The air in Long Zhi had begun to shift.
Though snow still clung to the eaves and the mountains remained cloaked in a heavy white silence, the city stirred with the signs of a coming change. Merchants whispered of a warmer wind arriving from the east. Children began to chant festival songs in school courtyards.
Seamstresses pulled red silk from old chests. And in the heart of YongShen hall, servants moved with more haste than usual, stringing crimson banners through the narrow corridors and discussing whether it was too early to begin shaping paper lanterns.
Lianhua, still recovering, walked slowly beneath the decorated gallery with her fur-lined cloak brushing her ankles. Her steps were steadier now, but the wound on her leg remained a dull ache—an ever-present reminder of how fragile peace truly was.
A pair of maids bowed deeply as she passed, one holding a carved lacquer box full of marigold-shaped sweets for temple offerings. Another group of attendants struggled to hang a line of red and gold charms along the outer pillars, laughing as the wind kept snapping the fabric loose.
For the first time since her arrival in Tiānguó, the halls did not feel like a prison.
They felt like something more unsettling—hopeful.
The assassination had left cracks in YongShen Hall's silence, but no one dared speak of it openly. Guards were doubled. Stewards walked more stiffly. There were whispers, yes—but only behind closed doors.
Wei An was tighter with his reports. Zhao Yue rarely left Liwei 's side. And Captain Yuchi had taken to walking the corridors late into the night, his boots echoing through stone like warnings.
Only Lianhua seemed to walk freely now, as if the attempt on her life had marked her untouchable, sacred—or perhaps, simply watched more closely than ever.
In the tea pavilion, the mood was lighter. Plum blossoms painted in lacquer shone from low tables, and festival scrolls had been brought out from the archives. A pair of senior handmaidens rehearsed lines from the spring blessing poem while the hall's steward arranged for a fireworks maker to visit within the week.
"Only five sets," Wei An muttered, shaking his head. "No more. If they want the whole sky to burn, let them return to the capital."
Zhenli snorted. "It's a new year, Steward Wei. Would you deny us stars?"
Lianhua smiled quietly from her seat. She had taken to sitting there each morning, breathing in the scents of pine and paper, watching the hall wake itself up after weeks of tension.
"I didn't expect them to celebrate like this," she said, more to herself than anyone.
"YongShen hall always prepares for the new year," Zhenli answered. "Even if the rest of the empire forgets us, we remain loyal to the calendar."
Lianhua raised a brow. "Even when war looms?"
"Especially then," Zhenli said softly. "Joy is most important when sorrow sits too close."
Later that day, another visitor arrived.
Second Prince Huairen.
He came with no fanfare—only a modest escort and a sealed scroll bearing the imperial emblem.
His face was as cheerful as ever, his cheeks flushed from the cold, and his hands quick to clasp Liwei in greeting.
"I had to see for myself," he said with a bow. "A poisoned arrow? What shame has befallen our halls?"
Liwei said nothing in response. Only offered him a place at the table.
Huairen's gaze drifted to Lianhua. "And you, dear consort. You look far better than the rumors suggested."
"I live, highness," she replied smoothly. "That seems to disappoint a few."
He laughed, but not for long.
The political storm that followed Huairen's arrival did not come in thunder. It crept—like rot beneath a polished floor.
The letter he brought was from the Empress herself. Polite in tone, filled with inquiries and blessings for recovery. But it arrived with another packet: a list of newly assigned attendants to YongShen Hall from the central court.
Liwei rejected half of them.
"Suspicious," Zhao Yue muttered, examining the calligraphy on the documents. "Too neat. Too clean."
"Too quick," Liwei replied.
Even Huairen seemed uncomfortable.
"You think they're testing you?" He asked.
"They already did," Liwei said. "I passed."
"But barely," Huairen added with a sigh. "They speak of your arrogance now. That you rule Long Zhi like a throne, not a post."
"Then let them come take it."
Lianhua watched the tension rise like fog in the winter gardens. The court was far, yet its claws reached far enough to scratch at even this remote sanctuary.
That evening, over a modest dinner, Zhenli leaned in close beside her.
"Do you trust the crown prince?" She asked suddenly.
Lianhua hesitated. "I've never met him."
"Neither have I. But his shadow has a voice in it."
She thought about that for a long time.
Later, in the privacy of her chamber, she opened the jade token again. The lotus engraving seemed smaller now. She ran her thumb along its edge and thought of the boy who had clutched it in silence.
They were making their move.
Whoever they were.
And Liwei —silent as he remained—knew it too.
The next morning, she awoke to color.
Crimson banners across the corridor. Golden cut-outs of phoenixes and dragons flutter against the doors. Music—flutes and stringed zithers—from the training court, where guards practiced festival drills.
"Shall I bring your Odia shawl today?" Her maid asked.
Lianhua smiled. "No. Let me wear red."
And so she walked through the rising noise of festivity with a red brocade around her shoulders, her braid adorned with tiny white pearls.
Children from the village had come to present gifts—woven fans, calligraphy scrolls, and wooden cranes.
One small girl ran up and bowed low.
"I heard you were hurt, great lady."
Lianhua crouched carefully and took her hand. "I was."
"Did it hurt?"
"Yes."
The girl nodded solemnly. "I hope you never hurt again."
Lianhua hugged her gently, eyes stinging.
That night, Liwei came to her chamber just before the lanterns were lit.
"You've recovered," he said.
"Enough."
He stared at her for a long time.
Then handed her a paper slip. "Your name will be part of the lantern blessing this year."
She unfolded it.
There it was, in clean, bold brushstrokes: 莲花 (Liánhuā)—lotus.
"Why?"
"You're part of this household."
Her heart lifted and fell all at once.
"Just this household?" He didn't reply.
Instead, he turned and left, robes trailing behind like the tail of a dragon vanishing into fog.
* And so, it began.
The festival of fire and frost.
The new year of joy and suspicion.
And within YongShen hall—
A heart learning how to bloom in silence. *