Embers of the Past

Long before Ling Xuefeng commanded the whispers of the Imperial Court, before nobles and generals bent to her will, she was merely one among many in the powerful Ling family—one of many, but never content to remain so.

The Ling family was prominent, their influence stretching across the empire like the roots of an ancient tree. Scholars, warriors, strategists—they were a dynasty of intellect and cunning. But prestige was not enough for Xuefeng. Even as a child, she understood that power was not simply inherited; it had to be taken.

She was born into a house filled with siblings—too many to count, each vying for recognition, for favor. She watched them, studied them, learned how they moved, how they spoke. Some were strong, others brilliant, but most were predictable. And predictability was weakness.

Xuefeng's earliest lessons were not in books, nor in swordplay, but in observation. She listened to the way her father, Ling Zhen, commanded a room. She noted the way her mother, Lady Ling Yue, smiled at enemies while planning their downfall. She memorized every nod, every glance, every silence that spoke louder than words.

But knowledge was not enough. She needed an edge, something that set her apart. It was by chance that she discovered her first secret weapon—poison.

The Ling family dealt in all forms of warfare, and among their many businesses was a flourishing trade in medicinal herbs. It was in the apothecary chambers that Xuefeng first learned to mix tinctures, to recognize the scent of nightshade from a mere whiff. Under the guise of studying medicine, she experimented—on animals, on servants, even on her own kin when she was certain they would not suspect. She was careful, always careful. A delayed effect, a mere weakening of the body, a subtle affliction that could be blamed on anything but her.

And then came the night that changed everything.

Her father was not executed by the Emperor. That was the lie told to the world. In truth, Ling Zhen fell not to the blade, but to whispers—whispers carefully placed, rumors carefully planted. Xuefeng had watched the pieces fall into place, had seen her father scramble against unseen enemies until he could no longer fight.

She had played a role in it. Not directly—no, she was still young then—but she had planted the first seeds. A word to the wrong person, a suggestion in the right ear. She had merely wanted to test her influence, to see if a single voice could topple a giant.

It could.

And when her father fell, the family fractured. Her siblings turned on one another, alliances shifted, and those too weak to adapt were cast aside. Xuefeng did not grieve. She watched, she learned, and she adapted.

She was still young, but she knew then: Power belonged to those willing to seize it.