The silence in the Palace of Eternal Hills was not common. But that morning, it wasn't silence: it was restraint. Something—or someone—was listening.
The silence that is not emptiness
The Imperial Consort, Suwei Long, advanced through the north wing of the palace, where ancient echoes seemed to respond to each step. The walls, covered with engravings of battles and alliances of centuries past, seemed to observe him. Not a breath of wind stirred; not even the servants dared to break the stillness.
Suwei stopped in front of an ancient brazier, its bronze blackened by time. Engraved symbols of the Baihuan House—the White Tiger—gleamed faintly under the light of the lanterns. Something caught his attention: a dark, strange glow that didn't belong to natural light.
He leaned forward, observing carefully. Inside the brazier, hidden among ashes and dust, rested a piece of black jade. As he lifted it, his heart raced: engraved was a phrase in ancient language, forgotten by most:
