The Voice of the Nameless

The autumn wind that swept across the foothills at dusk was no longer gentle as it had once been. It had turned sharp like the blade of a knife slicing through the flesh of any soul who dared tread this forbidden path.

Beyond the tall grass of a secluded plain, nestled deep in the northwestern mountains of the Xianyu Kingdom, lay a small, hidden village. From the mist that curled lazily above the ground emerged the silhouettes of two horses. Their hoofbeats were soft, deliberate each step echoing the unspoken weight of a mission cloaked in silence. The ends of dark-blue cloaks fluttered in the wind, whispering of truths too dangerous to name.

Jiang Xinluo reined in her steed before a squat wooden hut, long abandoned. There was no smoke rising from the chimney, no sound of movement from within. Yet the obsidian gleam in her eyes made it clear this was no ordinary forsaken shelter.

Her gaze sharpened, scanning the surroundings with wary precision. The shrubbery along the fence trembled as if disturbed by a hidden watcher. The wind carried a whisper of mourning, and the cries of nocturnal insects threaded through the silence like distant ghosts.

"Are you certain this is where Steward Gao resides?" asked the woman on the second horse. She wore a cloak of deepest black, her expression razor-sharp, her voice as cold and driven as a blade drawn beneath moonlight.

"Among all the names once listed in the palace's network of informants,"

Jiang Xinluo replied evenly, her gaze fixed on the mildewed wooden door,

"only one disappeared without a trace after the fire at Consort Yu's quarters. Gao Zhi palace steward, keeper of the inner court's provisions and registry of the concubines. If anyone knows what happened that night… it would be him."

She dismounted with a swift movement, adjusting her cloak more tightly around her frame before ascending the time-worn steps. Each creak beneath her feet deepened the tension that hung in the air like fog.

Raising a slender hand, Jiang Xinluo knocked softly yet firmly on the door.

"Steward Gao Zhi." Her voice was clear enough to be heard from within, but quiet enough to elude the ears of lurking spies.

No reply. No sound came from inside.

She paused. Then, from within her inner robe, she drew a small, polished iron plate her insignia as an envoy of the Western Yun Empire. Though worn, the etched symbol remained sharp, unmistakable. She placed it before the door, her voice now carrying a resolute weight.

"I am Jiang Xinluo. I come on behalf of the truth you have buried for half your life for the one whose name history has refused to speak."

A sudden gust swept through, whipping the fabric of the curtain hanging beside the window. The grasses bent as if stirred by echoes from long ago.

Then silence fell. A long, drawn hush… until at last, the bolt behind the door shifted slowly, hesitantly.

The door creaked open, revealing a weathered man. His skin bore the leathered hue of years under the sun, hair a tangled frost-white mess untouched by water or comb. His face was stern, confused. But in his eyes flickered something else wariness… and the buried glint of guilt.

His gaze flicked from one woman to the other, finally resting on the envoy's emblem. A faint change came over his expression.

"Envoy… of whom?" he rasped, his voice no more than a whisper.

"Of the forgotten," Jiang Xinluo answered. "Of she whose name never made it to the scrolls of history."

The old man lowered his eyes. For a heartbeat, all was still until the wind sighed once more… and he gestured silently for them to enter.

Inside, a lone oil lamp flickered faintly over a wooden table. The room was suspended in a twilight haze, heavy with the mingled scent of dry herbs and stale dust. From the shadows came the occasional creak of a birdcage, where two strange birds sat unmoving. It was not silence, not entirely but rather the hush of a sanctuary carved from sorrow.

Jiang Xinluo sat with quiet composure, her gaze never leaving the man before her. The other woman stood behind like a shadow nameless, voiceless, and still.

Steward Gao poured hot tea slowly, his hands trembling slightly, yet not a single drop was spilled.

"The night Consort Yu's quarters burned," he began, "I was there."

Jiang Xinluo leaned forward slightly, her eyes sharpening.

"I was merely a steward of the inner court. My duty was to audit the daily provisions matters trivial, yet tied to every function of the palace. But that night… I received a sudden order to relinquish my shift. Someone else was assigned in my place."

"From whom?" she asked immediately.

The old man did not answer at once. Rising with effort, he went to a corner of the room and retrieved a small wooden box bound with an old cord. He undid it carefully and withdrew a faded scroll.

"A brief decree," he said. "Issued from the inner court. Not in His Majesty's handwriting. I am certain it was signed by Noble Consort Su Zhen herself." He pointed to the lower corner where the elegant, looping signature remained faintly visible.

Jiang Xinluo examined the parchment in silence, its edge catching the flicker of the lamplight.

"A command to change the entire watch that night. Everyone ordered to vacate the palace quarter except Consort Yu."

"Yes," the steward whispered. "All were told to leave by the second hour of the dog… under the pretext of an emergency cleaning. Four other stewards. Five maids. I remember because… it was not normal."

His voice broke.

"But that night… I slipped back in, through the west gate. I feared for Consort Yu's old hound. She left him in the rear garden. I was afraid… he would burn alive."

Jiang Xinluo furrowed her brow slightly. The old man's voice held both remorse and a sorrow so deep it seemed to bleed from his bones.

"I saw it with my own eyes… Her Grace was still breathing. She tried desperately to crawl out of the chamber, but the door had been locked from the outside. There were two men… masked in black… standing at the staircase. They just stood there… and watched. They did nothing."

The silence in the room grew louder so loud it became the sound of everyone's heart, pounding wordlessly in the shadows.

"Why didn't you help her?" Jiang Xinluo asked, her voice cold and low, like winter wind slicing through bare branches.

The old man was quiet for a long while. When he finally spoke, it was with the weariness of a soul long tormented.

"I was afraid… I saw them holding a golden insignia marked with the royal lion of the Inner Court. One of them… even spoke the name of Noble Consort Su Zhen. I was just a lowly steward… What could I have done?"

He slowly slid another document toward her. It was a death certificate falsely declaring the end of Consort Yu's life. The ink had faded, and the handwriting was unfamiliar.

"This is a forgery," Jiang Xinluo said at once.

"I've seen the script of Imperial Physician Jin Gu Shan. His hand was precise refined, almost too delicate. This… is not his work. And more importantly… I remember clearly, he was taken away that night. He never returned."

She closed her eyes tight. A strange storm of pain and guilt churned inside her chest.

The dead speak no words but paper remembers.

She whispered the thought within, then opened her eyes once more.

"Who else was involved?"

Steward Gao hesitated. A flicker crossed his gaze before he murmured a name one that made her fall silent.

"You're certain?" she asked slowly.

"I dare not say more than I heard," he replied. "But I remember the voice… I once heard him speak with Noble Consort Su during a grand ceremony. A voice like that… one never forgets."

⸻

At the Cold Palace

The wind slipped through the cracks of old wooden windows, brushing past the eaves and teasing a wind chime that hung quietly beneath the roof. Its faint sound was like the echo of the past refusing to rest.

Inside, all was still. Xianlan sat before a carved wooden chest, etched with lotus motifs, resting in the corner of the room. It was the personal belonging of Consort Yu returned only after the fire that consumed her chambers sixteen years ago.

With delicate hands, she slowly opened the lid. A scent of aged wood mingled with the faint trace of agarwood incense greeted her. Within, there were only a few things that had survived the flames: an embroidered handkerchief, a lone jade button… and a single folded sheet of paper.

She picked it up with care, gently unfolding it.

A letter only half complete. The script was elegant and poised, like one trained in the royal court, yet the final portion had been torn away. Still, the message bled clearly between the lines.

"If my children ever read this letter, know that even if your mother's voice was taken her love did not perish with the flames…"

For a moment, everything in Xianlan's mind fell silent. Her breath caught ever so slightly.

Mother…

A word so simple, yet one she had never dared to utter aloud. Never had she spoken it with love on her lips.

She placed the letter gently back in the chest, but a single tear warm, silent fell upon the paper's edge.

Silence reigned.

Then footsteps behind her, soft as a whisper.

Xianlan quickly wiped her tears and looked up. A tall figure stood framed by the doorway, clad in black robes. The lantern's glow cast sharp light across his handsome, expressionless face.

Feng Yuhan.

"You weep for the dead," he said quietly. "But will you have any strength left to defeat the living?"

Xianlan did not speak. Then soft laughter escaped her lips, even as the warmth of her tears still lingered upon her cheek.

"I weep not out of weakness," she replied, voice firm but gentle, "but to remind myself who I am fighting for."

There was a pause. Then he stepped closer.

For a fleeting instant, she thought he might say something cold, as he always did.

But he didn't…

Feng Yuhan simply extended a hand and drew hers to his chest.

His chest was warm… and the rhythm of his heartbeat beat steadily, unmistakably.

"If you're weary," he said in a voice low, deep, and unwavering, "I would gladly be the hand you lean on. Even if only for a fleeting moment… I would still be willing."

She looked up to meet his gaze. His eyes were still as calm and cold as ever but within that calm, something warm stirred, melting the layers of ice that had guarded her heart, one after another.

"…You have your enemies to fight as well."

A faint smile touched the corner of his lips. "I've long been surrounded by enemies. But yours… yours are sometimes more fearsome than ten thousand soldiers."

She turned her face slightly away, though she didn't pull her hand from his.

"And how long will you stand by me?"

His reply came instantly.

"Until the day I die… or until you push me away yourself."

Once more, silence returned to the hidden village, as though the mountains and stars above had fallen into slumber.

Inside the old cottage, Jiang Xinluo sat quietly, facing the old man who had devoted half his life to silence.

In her hand was a forged death certificate another piece of evidence that stitched together the nightmare of the past.

"Steward Gao," she asked softly, her voice tinged with hope, "will you come with me?"

The old man remained quiet for a long while. His eyes wandered to the wooden birdcage hanging from the beam above. Within, a lone aged finch sat unmoving, its frail feathers barely stirring in the shadows, letting out a soft cry.

"I am too old to walk back to the palace…" he finally murmured, his voice quivering like ripples in a teacup. "But if it is the name of the one behind it all that you seek"

His voice trailed off, as though waiting for the whole world to hold its breath. Then, slowly, he spoke the name.

A name that turned Jiang Xinluo's body cold to the marrow.

Her eyes widened. She stared at him.

"You're certain?"

"No one forgets the voice of the one who condemned them," the old man whispered. "The voice… the seal… and the shadow of the one who stood behind every death."

Jiang Xinluo rose in silence.

It was as if another curtain of darkness had been drawn back inside her, revealing images from the past faces from the palace, gentle laughter, commands disguised as pleasantries, a quiet conversation beneath the garden trees more than a decade ago.

Everything she had once believed to be clean might have only been another mask.

She packed the documents into a waterproof satchel, tucked away the envoy's iron seal, rolled up her cloak, and walked out of the hut without looking back.

Behind her, the bird gave a single piercing cry… and then, fell silent.

—

That night, beneath a moon-drenched sky, Jiang Xinluo rode from the hidden village.

Her figure darted between underbrush and stone, the moonlight sliding over rooftops like a farewell gleam from someone long gone.

One hand clutched the satchel tightly, as though gripping her very heart.

But inside her… it was not only vengeance that stirred.

There was a question, quietly rising like mist:

If the truth we seek leads to the downfall of the one we respect most… do we still dare to unveil it?

A cold wind rushed into the valley as if delivering the answer, wordless and absolute.

Jiang Xinluo closed her eyes as her horse galloped over the wooden bridge.

She was no longer merely a spy.

She had become the voice of the nameless

The voice that would one day tear through the silence of the realm… at last.

*********

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