Under the full moon's glow, soft silver light spilled through the sheer curtains of Jiang Xinluo's chamber.
She stood alone, her fingertip lightly tracing the surface of an old map of the imperial palace—hidden in a secret drawer of her writing desk.
"Did you ever realize… every path within the palace wasn't built for freedom of movement,"
"but so that someone—somewhere—could track your every step?"
A low voice emerged from the shadows behind her.
It was Bai Rong, a shadow envoy from Jianrong, and Jiang Xinluo's personal covert aide.
⸻
"You're hesitating, aren't you… Xinluo?"
"Are you looking for evidence to confirm Xianlan's guilt—or to prove her innocence?"
Jiang Xinluo remained silent for a moment.
The moonlight reflected on her cool, pale face—blurring into a memory of her mother.
A woman who once taught her: "Be still, smile, and thread your needle at the same time."
"I'm looking for something that doesn't require anyone's permission to be true."
"Because if everything I inherit comes wrapped in the conditions of the living… then I'm no more than a puppet."
⸻
The next morning,
Jiang Xinluo arrived unannounced at Hualan Hall.
Xianlan sat quietly on a sandalwood chair, brewing tea with elegant restraint.
The palace maids, well-trained in etiquette, bowed and silently excused themselves.
"I heard you discovered your mother's writings…"
"I'd like to know… would you allow me to read them?"
Xianlan looked up—unfazed by the direct request.
She studied Jiang Xinluo for a long moment, then responded evenly:
"If I let you read it… would you believe it?"
Jiang Xinluo offered a faint smile.
"Belief may not matter as much as… the fact that I've finally begun to question what I never dared to ask before."
⸻
Xianlan handed her a small cloth bundle.
Inside were torn fragments of an old letter—some lines nearly illegible.
But one name stood out clearly: Zhao Si'an, a now-deceased mid-level official, followed by the words:
"Thank you for protecting my child."
Jiang Xinluo read the note and fell silent.
"Are you certain this letter came from your mother?"
"I'm not."
Xianlan replied calmly.
"But I'm certain the one who buried it… never cared about the truth in the first place."
⸻
That night,
Jiang Xinluo returned to her chamber and opened an old intelligence logbook she'd kept since childhood.
Earlier entries accused Consort Yi Fei of "improper relations with male officials" and "evading imperial audiences in her final days."
But upon cross-checking, Jiang Xinluo found that during those exact months…
Xianlan's mother had been forbidden to meet with anyone by direct order of the inner palace.
"So she didn't avoid the emperor—she was denied access to him?"
"And her disappearance… was a forced silence?"
Her heart trembled.
The once-cold certainty in her eyes was now tinged with doubt.
⸻
Back at Xianlan's residence,
Wen Yichen reported in a low voice:
"Several officials who were close to Consort Yi Fei are now under surveillance."
"Including those suspected of hiding the letter from that day."
Xianlan lightly touched the rim of her teacup.
"Good. Let them begin to panic first—I won't move yet."
"Because frightened enemies… always show their hand before the game begins."
⸻
At the end of the chapter,
Jiang Xinluo stood once more before her brass mirror.
She removed a golden tiger-shaped hairpin—a gift from her homeland of Jianrong—and laid it gently on the table.
"If I am to betray what I once believed in…"
"Then let it be for the truth—not for love."
The moon said nothing.
But Jiang Xinluo's heart had already begun to change—slowly, and with quiet resolve.
Late that night,
at the lotus pavilion within the Crown Prince's residence,
Feng Yuhan sat quietly alone.
Before him, a teapot still warm to the touch,
moonlight casting long shadows across the wooden table.
His fingertips gently brushed the surface of a sandalwood fan—recently returned to his hand.
It was the same fan he had once given her as a child…
And just recently, he had seen it again—in Xianlan's hand.
A footstep sounded behind him.
Wen Yichen approached and offered a small bow.
"Your Highness… are you certain that breaking the engagement with the Su family won't threaten stability with Southern Yan?"
Feng Yuhan didn't respond right away.
He simply poured himself a cup of tea, sipping it calmly before speaking in a low voice.
"The Su family is no longer as powerful as they were a decade ago…"
"Marrying Su Mengyu would only leave me indebted—needlessly so."
"In the war for the throne… debts are just chains waiting to tighten."
Wen Yichen nodded slowly,
but his gaze lingered on Feng Yuhan.
"And what of personal reasons…?"
"Are you certain there are none?"
Feng Yuhan let out a soft chuckle—
a rare smile gracing his face.
"I used to see Xianlan as just a forgotten woman…"
"But now, I realize she's the kind of person who—if you're not careful—will make you look again… and again."
The fan's shadow flickered on the table.
His smile faded slightly,
and he spoke again—quietly, but firmly:
"I broke the engagement so that my name wouldn't be tied to anyone I felt nothing for."
"But more than that… I broke it so that I—
could finally have the right to choose someone I was never allowed to choose before."