The first year of the Jianyuan Era, the twenty-third day of the sixth month.
The third day of the Emperor's personal campaign.
The court in Chang'an was like a cauldron brought to a rolling boil. Standing behind the curtain in the side hall, I could hear every sound from within—the Grand Censor's voice was the loudest, resonant like a temple bell:
"The King of Liang is mobilizing troops; we must not act rashly! We should prioritize etiquette over punishment and send an envoy to question him first—"
Then came the voice of Li Guang's deputy, sharper and more urgent, like a blade scraping against stone:
"The King of Liang has already crossed the Sui River! His vanguard is less than six hundred li from Chang'an! By the time the envoy returns, the King's blade will already be at our throats!"
"If we do not strike first, we shall suffer for it!"
"Without the Son of Heaven's imperial edict, who dares to deploy troops?"
That sentence silenced the hall for a fleeting moment. Through the curtain, I could see the empty seat. The Dragon Throne was vacant. He was not there. When he left, he took twenty thousand soldiers with him. What remained in Chang'an were only a group of courtiers squabbling like a flock of startled birds, and a Dowager Dou who was "too ill to attend."
"We should request the Empress Dowager to make the decision—"
The voice of the Minister of Ceremonies drifted from the corner, tentative and probing. No one responded. Everyone knew the Empress Dowager was not truly ill. She was waiting. Waiting for him to lose, waiting for the King of Liang to win, waiting for the moment she could step back into the light.
I lowered my head to look at my hands. Hands that had spent five years restoring artifacts. Hands that had stabilized countless shards. These hands could repair bronze mirrors, piece together fragments, and detect flaws in silk manuscripts. But could they steady this court? I did not know.
On the night he left, he held my hand and said, "Wait for me to return." His hand was cold, but his eyes were burning. He said, "Xingye, help me guard this." He didn't say what to guard. But I knew. Everything was written in that scroll of silk he left me before he departed.
Now, he had been gone for three days. Seventy-two hours. I didn't know if he had eaten, if he had been injured, or if he missed me. But I knew he was waiting for me. Waiting for me to hold this court together until he came back.
The debate outside the curtain flared up again, louder and more chaotic, like a pot of boiling gruel. I closed my eyes. Took a deep breath. Then opened them.
Qingxing... the bell should have been struck by now.
Suddenly, the bell outside the hall rang. It was not the time-keeping bell, but the summons for court assembly. Everyone inside froze—bells were not rung at this hour. Before the chime had faded, I stepped out from the side hall. My pace was neither hurried nor slow, stepping on the stone slabs, one by one, like a heartbeat. My hem dragged on the floor, whispering, very light. But every step was steady. Hands that had spent five years restoring artifacts, steadier than countless shards, were today used to steady my own steps.
The crowd turned. I walked in.
Against the light, I could not see their faces clearly. But I could feel their gazes—surprise, scrutiny, fear, expectation. Over a hundred pairs of eyes, like over a hundred blades, stabbing in from all sides. I did not lower my head. I walked to the center of the hall and stopped.
The hall was dim, lit only by two rows of lamps. My face was half in light and half in shadow, but I did not hide. My gaze swept across the Grand Censor's face, the Minister of Ceremonies', the Chancellor's, and every single person there. No one dared to meet it.
"His Majesty is absent, but governance cannot cease."
My voice was not loud. But everyone in the hall heard it. The tone was flat, as flat as a frozen river surface. But only I knew that my fingers were clenched inside my sleeves, knuckles white.
A dead silence fell over the hall. It was so quiet one could hear the wick crackling, snap, snap.
The next moment, someone spoke coldly. The Grand Censor took a step forward, his boots striking the stone with a heavy sound. Half his face was in the light, half in the dark, the corners of his mouth turned down.
"The harem must not interfere in politics. Although the Empress is noble, a woman presiding over the court is without precedent in the Han house!" His voice rose, like a sword unsheathed. "The King of Liang's uprising to 'clear the side of the sovereign' stems exactly from this! If the Empress does not avoid suspicion, I fear the world will gossip—"
Another附和ed. The Minister of Ceremonies stepped out from the corner, his voice coming from the darkness like a soft blade. His jaw was clenched tight, as if biting on a piece of iron.
"The Empress has no right to preside. This is the ancestral system. The rules set by Emperor Gao. Who dares to change them? The King of Liang rose up claiming to clear the sovereign's side. If the Empress presides today, isn't that confirming—"
He did not finish. But everyone understood.
I did not look at them. I raised my head, looking at that empty Dragon Throne. The great red brocade, embroidered with gold thread. When he left, he sat on this chair all night, finishing all the memorials, handling everything he could, leaving what he couldn't to me. There was still an imprint of where he had sat on the brocade, slightly concave, like the shape of a person.
"Then who will decide today's matters?"
No one answered. The hall was as silent as an empty tomb. The Grand Censor's lips moved, wanting to say something, but nothing came out. The step he had taken forward felt like stepping into a quagmire; he could neither pull back nor press down. The Minister of Ceremonies lowered his head, looking at his toes. His jaw was still clenched, but the corners of his mouth drooped.
I smiled faintly. Extremely faint. That smile stayed only at the corner of my mouth, never reaching my eyes. Like a crack on a sheet of ice.
"If military opportunities are missed, which of you can bear the responsibility?"
The air suddenly sank. It was as if someone had thrown a giant boulder into the water; splashes rose, but no one dared to move. The Grand Censor's face changed color, from red to white, from white to cyan. His Adam's apple rolled, as if swallowing something—unable to swallow, unable to spit. The Minister of Ceremonies pressed his head lower, almost touching his chest. His fingers gripped his cuffs, knuckles white as bone.
No one spoke. No one dared speak. Because what I said was right—no one could bear the blame for missing a military opportunity.
Just then, footsteps came from outside the hall. Very light, very steady. The crowd turned.
Ajiao stood at the door.
She wore plain clothes, no jewelry, her hair bun simple with only a silver hairpin. Her face was pale, lips bloodless, but her eyes were bright. Her fingers held a jade ring, greenish-white, turning it half a circle in her palm, then clenching it. She took a deep breath, inhaling deeply like a drowning person surfacing.
She walked in. Step by step, to the center of the hall, standing by my side. Her skirt dragged on the floor, whispering, overlapping with my footsteps. She stopped, looked at me. That gaze was short, only a moment. But in that moment, there was hesitation, determination, fear, and—
Trust.
Then she slowly bowed. Not a kneeling bow, but a woman's formal salute—hands clasped over her chest, bowing slightly. The movement was slow, slow enough for everyone to see clearly.
"Ajiao of the Chen family believes state affairs come first."
Her voice was clear, like a drop of water falling on a stone slab, echoing in the hall, ripple by ripple. Her fingers released the jade ring; it hung at her waist, swayed once, and chimed.
The hall fell silent again. But this silence was different from before. The previous silence was dead stillness. This silence was people thinking—the wind has changed.
Ajiao, the daughter of the Princess, the granddaughter of Dowager Dou, a pawn of the Dou clan. She had not married the Emperor; she held no title. But her surname was power. She stood by my side. She called herself "Ajiao of the Chen family"—not 'concubine', not 'servant', but Chen. Her family, her bloodline, her origin. The Dou clan had stood by my side.
The Grand Censor's gaze lingered on Ajiao's face for a moment. His lips moved, wanting to say something, but seeing that jade ring—the one bestowed by Dowager Dou, known to all of Chang'an—he swallowed his words. The Minister of Ceremonies looked up, took a glance, and lowered his head again. This time, his jaw was no longer clenched. He had yielded.
My gaze shifted slightly, but did not stop. I suddenly looked at an old official. It was Lord Zhang, Zhang Tang's father. An old minister from Emperor Jing's reign, a three-dynasty veteran, the old fox of the Imperial Clan Court. He stood in the corner, silent the whole time, like a stone statue. From the start of the debate until now, he had not moved, had not spoken a word. But when I looked at him, that stone statue moved. His eyelid twitched, very lightly, but I saw it.
"Lord Zhang." My voice was flat.
He raised his head. There was something in his eyes—not fear, but wariness. Like an old fox hearing the bell in a trap. His hand came out of his sleeve, then retreated.
"Do you remember the old case from the third year of Emperor Jing's reign?"
His face changed. Not white, but gray. Like lime on a wall, flaking off piece by piece. His lips trembled, his fingers trembled, his whole body trembled. His hand gripped his cuff, knuckles white as bone. He wanted to say something, but his throat seemed pinched by something, emitting only a gasp—
"You—"
He did not continue. But everyone saw it. He was afraid.
The third year of Emperor Jing, that old case—selling official posts, embezzling military funds, colluding with vassal kings. That case was investigated for three years, and in the end, came to nothing. No one knew why. But everyone knew the records of that case were hidden somewhere. No one knew where. But now, I knew. Everything was written in that scroll of silk Emperor Jing left me.
No one in the hall dared speak again. Even breathing became light. The Grand Censor retreated into the ranks, withdrawing the step he had taken. The Minister of Ceremonies never lifted his head again. Lord Zhang leaned against the pillar, like a tree struck by lightning, standing, but already dead.
I turned around. My sleeves fell lightly, like a sword sheathed. My voice came from the hall, not loud, but every word was clear.
"Transmit this Empress's order—"
Everyone in the hall knelt. Not because my voice was loud, not because I was cruel. It was because—no one could parry the words I just spoke. No one dared. The Grand Censor's knees hit the floor with a dull thud. When the Minister of Ceremonies knelt, his body swayed, as if he could no longer support himself. Lord Zhang's knees touched the stone slab with a light sound, like a sigh.
"Seal the nine gates of Chang'an; no one enters or exits without an edict."
"Deploy the three battalions of the Northern Army to guard the Han Palace."
"All memorials must first be presented to the Central Palace."
I paused for a moment. The hall was so quiet I could hear my own heartbeat. I raised my head, looking at that empty Dragon Throne. On the great red brocade, there was still the imprint of where he had sat. He had been gone for three days. Three days, seventy-two hours. I didn't know if he had eaten, if he had been injured, if he missed me.
My eyes felt hot. But I held it back. When he left, his eyes were burning; I could not shed tears here.
I withdrew my gaze, settling it on the courtiers.
"If there are objections, speak now."
No sound. Even breathing was light.
I nodded. "No objections; proceed as ordered."
The bell rang distantly. Outside the hall, sunlight pierced through the clouds, shining on the palace walls, golden, like a bronze mirror. The green smoke from the incense burner dispersed; the shadow of the eaves shifted position. The Dragon Throne remained empty. But the court now had a master.
Ajiao stood at the hall entrance, sunlight falling on her. Her shadow was long and thin. She looked at me, the corner of her mouth moving. Not a smile, but something softer.
"Xingye." She called my name. Her voice was very light, audible only to us two.
"Mm."
"Just now, you were like an Emperor."
I turned my head, looking at her. Sunlight shone on my face, making my eyes bright. I thought of the night he left. He held my hand, saying "Wait for me to return." When he said "Wait for me to return," his hand was cold. But his eyes were burning.
"Not like an Emperor," I said. "I am guarding this position for him."
Ajiao did not speak. She looked into the distance, where a line of light touched the horizon. In the summer of the first year of Jianyuan, on the court of Chang'an, a woman stood there and issued the first political order. Not because she wanted to stand there. But because—the Dragon Throne was empty. And she had to guard his world for that fifteen-year-old Son of Heaven.
[End of Chapter 31]