The capital of Bianjing stirred as dawn painted the sky in hues of crimson and gold, like fresh blood blooming on silk. Within the high walls of the Imperial Palace, a different kind of stillness reigned—one laced with secrets, delicate as spider silk yet capable of drawing blood.
Yan Qingshi knelt in the inner gardens, his hands folded, robes dusted with dew. He had been here since the bell struck the hour of the tiger, tending to the white lotus pond that the late Empress once favored. His position was humble, a mere servant in the imperial harem, yet even the highest consort had paused at his beauty. Skin pale as moonlight, eyes like quiet ink—he wore his silence like a mask.
But silence did not protect him. Not here.
Behind him, footsteps approached. Light, precise, dangerous.
"You rise before the sun, little flower," a voice murmured.
Qingshi did not turn. He knew that voice.
Li Shen, clad in the shadow-black armor of the Emperor's elite guards, stepped into view. No one had told him to watch Qingshi. No one had to. The whispers of treason and secret letters passed through silken sleeves had already reached the ears of the throne. And wherever danger walked, so did Li Shen.
Yet he had not struck. Not yet.
"Your Highness's garden needs tending," Qingshi replied softly. "Even the thorns."
Li Shen's mouth twitched—almost a smile, almost cruel. "Do you consider yourself one of them?"
"I consider myself… whatever you believe I should be."
For a breath, the world held still. Then Li Shen crouched beside him, one gloved hand brushing over a lotus bloom. His fingers moved, but his eyes stayed fixed on Qingshi.
"There's poison in beauty. The late Empress drank lotus tea every morning."
"And now she sleeps beneath the roots," Qingshi said calmly.
That earned a real smile. "You're braver than they said."
"You're colder than I expected," Qingshi returned, daring to meet his gaze.
That was when the shift happened—small, sharp, electric. Something unreadable flickered in Li Shen's eyes. It wasn't affection. Not yet. It was recognition.
Two creatures of survival, dressed in different skins.
He stood, looming over Qingshi. "Come. You've been summoned."
Qingshi rose smoothly. "By whom?"
"By someone who wants to see if your petals bleed."
As they walked toward the inner court, shadow trailing sun, neither noticed how their paths had already begun to twist—like red thread around the wrist, pulled tight by fate.
To be continued...