiers had temporarily spared the imperial palace from disaster, underlying concerns remained, simmering beneath the surface. The Luoyang faction refused to relocate the capital, and Duke Yinping Wei Bi and Chancellor Fan Yucheng strongly advocated for Consort Dong to ascend as empress dowager. They petitioned to establish two empress dowagers, proposing to honor Consort Dong as the Holy Mother Empress Dowager. Their true intention was to divide the Song clan’s power and create a balance against the Jinling faction.

For now, with the emperor still ill, the matter could be postponed. But dragging it out indefinitely was not a solution. The conflict between the two factions had reached a boiling point; one misstep would unleash a torrent of chaos, spelling division and ruin for the nation.

“The late emperor appointed five regents to maintain balance,” Song Shuyan spoke calmly, her clarity making her weary. “The establishment of two empress dowagers may be unavoidable, but we must not yield too quickly, lest they demand more.”

Song Mingzhen nodded, though inwardly he felt the volatile political situation weighed heavily on his heart. Glancing at his sister, he thought of the seven years she had endured—and how much longer she would have to endure in the future.

“If only Father had not been so stubborn,” he lamented, his expression tinged with sorrow. “If only…”

If only?

The past was best left unexamined, lest it reopen old wounds. Song Shuyan did not pursue the thought, and neither did Song Mingzhen. They continued walking silently through the snow, their path ahead and behind growing increasingly indistinct.

As the hour approached dusk and the palace gates were about to be locked, Song Mingzhen, an outsider, naturally had to leave. Song Shuyan intended to return to Chongxun Hall to continue handling unfinished affairs or perhaps visit the sickly young emperor in Guanfeng Hall. However, as they passed the plum garden and saw the exquisite blossoms dusted with snow, she felt a rare urge to linger and admire them.

This garden had been built by the late emperor in the third year of Taiqing to welcome her into the palace. He had personally inscribed the name “Jade Consort Garden” in his own hand. The Ministry of Works had gone to great lengths to transport various plum species from across the land to Luoyang and hired skilled gardeners to nurture them year-round, resulting in the fragrant blooms that now filled the garden. In truth, she was not one for extravagance. Rather than the lofty title of “Jade Consort,” she preferred something freer, like “Celestial Spirit.” But such details mattered little; what mattered was that the world knew the late emperor had favored Empress Song and held the Jinling Song clan in high regard.

Now, she strolled slowly among the flowers, their faint fragrance delicate and unassuming. Even in full bloom, the plum blossoms did not exude vibrancy, for they had always symbolized solitary beauty. Against the backdrop of falling snow, they seemed even lonelier, their white petals like mourning veils, destined to return to the earth. The palace attendants behind her grew uneasy. Chaohua, holding a lantern, approached cautiously and urged, “Your Majesty, the snow makes the night bitterly cold. Let us return…”

The swaying lantern light disturbed the tranquil ambiance of the garden, like unwelcome intruders disrupting a serene dreamscape. She realized she ought to leave. Some things, though tied to a person’s name, did not truly belong to anyone. Moreover, there was much work to be done; she could not lose herself in idle reverie.

Just as she was about to depart, a gentle breeze swept through, carrying with it a faint chill. A crimson petal drifted down, landing softly on her lapel as if reluctant to part. She was momentarily lost in thought when a sound from behind startled her—a footstep on a branch, shattering the dreamlike tranquility of the garden.

Turning her head, she saw her attendants already kneeling respectfully. Through the glow of the lanterns, a figure emerged from amidst the dense foliage, clad in military attire and black armor, as though rushing from afar. Petals adorned his golden crown, marked with an eagle motif. The juxtaposition of the fierce bird and the delicate plum blossoms created a surreal scene. In that fleeting moment before he knelt, time seemed to stretch endlessly, evoking memories of a past too painful to touch. Bittersweet emotions intertwined within her, with traces of sweetness hidden in the folds of sorrow.

“…Lord Fang.”

Her voice was calm, betraying no emotion as she addressed him.