A sharp knock shattered the silence.
"Concubine Lin!" a young maid burst into the room, breathless and pale. Her small frame trembled under the weight of her haste, her eyes wide as if she had seen a ghost. "His Majesty… the Emperor… he has summoned you."
Lin Qiyue, seated before the bronze mirror in her dim chamber, did not startle. Her eyes remained fixed on her reflection. The surface of the mirror was slightly tarnished, the kind given to lesser concubines whose worth had long since faded. In the distorted metal, her own face stared back—pale, serene, but with eyes far too knowing for a woman her age.
"How thoughtful," she said after a long pause. "To remember me after two years of silence."
The maid fidgeted. "It's the Hall of Heavenly Reflection. You're to be there before the hour of the monkey, my lady."
Qiyue turned at last, gaze sweeping the girl like a breeze rustling dry leaves. This was the same servant who had once offered her a cup of bitter lotus tea from the Empress Dowager—back when Qiyue was still too trusting to notice the poison it carried.
And now she was here again, trembling under the weight of a new command.
History was repeating itself.
She stood slowly, every movement graceful, controlled. "Very well. You may go."
The girl bowed deeply and fled, as if being near Lin Qiyue for too long might invite the wrath of gods or men.
When she was alone again, Qiyue approached her wardrobe. It still held the gowns she once wore when she was favored—scarlet silks, imperial gold, dresses embroidered with dragons and peonies, symbols of power and status. She brushed her fingers across them, then pushed them aside.
They no longer suited her.
She selected a robe of soft, sky-blue silk. Simple, unadorned. The sort of dress worn by someone easily forgotten. Its color was that of mourning skies—an omen draped across her shoulders.
Her hair she tied into a neat knot, using a wooden pin without ornament. She left her face bare, her skin pale like porcelain. No rouge, no powder. Just truth.
Let them look at her and think her broken.
Let them believe she had been shattered beyond repair.
Only a fool ignores a blade because it is sheathed.
She dabbed a trace of lavender oil at her wrists. Not for vanity. Not for Zhou Wenli. But because he once told her that scent soothed his migraines. She wanted the memory to scratch at the edges of his mind, to unsettle him with things half-remembered.
When she stepped into the sunlit courtyard, the palace had already begun to whisper.
"Is that Concubine Lin?"
"She's still alive?"
"Why summon her now?"
"She looks like a ghost."
A ghost.
Yes, she was the ghost of a woman they had buried in scandal and silence. The shadow of an empress who had died before she ever wore the crown.
But ghosts don't rest easy.
And Lin Qiyue had not come back to haunt the palace. She had come to burn it down.
—
The Hall of Heavenly Reflection was just as she remembered—too grand, too cold, a place built to remind all who entered of the Emperor's dominion.
She walked with steady steps across the polished marble. Guards flanked either side of the grand staircase. The inner doors parted as she neared, opening like the jaws of some ancient beast.
Inside, beneath the golden dome, Zhou Wenli sat slouched on the dragon throne, as if bored by the burdens of ruling. His robes were black trimmed with gold, his fingers idly spinning a jade ring on his thumb. Several ministers stood off to the side, pretending not to notice her approach.
Qiyue knelt. Her knees touched the cold floor with practiced ease.
"This lowly concubine greets Your Majesty."
The Emperor did not speak immediately. Instead, he stared at her for a long moment, as if trying to remember her face from a dream he had long forgotten.
"You look thinner," he said at last.
Qiyue kept her head bowed. "Your Majesty is observant."
"You speak differently."
"Time teaches all things."
His brow furrowed. "When was the last time I summoned you?"
"Two winters ago, Your Majesty."
"Two winters…" he echoed. "And you still remember."
"A discarded toy always remembers the moment it was dropped."
Several ministers shifted uncomfortably. One coughed into his sleeve. A silence stretched.
Then Zhou Wenli laughed—low, amused. "You've grown a sharp tongue, Lin Qiyue."
"I have grown in many ways, Your Majesty."
His amusement faded into curiosity. "Why should I keep you? You've long since fallen from favor. There are concubines now far more radiant than you. Younger. Obedient."
She raised her head just enough to meet his eyes.
"Because you know me," she said. "And I know you."
His gaze sharpened. "Speak plainly."
"You enjoy new things, Your Majesty. But you do not trust them. You value what is known, even if it no longer shines."
Zhou Wenli tapped his ring against the throne arm. "You think I summoned you for your insight?"
"No," she said softly. "You summoned me because you're afraid of what I might become if you ignore me again."
Another pause.
He smiled, a touch forced. "Entertaining, at least. I may summon you again."
"I await Your Majesty's pleasure."
"You may leave."
She bowed again, then rose and turned to go.
As she walked away, she felt his gaze linger on her back.
That was good.
Let him feel the itch of unease. Let him sense something just beyond his reach, something slipping through his fingers.
It was the beginning.
Her first step into the game she intended to win.
—
Back in her quiet quarters, the maid had left a tray of congee and dried fruit on the table. Qiyue ignored it.
She took off the blue robe, folded it with care, and placed it on the bench as one might lay out burial clothes.
Then she sat before her mirror again and lit a single candle. The flame flickered in the glass, reflecting her face a hundred times over.
So much to do.
So many debts to settle.
She smiled without warmth.
"The dog emperor calls me back to court," she whispered. "Let him. Let him remember what it means to be bitten."