"The sharpest weapon in the palace is not the sword. It is the pen that writes nothing yet records everything."
The first time Mo Lianyin entered the Hall of Wind and Scrolls, she did not breathe.
Not out of fear — but reverence.
The room was unlike any other in the palace. A tower above towers, veiled by carved screens of sandalwood and lined with shelves of silk-bound scrolls, most of which bore the imperial seal. The scent of aged parchment lingered, mixed with inkstone and mountain herbs.
And at its center stood Prince Ruiyan.
He was dressed in black today — elegant but plain. The robe hung off his tall frame like calligraphy ink dripping on silk: clean, intentional, and quiet. No guards stood at the door, no attendants waited behind him.
Only one candle flickered on the polished table.
"You are late," he said, without looking up.
Lianyin knelt silently. "Forgive me, Your Highness."
He finally turned, placing a scroll aside. "I did not summon you to be forgiven."
She raised her eyes — just briefly — and found his gaze already fixed on her.
There was no malice in those eyes. No interest, either. Only… precision.
"You were in the Chrysanthemum Garden yesterday," he said.
"I serve there daily."
"You spoke with Consort Zhenluo."
"I answered when she spoke."
Ruiyan studied her. "You don't ask many questions."
"Servants are not paid to be curious."
"Then perhaps," he murmured, "you are underpaid."
A flicker of something passed through her — not amusement, but wariness. There was a sharpness in his tone, but not cruelty. Like a blade polished for observation, not war.
He stood, walking slowly around her.
"You have no accent. No dialect markings. Not from the southern provinces. Not from the capital. Not from anywhere." He paused. "You say you are from the fire — yet not even ash clings to your hands."
Lianyin didn't answer.
A long silence stretched between them — the kind only noblemen or executioners could withstand.
Then Ruiyan said something unexpected.
"You may stand."
She did.
"Come here."
She hesitated, then stepped closer to the scroll table.
He handed her a small piece of silk. It was calligraphy — simple but beautiful. The brushwork was steady, confident. She read the characters silently:
"To know a person, do not listen to what they say. Watch how they remain silent."
"Do you understand this saying?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Then you will understand what I ask next."
She waited.
"I want you to remain here, in the Hall of Wind and Scrolls. Not as a maid. But as a watcher."
"A watcher?"
"You will sit. You will listen. You will never speak unless I permit it. You will see the men who visit, hear what they whisper, and note what they do not say. You will remembereverything."
Lianyin blinked. "Why me?"
"Because the palace is filled with people who speak too loudly," he replied. "And I need someone who listens like a ghost."
That night, as the moonlight bathed the outer palace, Lady Zhenluo sat in the incense chamber of the Temple of Wind, a place the Emperor rarely visited.
Before her knelt a veiled figure.
"You said she survived," Zhenluo whispered.
The figure bowed. "Yes, Lady."
"After all these years… You're sure it's her?"
"No one else bears the chrysanthemum scar, my lady. It was burned with intent — and blood."
Zhenluo's hands trembled slightly over the incense burner.
She remembered the fire.
She remembered the screaming.
She remembered the child being taken — and another left behind.
"I thought the Emperor's men had them all killed."
"She was hidden… smuggled north under the name of a merchant's daughter. She may not even know the truth."
Zhenluo's voice dropped to a whisper. "But if she remembers… everything falls."
The figure said nothing.
Zhenluo slowly stood. The candlelight cast shadows on her pale face, dancing across the embroidered flowers of her robe.
"Find out who placed her in the palace," she said. "And if the Prince knows… remove him from her side."
Meanwhile, back in the Hall of Wind and Scrolls, Prince Ruiyan sat alone once again. The girl had left as instructed. But something about her silence stayed behind.
He took up his brush. Ink pooled at the tip, but he did not write.
Instead, he whispered to himself:
"She carries silence like a sword.
But I wonder… when will it finally cut?"