“Prince Su, as the only Prince of a different surname in this dynasty, has controlled the court for many years and holds troops in his own hands. His wolfish ambitions cannot be left unguarded!”

On the night she entered the Eastern Palace, her mother’s forbearant admonition was still ringing by her ears, each word gritted out between teeth.

Zhao Yen had imagined it many times, yet never once did she expect that the Prince Su, Wenren Lin—whom the entire court spoke of in fear and whom her mother hated to the bone—would turn out to be such a man who seemed like a bright moon falling into one’s arms, peerlessly handsome in the world.

The man approached gracefully, with thick black hair, and a tall, straight figure.

After the snow had cleared, the faint sunlight spilled from the palace tower, pulling his shadow out into a great length. Zhao Yen stood within this cast shade, watching helplessly as he halted before her.

“We meet again, Crown Prince.”

The man slightly inclined his body, the dark cloak swaying, the vermilion official robe setting off his cold, jade-like skin, just like that handful of snow beneath the palace gate covered in fresh blood.

His demeanor was elegant and unhurried, as if he had not just executed a high official beneath the palace gate, but merely happened to stroll here by chance.

Zhao Yen inexplicably could not breathe. Without even looking in a mirror, she knew her face must not look good at this moment.

“Has I… disturbed Your Excellency’s refined mood once again?”

She regretted her earlier judging by appearance, her voice hoarse beyond measure.

Wenren Lin, hearing this, smiled as though spring wind melting snow: “Crown Prince jests. Censor-in-Chief Liu Zhong listened to delusive words, spoke what he should not have spoken, did what he should not have done. This Prince merely carried out His Majesty’s sacred command, making him forever silent. Hardly can it be called ‘refined mood.’”

He bit lightly on the words “Liu Zhong,” but in Zhao Yen’s ears they struck no less than thunder.

Only a few days ago, the faction of Prince Yong had still been fanning the flames before the Emperor; now, this fifth-rank official had become nothing but a corpse beneath Wenren Lin’s feet.

Zhao Yen ought to be gloating, yet she could not feel even the slightest joy. Because the look with which Wenren Lin regarded her was no different from that toward that corpse—equally unhurried, equally calm and indifferent.

She knew she ought not speak further, yet the fear in her heart could not settle.

If only Elder Brother were here—soft as he was, he would never sit idly by—

That fool was famous for meddling in others’ affairs.

“The palace gate is not an execution ground. Why must one be put to death here.” She spoke with trembling breath.

Wenren Lin said softly: “If not here, it could not strike fear into the officials.”

Zhao Yen was left speechless.

Borrowing the knife to kill—today it was a political enemy, tomorrow it could be the Eastern Palace. Upon whose body the blade might fall, none could know.

This man’s scheming ran extremely deep; he could not be lingered with long.

Zhao Yen suddenly raised her sleeve to her lips, turning her head to cough and wheeze. Her cool fingertips at once gripped Liuying’s wrist.

Liuying returned the grasp imperceptibly, understanding at once: “His Highness has only just recovered from grave illness; you must not take cold and be frightened again. Please, let us return to the carriage for rest.”

The young Crown Prince quickly nodded, his face pale as the snow behind him, as though he might faint any moment from lack of breath.

Wenren Lin raised his long brows slightly, somewhat surprised.

Earlier in the warm chamber, this youth had still been composed and at ease, conversing forward without fear. How was it that he had turned timid in an instant?

“It was my negligence, startling His Highness the Crown Prince. Truly, it is my fault.”

Though he mouthed the words “my fault,” on that aggravatingly handsome face there was not the slightest trace of guilt. In fact, the smile deepened a few degrees. “But judging from Crown Prince’s reaction, could it be this is the first day you realized I am not a benevolent man?”

This remark carried hidden meaning, and Zhao Yen’s heart gave a sudden jolt.

She pressed her fingertips tightly, forcing the corners of her lips to move: “Prince Su’s conduct, even if I were to witness it many more times, would still be hard to endure.”

Within Wenren Lin’s eyes, her small figure was imprisoned, calm without a ripple, yet also unfathomably deep.

“The Crown Prince is benevolent.”

He gave his approval, raising his hand to signal the attendants behind him, “Why are you not quickly cleaning it up?”

The corpse was dragged away, leaving a trail of dark red across the snow, shocking to the eyes.

“Gu is unwell, and will not accompany further.”

Her voice hoarse, Zhao Yen lowered her gaze to avoid Wenren Lin’s eyes, holding onto Liuying’s arm as she walked toward the carriage.

If not for bearing the identity of “the sickly Crown Prince,” she would have wished nothing more than to flee in three steps made into one, the farther from that hypocritical mad dog, the better.

The Imperial Guards moved swiftly. In just a short time, under the Changqing Gate all had been tidied spotlessly, leaving not a trace of blood.

Stepping across the wet tiles rinsed with water, Zhao Yen still felt as though the faint scent of blood drifted in the air, enough to make one’s stomach churn. Her back stiff, the short ten-zhang distance felt like a whole jiazi [sixty years].

Only after getting into the carriage and letting down the curtain did she at last feel alive again, casting off her disguise and leaning against the wall with a long breath of relief.

When she loosened her tightly clenched hand, four deep nail marks stretched across her palm, faintly white.

“Return to the Eastern Palace, quickly.”

Liuying softly ordered the accompanying guards, then poured a cup of hot tea into Zhao Yen’s pale hand, gravely saying, “Your Highness has met Prince Su?”

The carriage swayed, and a little tea spilled.

Zhao Yen drained the hot tea in one gulp, warmth rising in her belly and spreading into her stiff, cold limbs.

She wetted her lips with the tea’s moisture, raised her hand to her forehead, and said: “That day in the warm chamber, when I sheltered from the snow, the one I saw was him.”

This time it was Liuying’s turn to be shocked: “Then did Your Highness perhaps…”

“Do not be so hasty to interrogate me.”

Zhao Yen, adopting the posture of settling accounts later, turned defense into offense: “I instead wish to ask, why did you all not tell me?”

“Tell… what?” Liuying was dumbstruck, stunned by the question.

“The face.”

Zhao Yen said, “You all never once reminded me that Wenren Lin bears such a face of duplicity.”

Because of this, she had thought Prince Su must be some hideously ferocious sort, and so failed to recognize him in the warm chamber, nearly causing a great calamity.

Liuying was dazed, as if realizing it was indeed so.

When mentioning Prince Su, what came first to people’s minds was always his ruthless and unpredictable methods, such that they ignored he in fact possessed a countenance of extreme deceptiveness.

“It is this servant’s negligence; I am willing to accept punishment.” Liuying rose to kneel, lowering her head to admit fault.

Seeing Liuying look as though she wished to atone with her life, Zhao Yen immediately lost her temper.

After all, having served Zhao Yan for many years, her temperament was just as rigid and dull as his.

“Enough, enough, why keep your face so tense? No one will punish you.”

Zhao Yen softened her tone, pressing her hand to her chest. “Fortunately, I was able to adapt quickly, and danger turned to safety.”

Though she spoke thus, the ripples in her heart did not subside for a long time, lingering fear still remained.

The more treacherous and evil a person, the less their face would show the words “treacherous and evil”—this was the very first lesson she had learned since returning to the palace.

The winter night was bitter cold; within the hall it was so still that only the crackling of silver-charcoal could be heard.

Wrapped in her bedding, Zhao Yen closed her eyes, but all she could see in her mind was that great swathe of crimson upon the snow, and that lowered profile, indifferently wiping his knuckles.

With the wind sighing like cranes, she tossed and turned, sleepless for half the night.

The next morning, when she went to the Chongwen Hall for studies, Zhao Yen bore faint bluish circles under her eyes, listening to Grand Preceptor Wen drone on with his old-fashioned, pedantic “zhi-hu-zhe-ye,” growing all the more drowsy.

She propped her chin in her hand, and the precious purple brush in her fingers left a crooked trail of ink across the xuan paper. Just as her eyelids were fighting each other, two hoarse, abrupt coughs suddenly rang out.

Zhao Yen jolted awake. Opening her eyes, she found Grand Preceptor Wen holding up a crystal magnifier close to her face, his eyes enlarged absurdly behind the lens, looking particularly comical.

Without a change in expression, she replaced the paper with a clean sheet, smiling apologetically: “Forgive me, Grand Preceptor Wen. Gu did not sleep for half the night yesterday, and is somewhat lacking in strength.”

Who in the entire Great Xuan did not know that His Highness the Crown Prince was the most diligent and studious, the model of youth under Heaven?

Grand Preceptor Wen had taught the Crown Prince for over a year and knew that even upon the sickbed, he never put his books aside.

He assumed it was late-night reading by lamplight and too much thinking that had led to such exhaustion.

He could not help but feel pity, and said anxiously: “At the beginning of returning to studies, it is natural that Your Highness may not keep up with the lessons. May Your Highness please value your health, and by no means be too hasty, or overexert yourself.”

Now it was Zhao Yen’s turn to be speechless.

She had not expected that Zhao Yan’s identity carried such benefits— even dozing off in class, there were those vying to make excuses on his behalf.

Zhao Yen raised her hand to touch the teardrop mole at the corner of her eye, not knowing whether she felt more guilt or envy.

Along the palace road, snow hid beneath green eaves, the carriage swayed.

Liuying carefully let down the curtain, then presented a folded stack of booklets: “Your Highness, the register you ordered yesterday has been collected.”

“Very good, you are quick in your work.”

Zhao Yen gave a shallow yawn, taking the register and flipping through it roughly.

This register had been something she specially ordered Liuying to collect after encountering Wenren Lin yesterday. On it were the family backgrounds, temperaments, and facial features of the court’s important ministers, so that when she met them in the future she could recognize them, and not be caught unprepared as she had been yesterday.

When she turned to the page on Prince Su, Zhao Yen’s gaze paused.

The record of Wenren Lin’s life was only a few brief lines, noting merely: In the tenth year of Tianyou, at the Battle of Yanluo Pass, General Wenren led a hundred thousand troops, but was trapped in a solitary city. Nearly the entire army was annihilated, leaving only one young son alive.

That lone surviving youth was Wenren Lin.

“The tenth year of Tianyou…”

Zhao Yen murmured. That was precisely the time she had been sent away to the Huayang Palace. On the journey she too had heard word of that tragic battle.

Later, Wenren Lin carried the coffins back to the capital. The Emperor, moved by the family’s loyalty and sacrifice, permitted him to inherit his father’s office. Half a year later, at just seventeen, Wenren Lin requested imperial permission to march north and pacify the unrest, sweeping all obstacles before him. From then on he began to control the military and political power of the court. From that point, with power of life and death in his hands, shaking the entire realm, this orphan of loyalty and tragedy climbed step by step onto a throne just beneath one man and above ten thousand. To say he “held the Son of Heaven to command the feudal lords” was no exaggeration.

But as for what means he had used, and which hidden pawns and partisans he held, the register mentioned very little.

Zhao Yen turned it over and over several times, her fair and striking face furrowing tightly: “Why is there only this little information?”

Liuying answered with difficulty: “Prince Su acts with utmost caution and thoroughness, with countless eyes and ears in the capital. This… is already the limit of what we could discover.”

“With merit so great as to shake the ruler, by reason it should not be so.”

Zhao Yen rested her chin in her hand, pondering: “Does Father truly trust him so much?”

“To the utmost of favor and trust.”

Liuying said, “His Highness the Crown Prince once advised otherwise, but His Majesty paid it no heed.”

“To have grown muddled to such a degree.”

Zhao Yen could hardly believe it. Something occurred to her, and her brows knit slightly.

Her Elder Brother had loved to do such thankless, toilsome things. Could it be that his death… was also connected to Prince Su?

At once her heart plunged into an icy abyss, and she shivered.

If it were truly so, her days in the Eastern Palace would not be easy.

Fortunately, the Eastern Palace need not participate in court affairs—at most attending lessons at Chongwen Hall. Presumably, there would be no further dealings with Wenren Lin…

Thinking thus, Zhao Yen’s tightly strung heart finally settled, clouds parting to reveal the sun.

—

Prince Su’s Residence.

Snow fell from the bent branches, in an instant crushed under hurried footsteps.

Left Vice General Zhang Cang, holding a secret letter, strode quickly across the courtyard. Stopping before the study, he respectfully knocked upon the door.

“Enter.”

Once granted leave, Zhang Cang pushed the door open.

Though called the Prince’s study, the place more resembled an enormous library, bookshelves along the walls so high their tops could not be seen, a staircase winding upward toward the second floor. The part exposed already loomed vast; behind the shelves, there were even secret chambers of unfathomable depth.

Within, the surroundings were dim, only a pair of gilded crane-head candle lamps lit, casting circles of warm yellow glow upon the floor.

Prince Su sat in the very center of that glow, carefully wiping a blade as thin as autumn water with a cloth. His dark-blue common robe, as heavy as ink, made his features stand out all the more handsome and deeply cut.

Zhang Cang removed his boots, shut the door, and entered, bowing as he presented the secret missive in his hand: “Here is the list of suitable candidates for the Crown Prince’s Grand Preceptor. I beg Your Highness to decide.”

The Son of Heaven had ordered the Crown Prince to study at Chongwen Hall, yet the appointment of a Grand Preceptor and companions for reading had long remained undecided. This was an excellent opportunity to place men at the Eastern Palace’s side, so the various factions in court had all strained to push in their own people. As for who would ultimately be chosen, that still depended on His Highness the Prince’s will.

Only those whom the Prince favored would be smoothly recommended before the Emperor.

Wenren Lin set down the cloth, and with one hand holding the dagger, he hooked up the missive from Zhang Cang’s palm.

The secret letter did not pause beneath his gaze.

At the turn of the blade’s tip beneath his finger, the letter stretched across the candle flame, and with a hiss, ignited and burned away.

Zhang Cang’s face showed surprise: “Your Highness, this…”

“Mediocre and common, unfit for use.”

The firelight flickered within Wenren Lin’s eyes, his peerlessly handsome face divided into light and shadow.

Zhang Cang said: “Does Your Highness already have a more suitable candidate?”

When the secret letter had burned to ashes, Wenren Lin lightly blew the paper dust away.

The dagger turned faintly between his long, slender fingers.

On the blade, sharp as frost, was reflected his deep, aloof gaze.