23.A WHISPER WRITTEN FROM SHADOW

When whispers begin to carve themselves into human flesh, it is no longer a warning.

It is a summons.

And for those who look into the mirror… the reflection may no longer belong to them.

_____________

The sky above Tianxu that night looked like an old cloth torn in many places, revealing trembling stars peeking through a shroud of mist. The cold wind slipped through the lattice windows, carrying the scent of damp earth and half-burnt incense from small temple shrines scattered across the palace.

Inside the pavilion where Zhenyu was being treated, time seemed suspended. Lantern light flickered faintly over a wooden table littered with medicine scrolls, dregs of decoctions, and shards of a broken mirror. Bai Rouxi had fallen asleep by the doorway, curled like a petal folding inward.

But Meilan remained upright beside Zhenyu's bed. Her fingers clutched the mattress tightly, her eyes never truly closing.

Zhenyu, lying amidst the dampness of the night, began to hear strange whispers between the rhythm of his breath.

When shadow touches fractured blood, hear the scream that never ends.

The voice seemed to echo from somewhere deep within the mist—too distant to be real, yet too close to ignore. Meilan's face blurred before his eyes, sometimes shifting into another—older, colder, more wounded—before reverting to her familiar, gentle features.

Three strands of hair, three broken ties: time, name, and the body that lies still.

Zhenyu blinked. His head was heavy, his soul adrift between his body and... something that awaited him in reflection. Since his conversation with Yuwen Jinhai in the hidden library and the tension in the blood chamber, his mind had not found peace. Time felt like it was clawing at him, dragging him toward a fate he could not resist.

Meilan? he whispered.

No answer.

Do not seek mirrors when dreams crack—what reflects does not return, only devours.

His eyes flew open. He realized he was not entirely asleep. Meilan was still there, but her gaze was glazed, fixed blankly on the wall. Her lips moved slowly, as if reciting a prayer in a language unknown.

"Meilan?" Zhenyu tried to sit up, but pain shot through his back like a whip. The wound of the soul—the lingering injury from his encounter with fragments of Rongxu Jing—stabbed through him like a thorn lodged deep within.

If you see the eyes I once had, forget them—for I am no longer who you knew.

That voice did not belong to Meilan. Or rather, the voice emerging from her mouth no longer belonged to who she was now.

"Stop..." Zhenyu hissed, unsure who the plea was meant for.

The shadows along the wall began to move, stretching like fingers, dancing to the rhythm of unknown words. Zhenyu closed his eyes, praying it was illusion. But what came next reached deeper:

Your blood is not merely inheritance, but bridge; each drop a prayer left behind.

He gasped. His breath grew shallow. For a moment, he found himself in a vast, white space with no boundaries, surrounded by reflections of countless faces that were not his. Helian Qingyin's face appeared, then vanished—then returned again, this time with a wound on her temple and eyes that begged for something unnamed.

Zhenyu gripped the sheet beneath him. He understood: if the Shadow Mirror was truly found, it would not only awaken Helian Qingyin's spirit—but something far older. Something that slept deep within Rongxu Jing.

Before night falls into night, choose—will you remember, or will you erase?

It struck straight into the core of his soul. Would he become Qingyin completely? Or sever himself and wipe out all traces of her?

Meilan collapsed soon after. No wounds. No signs of a curse. Yet her lips remained slightly parted, as if still wanting to whisper what had been left unsaid.

Bai Rouxi jolted awake at the sound of Zhenyu calling. "Fetch the physician!" she cried, panic-stricken. "And... don't let anyone touch Meilan!"

That night, Tianxu cloaked its secrets once more.

Far away, down a corridor that led to the Empress Dowager's private pavilion, a gust of wind parted one of the jade curtains, revealing for a brief moment a figure in white robes standing silently—facing toward Zhenyu's direction. His face was hidden, but his presence carried the chill of seasons yet to come.

Yuwen Jinhai walked slowly past the figure. He didn't stop. He didn't look back. But his eyes narrowed—he knew: shadows never stood in Tianxu without a reason.

And within Zhenyu's bedchamber, the broken mirror on the table... reflected a face that belonged to no one in that room.

---

Zhenyu clutched his chest. His breath had returned, but not his calm. Each inhale pierced through two layers—one body he lived in, and another waiting beyond the shadow realm.

Meilan now lay beside his bed, guarded by Bai Rouxi, who could barely hide her fear.

"Young Master... just now she spoke... but it wasn't Meilan," she whispered, her voice cracking from confusion.

Zhenyu nodded slowly. "I know. I heard it."

That voice—too deep. Too knowing. Too close to truths Zhenyu had not yet fully accepted. Each phrase was like a cursed verse, yet every line struck at the very questions he had buried since his return to the palace.

Who am I, if not Qingyin? And who is Qingyin, if not me?

The physician arrived hurriedly, a small lantern in one hand, a lacquered case in the other. He examined Meilan and slowly shook his head. "No symptoms. Her pulse is calm, but her consciousness is trapped within. This is not an ordinary illness, My Lord."

Zhenyu said nothing. He simply stared at the broken mirror on the table.

Within its fractures, now and then, he caught a glimpse of himself—but with a woman's bun, and a faint scar across the temple. He knew that face. He remembered the sobbing behind mist. He knew the spirit rising from Rongxu Jing was stirring again.

Bai Rouxi whispered, "Should I summon the High Priest from the Third Tower?"

Zhenyu almost said yes. But his tongue stopped.

No. If the High Priest knew, the Empress Dowager would know. And if she knew...

He recalled the robed figure from earlier—its aura neither human nor demonic, but something in between. That wasn't merely an observer.

It was a warning.

"No. Let Meilan rest. And... cover every mirror in this pavilion tonight. Wrap them in black cloth."

Bai Rouxi nodded swiftly. Her hands trembled as she lifted one mirror after another, draping them with dark silk. Zhenyu watched them being veiled—like closing too many eyes that had seen too much.

And when it was done, the night felt slightly calmer. But the calm was not peace. It was merely a delay of something growing quietly in the dark.

---

Elsewhere, in the Empress Dowager's meditation chamber, the jade candles flickered, their flames bending sharply in one direction. Her face remained composed, but her eyes narrowed as a maid knelt at the threshold, pale and shaken.

"There's... a disturbance in the western wing, Your Majesty. Qingyin's pavilion—"

"Zhenyu," the Empress Dowager corrected softly.

The maid bowed low. "Yes... Zhenyu. Meilan has collapsed. There were whispers... they say the wind changed direction."

The Empress Dowager rose slowly, lifting a small black gem from the stone tray before her—a crystal shaped like a teardrop, reflecting only shadows, never light.

"The Shadow Mirror has responded," she murmured. "And Rongxu Jing... is beginning to gaze back."

---

Back in Zhenyu's chamber, the night deepened.

He sat alone at the edge of his bed, his robe half-draped, his hair disheveled by sweat and stormed thoughts. Meilan remained unconscious, her face pale but peaceful.

In the hush, he reached for a blank sheet of paper—and began to write:

> If I am made of reflection, then every wound is an echo.

If I am born twice, which must I kill—myself, or the one who lives in my chest.

The ink stayed wet for too long at the tip of his brush, as though even the words hesitated to take form.

Someone knocked softly at the door.

"Who is it?" Zhenyu asked.

"Yuwen Jinhai," came the calm voice beyond the door.

Zhenyu paused. "Enter."

Jinhai stepped inside, not clad in his war robes tonight. He wore simple garments, yet his presence still carried the weight of iron.

"This night is unclean," he said bluntly. "The shadows whisper, and the sky won't close. You're hurt."

Zhenyu nodded. "But not by men."

Jinhai walked slowly to Meilan's side, gazing at her pale face. "Your servant… has been touched by something."

"Rongxu Jing."

"And the Shadow Mirror?"

"Is beginning to open its eyes."

Yuwen Jinhai stared at him, with no pretense, no mask like at the banquet—only the raw truth, sharp as cold steel.

"We must find the mirror first. Before they use it to summon…"

Zhenyu finished the thought in silence.

Something older.

Something neither spirit nor man.

Yuwen Jinhai's gaze drifted toward the veiled mirrors that hung around the chamber, their shapes hidden under cloth, as if afraid to reflect.

"They've started whispering, haven't they?"

Zhenyu gave a slow nod. "Not just whispering. They're writing… inside people."

Beside them, Meilan's unconscious form remained unmoving. Her breath rose and fell in a rhythm far too even—like a thread stretched taut between two worlds, waiting to snap.

Jinhai folded his arms across his chest. "The High Priest of the Third Tower will intervene soon. If this spreads."

"I know," Zhenyu said under his breath. "That's why you're here, isn't it? To warn me?"

"No," Jinhai replied simply. "I'm here to stand beside you."

Those words, quiet and without ceremony, sliced through the silence like warmth breaking through frost.

And for just a moment, the weight pressing down on Zhenyu's chest lifted—not because the burden was gone, but because it was no longer his alone to carry.

He looked away, unable to speak.

Jinhai's voice softened, as if speaking to something beyond both of them.

"There are things in Rongxu Jing that don't forget. And you, Zhenyu… are becoming one of them."

Zhenyu exhaled, the sound thin and slow. "Then I need to remember who I am… before something else decides it for me."

Jinhai nodded. As if acknowledging a truth neither of them wished to face.

Outside, the wind shifted—no longer just cold.

It carried with it the echo of a name, one no mouth had dared speak for centuries.

And deep within the sealed pavilion, where layers of silk muffled shadow and silence,

—on the desk, a cracked mirror trembled—

—as if something inside it had just opened its eyes.

_______

Behind that single, fragile crack, something ancient stirred.

And eyes that once belonged to neither spirit nor man… slowly opened again.

Next Chapter: "The Third Seal and the Forgotten Name"