Ashes Upon Silk

Golden rays of morning sunlight filtered through the slats of a shuttered window, casting long, soft beams upon a chamber left sealed for more than a decade. Dust motes floated in the air like flecks of ash, and the wind of late autumn whispered faintly through the eaves yet even its soft murmurs could not drown out the sound of a young woman's trembling heart.

Xianlan stood still before a crumbling bookshelf, one side of it long collapsed. The cracked wall beside it still bore the smudges of soot, a ghostly residue of the fire that had once consumed this place. As though the entire residence still remembered etched deep within its bones the agony of that long-lost night.

In her arms was a black lacquered box, sealed tightly. Her slender hands clutched it more fiercely than any weapon she had ever wielded in the field, for what it held… was a fragment of memory that could never be erased.

She stepped forward slowly, toward a wall where a silk portrait faded and smoke-tinged still hung, miraculously spared from the flames more than a decade ago.

Time had stolen the color from the image, but the face of the woman in the painting remained clear… graceful, serene, gentle and steeped in sorrow.

Mother…

"Consort Yu Fei…" The name fell from Xianlan's lips in a whisper so faint it might have vanished with the wind. And yet, it was weighted with the full gravity of years long buried in silence.

She reached out, gently. Her slender fingers brushed the edge of the scorched silk. The black soot clung to her skin like an old wound that would never truly heal.

Her lips pressed into a tight line, her heart constricting until it numbed her chest. Memories surged unbidden flames devouring the halls, the frantic cries of palace maids, the rasping breaths caught in smoke and heat… and those eyes. Her mother's eyes. Even as life slipped away, they had looked at her with love.

"She was still breathing… that night…" she murmured to herself, as if reaffirming a truth her heart already knew but dared not embrace.

A tear fell slow and silent onto the hem of the silk painting.

For once, she did not fight it. She did not wipe it away. She did not harden herself as she always had. Today, Xianlan allowed herself to be fragile.

Because this was her mother.

Because these… were the ashes of a past she could no longer turn away from.

Soft footsteps echoed behind her. Normally, such steps would be swallowed by the wind but now, in this stillness, she knew at once who they belonged to.

A voice spoke gently behind her.

"I knew I would find you here."

That voice deep, low, and calm was like the winter wind that slowly envelops the meadow once the storm has passed.

Xianlan turned sharply toward the sound. Standing at the slightly ajar doorway was Feng Yuhan.

He wore no armor, none of the fierce battle attire that so often cloaked his presence. Instead, he was dressed simply in a muted cotton robe of fine weave. Tall and composed, without even the echo of a footfall, he appeared more a silhouette drawn from twilight than a man of flesh and blood.

And his eyes those eyes that once chilled her like a general's blade were filled with something unfamiliar.

…Gentleness.

He stepped forward, unhurried. His movements were so quiet they seemed to glide, and yet within Xianlan's chest, her heart thundered so fiercely it might well have betrayed her.

She turned away quickly, gaze returning to the silk painting.

Not because she feared he would see her tears…

But because she feared… he would see the fragility she had fought so long to conceal.

Yet a hand came to rest lightly upon her back.

Gentle…

Warm…

Like the sunlight that had never before touched this guarded heart.

"If your tears are for your mother… then let them fall," he said softly, his voice low and steady, as if whispering to the wind itself.

"There is no need to endure everything… alone."

Xianlan bit down on her lip. She could not stop her heart from trembling at his words.

"I…" Her voice quivered, as though she wished to say something, but emotion swallowed the rest into silence.

He did not let her retreat.

Feng Yuhan's strong hand touched her back once more and gently turned her toward him.

And when their eyes met Xianlan knew there was nowhere left in this world to hide what she felt.

His gaze held a quiet understanding, as though he had seen the very same visions she had flames consuming everything, her mother's voice lost in smoke, and her own heart shaking beneath the weight of memory.

"Today… you are not 'Princess Xianlan,'" he said, slowly and gently. "Not a strategist. Not a commander."

"You are simply a daughter of a mother who loved her and who deserves the truth… and the right to weep when it hurts."

Those words unlocked a door she had kept sealed for a lifetime.

The tears that had brimmed in her eyes fell in an instant.

And without hesitation, her body leaned into his arms.

For the first time, she did not stand alone.

Feng Yuhan held her tightly. His embrace was warmer, more steadfast than any wall of the imperial palace.

There were no words. No empty consolations. Only the strength of his arms, silently saying whatever storms may rage outside, she had a place to rest.

…Even if only for a fleeting moment.

The soft afternoon light filtered through the carved wooden screen that veiled the innermost chamber of the Empress's residence. Yun Qingyan sat motionless beneath that golden hue, though her slender hands clutched a framed painting with a grip that trembled ever so slightly. The composed countenance she wore at courtly functions rarely betrayed emotion, yet now, her lips quivered faintly.

"You've done well… Lan'er," she murmured perhaps to herself, or perhaps to the woman in the painting who had once been more a beloved sister than a mere courtly kin.

Spread upon the table before her, the old painting lay unfurled silk scorched in parts, its delicate patterns faded with time. But the details that remained… made her heart thrum out of rhythm.

It was no ordinary painting.

It was a "voiceless confession" left behind by Consort Yu in the final moments of her life.

Yun Qingyan reached for the drawer beneath the table and drew forth an ancient map of the palace, long hidden as a state secret. Unfolding it carefully, she laid it beside the painting. What first appeared to be a spring garden rendered in ink revealed, upon closer inspection, slanted lines intersecting in deliberate paths and tiny red dots placed with uncanny precision.

"You truly left us a trail…" she whispered, a rare curve of a smile tugging at her lips.

A soft knock came at the door.

"Enter," the Empress said without lifting her gaze.

Stepping inside in a plain, dark-gray robe was Jiang Xinluo. She bowed with quiet grace and approached with steady composure.

"I've just received a copy of this painting from Princess Xianlan," she said. "It aligns with the clues we discovered in Consort Yu's chest…"

"Did you notice this diagonal line?" Yun Qingyan pointed to the lower corner of the silk. "It matches precisely with the wall of the old storage chamber."

"I saw three red marks… near the western wall," Jiang Xinluo replied as she seated herself opposite. "If the layout remains unchanged… there may be a hidden passage connecting the residence to the royal archives."

Their eyes met brief, but intense.

"I'll investigate it tonight," Jiang Xinluo added, her voice low.

The Empress regarded her with a gaze different from before no longer wary, but touched with a glimmer of quiet trust.

"Be cautious. I know you were trained to live in the shadows. But the inner palace… is far deeper than you know."

Jiang Xinluo nodded and rose from her seat.

"Which is why we must uncover the truth… before others bury it again."

—

That night, the sky was thick with clouds. The wind swept dry leaves across the stone paths like whispers from long-dead spirits of the palace.

Disguised in a maid's attire, Jiang Xinluo slipped through the narrow corridor behind the long-sealed palace wing. The air was damp; the scent of aged timber and long-settled ash still lingered in the walls, even after sixteen years.

The small lantern in her hand flickered with each gust of wind that slipped through the rotting wood.

She reached the back wall of the residence the very spot marked by the "Left-Turning Phoenix" in the painting.

Her slender fingers traced the brick pattern.

Click.

A soft sound of a mechanism releasing echoed when she pressed one brick inward.

The wall shifted, revealing a narrow hidden passage.

The scent of mildew and rotting wood spilled forth, forcing Jiang Xinluo to raise her cloak over her mouth. But what lay beyond… might change the course of history.

Her lantern's glow spilled into a small storage room. The blackened walls bore scorch marks from the fire. In one corner, a floorboard had been pried loose and then replaced with careful precision.

She knelt down and used the tip of a blade to lift it.

Beneath the floor was a lacquered fireproof chest, wrapped tightly in gray velvet.

Jiang Xinluo swallowed and reached for the lid.

Inside lay a letter in Consort Yu's handwriting, and a painting.

The letter read:

"Even if I die, let my child live.

I know the fire will smother my voice,

But truth shall never fall silent

So long as there is one soul brave enough to listen."

The painting showed a woman cradling a newborn in her arms. Tightly. Her eyes were filled with fear… and love.

Jiang Xinluo stared at the image for a long time, her heart weighed heavy.

This… was the love that had no voice, born in a night of hellfire.

A cry muffled by ash but never truly silenced.

—

At dawn…

Xianlan stood before the mirror in her chamber, holding the recovered painting in her hands.

Her eyes gazed upon it with a calm, unwavering fire.

"I will not let anyone… erase you from history ever again, Mother."

Soft footsteps sounded behind her.

Feng Yuhan stood in the doorway, saying nothing.

But his gaze spoke every word her heart had not dared to utter.

And in that look, something began to form…

In a palace built on deception and schemes,

…perhaps the truest thing of all was not possession

But simply… to see. And to stay. Without ever needing to ask.

*********

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