The evening breeze rustled gently through the willow leaves, each movement of the slender branches casting long, trembling shadows over the surface of the lake. Silver moonlight filtered through the delicate canopy, painting the water with shimmers of light that danced like forgotten memories.
Beneath the ornate, crimson-lacquered roof of the lakeside pavilion, Crown Prince Feng Yuhan stood in silence, his posture upright yet distant, as if carved from the same cold marble as the imperial statues. The rustling leaves whispered like old ghosts, echoing faintly in the hollow of his chest.
His eyes, sharp and pensive, were fixed on the still reflection of the moon. It hovered serenely on thewater's surface—unmoving, untouched, and perfect. Yet Feng Yuhan knew too well that this peace was merely illusion. The quiet before the storm was never truly tranquil. It was deceptive. It waited.
A soft footstep stirred behind him, muffled by the pavilion's ancient wood. Yuhan didn't move, but his shoulders tensed minutely—a tension only someone who had spent years studying his restraint would notice.
"Your Highness, you have remained here a long while… Forgive this intrusion at such an hour."
The voice belonged to Wen Yichen—loyal, measured, never a word wasted. He stepped into view,
carrying a bundle wrapped in plain black cloth. Its simplicity made it all the more ominous, as though whatever lay within did not wish to be seen.
Without speaking, Feng Yuhan turned, his gaze flicking to the bundle before rising to meet Wen Yichen's eyes. He gave a slight nod.
Yichen understood. He knelt and carefully unfolded the cloth, revealing the contents with a reverence that implied danger rather than respect.
Inside lay a sandalwood fan. Not Yuhan's. Its lacquer had faded slightly with age, but the intricate
etchings of clouds and dragons were unmistakable—a fan once carried only by the Crown Prince, and yet this was not his.
Beside it lay a note, written in deliberate, slanted brushstrokes—artfully forged to mimic a careless hand.
"In the shadow of sandalwood,
Lies a truth erased from ledgers.
Whether it will burn you or shield you…
Depends on the hand that holds the fan."
No name.
No seal.
No insignia.
Yet the message struck with the precision of a blade.
Feng Yuhan's hand hovered above the fan before he picked it up. The wood was cool to the touch, but its weight felt unnatural—heavy, like a stone pressing against his chest. For a long moment, he said nothing.
His mind drifted to a distant time. He had been only a child when his mother died—taken by a "sudden illness" no court physician could explain. The last time she held his hand, her voice had been barely audible, yet it etched itself into his soul with the finality of an oath.
"You must become a storm that no one sees, but one whose wind shifts shadows—so they'll know
something real is there."
A whisper that still carried through the corridors of his memory.
He once believed he was the one moving the pieces on the board, the master of the game. But lately… the shadows no longer obeyed his direction. They moved on their own. And they were watching him.
⸻
Within the hidden chamber of the auxiliary residence, the scent of ink and wax hung thick in the air.
Stacks of reports littered the long mahogany desk, their corners smudged with the prints of countless fingers. Candlelight flickered against the walls, dancing like spirits unbound.
Feng Yuhan sat alone, poring over the latest intelligence reports. His gaze was razor-sharp, scanning each line with silent calculation. Several passages were underlined in red ink—a sign that Wen Yichen had reviewed them with urgency.
• "Moderate officials have begun auditing royal expenditures."
• "Mentions of treasury tokens not found in royal registries."
• "The name 'Qin Zi' has been repeated frequently over the last two days."
He leaned back, expression unreadable, though a storm brewed in his eyes.
"Qin Zi…" he murmured. The name clung to his tongue like rust.
The former scribe of Consort Yifei. The one exiled after her fall.
Why had this not reached him sooner?
He tapped the table with one finger—once, then again. A measured rhythm. The kind that often preceded
a command.
"Wen Yichen," he said, voice low. "Who do you think sent the letter?"
Wen Yichen didn't answer immediately. He stood at attention, eyes steady.
"If not an enemy… then someone who wishes to turn Your Highness into their piece, rather than playing their own."
Feng Yuhan chuckled. Quietly. The sound carried no humor—only amusement born from recognition.
"Amusing, isn't it? Even I wouldn't dare pen such a taunt if I were the one sending it."
He opened the fan once more, slowly. Its shadow fell across the table, stretching long and clawed over the reports, like a beast rising from slumber.
"Could it be Jiang Xinluo?" he mused.
Then, softer, almost inaudibly: "Or perhaps… Xianlan?"
The name settled in the room like a stone dropped into a still pond.
"She says little—but every word spoken by others… seems to trace back to her shadow."
⸻
That night—behind the residence garden, the stars were unusually bright. Feng Yuhan moved through the pathways with the silence of a phantom. His footsteps stirred no gravel, his robes barely brushed against the grass.
He stopped at a familiar spot, where the garden walls curved just enough to give view to the Hua Lan Residence's study. A narrow line of candlelight glowed from a window above. Behind the paper screen, a silhouette of a woman—delicate, poised—moved steadily, pen in hand.
She was writing.
He watched her. Unmoving. The night wind carried the scent of ink, of sandalwood, of impending war.
You're not exposing anyone, he thought.
You're awakening the shadows—and making them afraid of the light.
Then a colder thought slipped in, almost involuntarily.
Should I let you burn… or snuff out your fire myself?
⸻
That night, he issued no commands. Sent no spies. Made no inquiries.
He left the letter untouched.
But as he returned to his bedchamber, he placed the sandalwood fan beside his pillow. Its wood gleamed in the pale moonlight—beautiful and unyielding.
As though telling himself—
"If the day ever comes that I must choose…
This fan will no longer be a symbol of status—
But a blade in the shape of wood."
"This chapter has been updated with improved narrative and deeper character perspective. The plot remains unchanged."
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