◎Audience in the Palace◎

The first time Song Chang met Zhou Tan was also in this Xuande Hall.

Back then, the young man had not yet reached the age of the capping ceremony. Dressed in the same dark blue robes as other scholars, he kept his head bowed and eyes lowered, exuding an air of utmost respect. Among the throng of students, Song Chang immediately noticed this aloof youth, standing out like a noble crane among common birds.

Song Chang posed a question: to debate the relative importance of “establishing the heart of heaven” versus “securing the fate of the people.”

Zhou Tan and Su Chaochi debated before the hall, citing ancient sages and contemporary geniuses alike. Their discourse stretched over three hours, leaving the four learned masters within the hall applauding in admiration.

Su Chaochi, born into an official family, had initially looked down on this newcomer. But after just one hour of discussion, he grew deeply admiring. By the end, he willingly yielded his rank, eager to leave the palace and introduce Zhou Tan as a kindred spirit.

When Song Chang named Zhou Tan the top scholar, the latter simply expressed gratitude with a calm bow, devoid of the wild joy or arrogant pride often displayed by past scholars. As Song Chang gazed into Zhou Tan’s amber eyes, he felt a strange sense of familiarity.

Yet, this feeling, much like Zhou Tan’s demeanor, was fleeting—focusing on it only made it dissipate.

Gu Zhiyan, once Song Chang’s teacher, had taken on unlimited disciples after becoming chancellor. Upon meeting Zhou Tan, he had immediately taken a liking to him, accepting him as his sole student that year.

Even so, Song Chang paid little heed to such matters. Each year brought too many new scholars, and those sent to distant posts were easily forgotten. By the time Zhou Tan returned to the capital, years had passed.

One winter day, Song Chang encountered an old acquaintance who claimed to have grievances to report.

What followed was an absurd tale.

After hearing it, Song Chang acted without hesitation and executed Gongshu Duan outright. Not of royal blood? How could that be... If such words were to spread, what then? What should he do?

He tried to pretend the matter never happened, but the harder he attempted to forget, the clearer the memories became. Why had his father, the late emperor, bypassed him—the legitimate heir—and secretly summoned Prince Jing back to the capital instead? Under the machinations of his mother and maternal grandfather, he had poisoned his own father. On his deathbed, the emperor refused to see him, summoning Gu Zhiyan into the inner chambers instead. What had they discussed?

His head throbbed painfully.

Late one night, passing by the long-abandoned Zhenru Palace, an idea struck him: if he built a Buddhist temple on its site, he could justify excavating it to uncover the truth he feared to know.

But why did Gu Zhiyan oppose this so adamantly?

Through the ceremonial beads of his crown, he studied Gu Zhiyan’s resolute, pleading gaze, feeling a chill in his heart. He realized—Gu Zhiyan must know about this.

If he knew, who else might?

Anyone who even might know could not be allowed to live.

Song Chang wasn’t sure whether he truly believed these people posed a threat or if he had grown resentful of Gu Zhiyan’s constant constraints. Never before had he killed so recklessly, yet as the deaths mounted, he found a twisted satisfaction in it.

Finally, he forced Gu Zhiyan to remove his official cap, humbling himself to beg for mercy and request retirement.

He later heard that someone in the imperial dungeon, overwhelmed, had written the Ran Zhu Lou Fu (“Candlelit Pavilion Rhapsody”) for him—Gu Zhiyan’s beloved disciple composing a eulogy for his new pavilion. What a cruel irony. Yet Gu Zhiyan remained indifferent, appealing to their years of friendship for one final favor: spare Zhou Tan’s life, now that he had submitted.

Annoyed, Song Chang reluctantly agreed.

Gu Zhiyan returned home in disgrace, drowning himself in a river before even leaving the capital. The disciple he had worked so hard to protect never visited him.

Song Chang felt a mix of triumph and profound emptiness. These complex emotions weighed heavily on his chest, complicating his feelings toward Zhou Tan.

He knew Zhou Tan had capitulated in the dungeon—a betrayal of principles, leaving him no choice but to fully rely on the emperor’s trust. He also knew Zhou Tan stirred trouble at the Ministry of Justice, prosecuting several high-ranking officials who had opposed Gu Zhiyan.

But Song Chang turned a blind eye, allowing him this revenge. Mastery of imperial strategy came naturally to him now—it was, after all, no great matter.

It wasn’t until Peng Yue mysteriously died on Jinghua Mountain that Song Chang realized how unbalanced the court had become under Zhou Tan’s influence.

Though he had long established a crown prince, factional strife between the chancellors kept everyone treading carefully. Zhou Tan’s outward compliance masked a burning desire for vengeance, secretly aligning with the crown prince...

Song Chang had hesitated about this matter until Chancellor Fu Qingnian entered the palace for a private conversation, vaguely mentioning the events surrounding his ascension. Only Fu Qingnian knew of his patricide. Eliminating Gu Zhiyan had been driven by fear that he might expose the truth.

If Zhou Tan aligned with the crown prince to clean house, who could guarantee the prince wouldn’t repeat his own act of patricide?

It seemed he would ultimately have to defy his teacher’s dying wish.

Meeting Zhou Tan before his execution might be his final obligation to Gu Zhiyan.

Lately, old acquaintances haunted his dreams. Sometimes he recalled his teacher guiding his hand to write the first character for “benevolence”; other times, he remembered fleeing the eastern palace with Xiao Yue and others, strolling through bustling streets. All these memories, like dreams, were swallowed by the cold palace walls.

________________________________________

Zhou Tan was dragged into Xuande Hall by two Golden Hairpin Guards and thrown to the steps below. The once-pristine white robes of the top scholar were now stained red from wounds seeping through the fabric, despite his fresh attire.

He seemed oblivious to the pain. When the doors closed, he straightened, kneeling upright, and performed a deep bow, his voice steady: “Your humble servant... pays respects to Your Majesty.”

Song Chang said nothing, leaving Zhou Tan prostrate on the ground for a long while.

“I hear you refused to speak in the Golden Hairpin Pavilion, insisting on seeing me,” Song Chang rested his hand on the cold gold ornamentation beside him, asking, “If you had evidence proving your innocence, wouldn’t you have presented it already? Since you don’t, why insist on seeing me?”

Zhou Tan rose, his amber eyes flickering slightly: “I’ve come to ask Your Majesty for justice.”

“Justice?” A senior eunuch served Song Chang a cup of tea, steaming hot. He blew away the foam. “What kind of justice?”

Without fear, Zhou Tan met his gaze: “Please dismiss those around us.”

Surprised, Song Chang chuckled softly and waved for the attendants to leave. “Xiao Bai, I’ve ordered the Golden Hairpin Guards to thoroughly investigate your case. That afternoon, you and your wife toured Bianhe Street together. Later, she returned home in a carriage. At night, you weren’t at home, nor at the Ministry of Justice, and you didn’t bring any guards. Where did you go? Do you have witnesses?”

“Your Majesty isn’t concerned with whether I have witnesses,” Zhou Tan replied respectfully. “You believe I’ve aligned with the crown prince, framing someone to slander and eliminate Chancellor Fu’s allies. Naturally, I can’t provide evidence of my innocence, but neither can you prove I committed the crime. Otherwise, why torture me in the Golden Hairpin Pavilion instead of executing me outright?”

The insolence of his words drew a cold glance from Song Chang. “What exactly do you want to say?”

Zhou Tan abruptly raised his head, as though steeling himself, and deeply kowtowed: “I risk death to bring up an old matter—”

Before he could finish, three light knocks sounded at the door. Within Xuande Hall, only the emperor’s closest eunuchs dared disturb him during private meetings. This interruption signaled urgent news.

Zhou Tan fell silent. Annoyed, Song Chang called for the messenger, snapping, “What urgent matter warrants this intrusion?”

The eunuch stole a glance at Zhou Tan, still kneeling to the side. As the doors opened wide, Song Chang heard the distant echo of a drum carried by the wind.

Zhou Tan’s face turned ashen.

Stammering, the eunuch wiped cold sweat from his brow: “Your Majesty, Lady Zhou... has beaten the drum of justice twice on Yujie Street. She claims Lord Zhou was with her all night. The three judicial departments suspect guilt without evidence—it’s... unjust.”

“What?” Song Chang froze.

“She... she also says that if she cannot clear her husband’s name, she will smash her head against the drumstone. The Right Forest Guard dared not delay and has brought her into the palace. This matter relates to Lord Zhou’s case, so I couldn’t wait to report it—Your Majesty, how should we handle this person?”

Song Chang was silent for a long while before sighing ambiguously: “Xiao Bai, you’ve truly married a remarkable wife.”

Zhou Tan’s previously composed expression finally cracked. He wanted to say something but choked on his words, coughing violently, his face flushed with anxiety. “This is madness... She knows nothing!”

The eunuch replied cautiously: “The drumming has caused quite a stir. The streets before Yujie are crowded with onlookers. By today, rumors about Lord Zhou and this case will surely spread throughout the city... When the Right Forest Guard brought Lady Zhou into the palace, they encountered Consort Zhao...”

Zhou Tan turned back and kowtowed deeply: “Your Majesty, my wife’s actions are reckless and improper. I accept punishment on her behalf. Please send someone to escort her out of the palace and confine her to our residence!”

Song Chang studied his expression, finding it intriguing. After some thought, he said, “Enough. Since she’s already here, you must at least meet. If there’s something you can only say after dismissing others, let your wife visit Consort Zhao for now.”

Zhou Tan cried out mournfully: “Your Majesty!”

“What is there to fear?” Song Chang rose from his dragon throne and descended toward Zhou Tan. His golden robe, embroidered with intricate patterns, shimmered as he loomed over him.

“My dear minister, what were you about to say just now?”

________________________________________

Fu Mingran gripped her fan tightly, sitting upright as irritation churned within her, leaving her no outlet but to glare coldly downward.

She had seen Qu You at banquets before—remembering only that she was beautiful and talented. Though seemingly guileless, gentle, and kind-hearted, she carried an air of pride characteristic of Qingliu women.

Such a woman—shouldn’t she despise a cunning minister like Zhou Tan?

That was precisely what Fu Mingran had thought when she arranged the marriage. At the time, she imagined Qu You would cause chaos in the Zhou household, unsettling even Zhou Tan during his illness. If he miraculously recovered, he’d experience the torment of domestic strife.

But everything had unfolded peacefully. Even when she visited Zhou Tan at the Golden Hairpin Pavilion, she assumed their relationship might be strained and looked forward to witnessing the discord.

Today’s drumming incident completely blindsided her.

Fu Mingran suddenly realized that perhaps Zhou Tan’s earlier gratitude for her matchmaking wasn’t mockery after all. If Qu You’s public declaration on Yujie Street was true, then the two must share deep harmony, mutual respect, and even regard each other as soulmates.

How could it be otherwise?

If not, why would this woman risk her reputation being utterly ruined to plead Zhou Tan’s case before the Emperor?

What a fine match she had orchestrated.

The palace maids lowered the flower-patterned windows, and the room fell silent except for the faint crackling of incense burning in the brazier.

Qu You knelt on the ground, hearing Fu Mingran ask, “Lady Vice Minister, I’ve heard that your relationship with Lord Zhou hasn’t always been harmonious. Is that true?”

It was clear what answer Consort Zhao wanted after granting the pear fan. Though Qu You didn’t fully understand her intentions, she vaguely replied, “Your Highness jests.”

Fu Mingran remained silent for a long while.

In her silence, Qu You dared not speak further. Finally, she heard the sharp rap of Fu Mingran’s fan striking the wooden table beside her. The fan was abruptly tossed down, landing near Qu You’s feet. “Even in front of me, you dare lie?”

Her accusation came without basis. Qu You didn’t know why the Right Forest Guard had first brought her to Consort Zhao or what purpose Zhao’s matchmaking served. But one thing was certain: Consort Zhao clearly didn’t wish to see her and Zhou Tan united. Today’s defiant act of drumming must have shocked her beyond expectation.

Qu You hesitated, bowing her head respectfully: “This humble servant wouldn’t dare.”

Regardless of what the other thought, it was best to remain silent.

Fu Mingran rose from her seat, the long floral-patterned hem of her dress brushing against her hand as she paced a few steps, then turned back with a sneer. “You’re truly bold, daring to make such a spectacle by beating the drum of justice. When I arranged this marriage, I never imagined you’d possess such audacity.”

Qu You knelt, the heavy headdress pressing painfully on her neck.

Fu Mingran’s attitude surprised her. She had expected displeasure, but not such overt hostility.

Since Emperor De had kept her in the palace, it was inevitable she would be summoned. Despite Fu Mingran’s apparent fury, she dared not overstep her bounds, merely leaving Qu You kneeling in the hall.

Kneeling on the cold lotus-patterned golden tiles, Qu You bitterly reflected on how much she detested the kneeling customs of Bei Yin since her arrival. Kneeling to parents was tolerable, but she rarely entered the palace before, meeting nobles and princes in private settings where a deep bow sufficed.

After thousands of years of civilization, she had grown up in an era without rigid hierarchies, feeling uncomfortable watching others grovel, let alone doing so herself.

But for Zhou Tan, she could kneel here—without dignity, without pride—waiting for the favor of those above.

She knelt for nearly the length of two incense sticks before a young eunuch hurried in. Fu Mingran personally helped her up, her long nails grazing Qu You’s cheek. In a voice low enough for only them to hear, she whispered disdainfully:

“You’ve done well, very well. When Zhou Tan dies and you’re implicated and sent to the Jiaofangsi, I’ll arrange another marriage for you. Then, don’t forget to come thank me.”