The flames crackled beneath her feet, devouring the intricate layers of crimson silk that once symbolized her status as Empress of Tianhua. The heavy scent of burning silk mingled with incense and charred wood, thick enough to choke the breath from her lungs. The sky above was a leaden gray, the sun veiled behind clouds as if the heavens themselves turned away in mourning.

The crowd watched in silence, some with horror, others with thinly veiled satisfaction. The courtiers lined the marble terrace of the imperial square, their faces unreadable behind their fans and veils. Soldiers stood like statues, the polished silver of their armor reflecting the firelight in cold flashes. Above it all, seated on the Dragon Throne beneath a gold-tasseled canopy, was the man she had once called husband.

"By imperial decree," the eunuch's voice rang out, shrill and final, "Empress Lin Ruyan is hereby sentenced to death for treason against the Empire."

Her name echoed like a cruel joke across the square.

Ruyan did not struggle. Her hands, once adorned with phoenix-shaped bangles, now bore raw rope marks as she stood chained to the execution post. Her gaze remained fixed on Ji Wuxian, the Emperor—the man who once whispered her name like a sacred promise under falling plum blossoms. Now he refused to look her in the eye.

Betrayal, she thought bitterly, had never tasted so cold.

The fire rose higher, searing her skin, curling the tips of her long black hair into smoke. Pain exploded in waves, white-hot and blinding. But she did not scream. Her pride would not allow it. The last thing she saw before darkness claimed her was the flutter of a red hairpin—a gift from him once, a token of devotion—falling from her scorched hair. It landed silently at the base of the pyre.

Then, there was nothing but silence.

She awoke with a gasp.

Cold sweat clung to her brow. Her lungs seized, expecting the bite of smoke and ash—but found only the cool breath of spring air. The scent of plum blossoms drifted faintly on the breeze.

Disoriented, she sat up. Her body no longer burned. The pain was gone, replaced by the lingering sting of memory.

Above her, silken curtains in pale pink swayed gently. The canopy was embroidered with cranes in flight. Familiar. Too familiar. A shiver raced down her spine. This was her maiden chamber—the one she had left behind when summoned to the palace years ago.

A soft clatter broke the silence.

"Young Miss!" a maid exclaimed, dropping a copper basin with a splash. "You’re awake! Are you unwell?"

Lin Ruyan blinked. "Xiao Zhen?"

The young maid hurried to her side, her round face pale. "Yes! I was just fetching fresh water. Did you have a nightmare? Shall I call for the physician again?"

Ruyan slowly turned toward the bronze mirror at her vanity. She stood and approached it, her bare feet whispering across the lacquered floor.

The face that stared back at her was hers—but younger. Softer. Her eyes were clear, unclouded by the fatigue of court politics or the weight of betrayal. Her lips, once cracked from the dry winds of punishment, were full and pink. The fine scar along her jaw, earned during an assassination attempt in the palace, was gone.

Seventeen. She was seventeen again.

Her knees buckled. Xiao Zhen caught her with a cry. Ruyan gripped the maid’s shoulders.

"What year is it?" she whispered hoarsely. "Who sits on the throne?"

"The Yonghe Emperor," Xiao Zhen replied hesitantly. "It’s the ninth year of his reign."

Ruyan’s heart thudded in her chest.

Five years before her death.

A second chance.

That evening, long after the household quieted, Ruyan sat in the courtyard beneath the plum tree that brushed against her window. Its branches trembled in the breeze, white petals fluttering to the mossy stones below. The same tree. The same season. The same night that Ji Wuxian had once come, as Crown Prince, to ask for her hand.

She clutched something tightly in her palm—a red hairpin, the same one that had fallen from her head during her execution. How it had returned with her, she could not say. Perhaps it, too, remembered.

"Fate," she whispered into the night, "you are cruel and merciful in the same breath."

The sound of hurried footsteps broke her thoughts. Xiao Zhen appeared, breathless. "Miss, your father summons you to the main hall. The Crown Prince has arrived for the spring banquet."

The words froze the blood in Ruyan’s veins.

Ji Wuxian.

So it begins again.

The main hall was ablaze with lantern light, casting golden patterns on the polished floors. Silk-draped tables overflowed with seasonal delicacies, and the air was thick with perfume and tension. Daughters of noble families sat in prim rows, dressed in vibrant brocades and heavy ornaments, their gazes trained forward like arrows aimed at the same target.

Ruyan stood in the last row, dressed in a pale-blue robe with only a single silver pin in her hair. Her father had not invested effort in her presentation. In her past life, he considered her of little use—until her elevation, when he eagerly claimed credit.

The hall fell silent as the Crown Prince entered. Ji Wuxian strode in with his usual quiet power, flanked by guards and ministers. He was younger, less hardened, but still distant. His sharp eyes scanned the hall with disinterest.

Then they landed on her.

Ruyan lowered her gaze immediately, heart pounding.

Let him pass over me, she prayed. Let him choose another.

But fate, she remembered too well, is not easily diverted.

The banquet passed in a blur. Ruyan remained composed, answering the required formalities but never stepping into the spotlight. Yet she felt his gaze linger, not with recognition, but curiosity—as if his soul whispered something his mind did not yet remember.

The next morning, the imperial decree arrived.

Lady Lin Ruyan is hereby selected to enter the palace as a court lady, with potential for elevation.

The words carved into her like a blade. The same script. The same wording. Her fingers trembled as she held the scroll.

Xiao Zhen wept quietly. "Miss, what will we do? Will you go again?"

Ruyan stood, her silhouette framed by the rising sun.

"We will go to the palace, Xiao Zhen. But this time, we will not go to die."

She turned, eyes no longer filled with innocence but with steel.

"This time, we go to survive. To uncover the truth. To make them pay."

And somewhere, buried beneath the ash of a former life, a phoenix stirred.

The silk curtains fluttered in the early light, thin as breath, tinged with a peach-blush hue from the rising sun. Lin Ruyan sat at her vanity in silence, her bare fingers tracing the edge of a ceramic bowl. The water within stilled, catching her reflection like a whisper of the girl she used to be.

Seventeen again.

The idea still clung to her like a dream unfinished. Her heart beat steadily beneath the soft inner robe, but her eyes—those eyes had known fire.

Xiao Zhen entered, carrying a bundle of fabric. "Miss, your father says the invitation from the palace has arrived. The Crown Prince will attend the Spring Banquet. We must dress you well."

Ruyan turned slowly. "No red. No gold."

The maid blinked. "But... you are of age. This may be the chance—"

"If the Crown Prince chooses someone," Ruyan said softly, "let it not be because she is the brightest flower in the garden."

Xiao Zhen bit her lip but obeyed. They settled on a robe of lavender silk, stitched with silver plum blossoms so fine they shimmered only when caught by sunlight. Her hair was pinned simply, with a single jade comb.

She would not tempt fate. But she would not hide from it, either.

---

The Lin family carriage trundled toward the imperial palace, the roads lined with fluttering banners and drifting cherry petals. Other noble families had already begun to arrive, their daughters adorned in silks and jewels, their eyes wide with excitement or ambition.

Inside the carriage, Ruyan kept her hands folded. Calm. Controlled. A small box sat beside her. Inside it lay the red hairpin—her talisman, her warning.

As they passed through the Palace Gates, the weight of memory pressed down.

She saw herself again in the great hall, smiling shyly beneath the heavy phoenix crown.

She saw herself burned.

The present swallowed the vision. The gates opened, and the Spring Banquet began.

---

The banquet was held in the Hall of Blossoms, a grand courtyard surrounded by winding colonnades and perfumed by thousands of plum and peach blossoms. The marble floors reflected the lantern light like still water. Long tables of carved sandalwood overflowed with delicacies: lotus root wrapped in goldleaf, duck braised with osmanthus wine, honeyed jujubes stacked like tiny pyramids.

The daughters of the empire sat according to their fathers' rank. Ruyan was placed in the second row—high enough to be noticed, low enough to be overlooked.

She recognized many faces.

Lady Meng Lihua, daughter of the Minister of War, sat adorned in crimson gauze, her lips painted like a rose just opening. Ruyan remembered her well—a snake in embroidered silk, who had smiled as the flames climbed higher.

Lady Su Yinyin, demure and clever, sat a row ahead, already whispering into her silk fan.

Ruyan said nothing. She sat with the stillness of deep water.

---

A trumpet sounded.

"His Royal Highness, the Crown Prince, Ji Wuxian!"

The court rose. He entered with quiet grace, dressed in robes of midnight blue embroidered with silver dragons. His expression was unreadable, his gaze scanning the room like a hawk in flight.

Ruyan lowered her eyes, but not so far as to miss the moment his gaze passed over her.

And stopped.

Only for a breath. Then moved on.

She remained still.

She knew what she must look like to him. A gentle noble girl with clear eyes and no memory of betrayal. The irony twisted in her stomach.

---

As the banquet unfolded, entertainment filled the air. Dancers in moonlight silks twirled to the melody of the pipa and guzheng. Wine flowed. Toasts were made. Words sparkled, then disappeared like fireflies.

And Ruyan watched.

She watched how the Crown Prince leaned slightly toward General Meng’s daughter but offered no special smile. How he responded politely to Su Yinyin's clever riddles, but his eyes drifted elsewhere. How his gaze occasionally returned to her corner, thoughtful.

Not recognition.

Not yet.

Curiosity.

She took another sip of plum wine. It tasted of blood in her mouth.

---

Then came the test.

"A poem," someone called. "Let the daughters of noble houses offer verses to the Crown Prince."

A cruel tradition. A veiled contest. Who could flatter most artfully? Who dared reach first?

Lihua rose, graceful as a willow. Her verse was flawless, practiced, laden with double meaning. It spoke of dragons soaring and phoenixes rising, her eyes glancing toward the Prince as she bowed.

He nodded, impassive.

Others followed. Su Yinyin's poem was sharp as silk thread. A few made the court laugh. Some stuttered. Some blushed.

Then Ruyan stood.

A hush fell.

No one had expected her to participate.

She stepped forward. Her voice was soft, but it carried.

“A single plum blooms through frost and flame,

Its petals white as forgotten names.

It does not seek the sun or throne,

But roots itself in stone alone.”

Silence.

Then murmurs.

The Crown Prince tilted his head. "What is your name?"

Ruyan bowed. "Lin Ruyan, Your Highness."

His eyes narrowed slightly, as if the name scratched at something buried.

"An unusual poem."

"It suits the times," she said calmly.

He stared at her, but she offered no further words.

Then he turned away, dismissing the moment.

But something had shifted.

---

That evening, back in her chamber, Ruyan unpinned her hair in silence. Xiao Zhen hovered.

"You were... you were amazing. They all noticed. Even the Crown Prince."

"Noticed is not chosen," Ruyan replied, staring into her mirror.

"But isn’t that what you want?"

Ruyan met her reflection's eyes.

"Not yet."

She opened the box beside her. The red hairpin gleamed in the lamplight, quiet as a wound not yet stitched.

The palace doors had creaked open. She had stepped through them once more.

But this time, she would not simply survive.

She would uncover. She would burn. She would rise.

And if the Crown Prince stood in her way again—

She would remind him what it meant to love a phoenix.

The Hall of Blossoms emptied slowly, its splendor dimming as lanterns guttered out one by one. Lin Ruyan did not leave immediately. She stood by a lacquered pillar, hand resting lightly on the cool stone, her eyes tracing the departing nobles as shadows flickered across the polished floors.

The air was thick with perfume, ambition, and the sweet rot of overstayed welcome.

"Lady Lin."

The voice came quiet, measured.

Ruyan turned, gaze steady.

It was the eunuch Zhao Ming, familiar even across lifetimes. Still lean, still sharp-eyed, his presence like a blade sheathed in silk.

"His Highness has requested your presence," he said.

Her pulse did not quicken. She nodded and followed.

The corridor twisted past moonlit gardens and inner courtyards, the stone path lined with white jade balustrades. Magnolia blossoms floated on the air, heavy with scent. Zhao Ming said nothing as they walked, but Ruyan noted his glances—fleeting, curious, unsettled.

He remembered her as a timid shadow of a girl.

Now he led a woman reborn.

They stopped before a quiet pavilion, its lattice windows aglow with candlelight.

"He waits inside," Zhao said, bowing.

Ruyan stepped across the threshold.

The Crown Prince stood alone, robe now unfastened at the collar, the outer garment draped casually over a lacquered bench. He was studying a scroll, but looked up at her entrance.

The silence between them stretched, not heavy but taut.

"Lady Lin," he said at last, "your poem today was... curious."

"Your Highness summoned me for literary critique?"

A flicker of surprise. Then amusement.

"No. I summoned you because I have an excellent memory, and I do not recall you."

Ruyan stepped lightly to the side, just out of reach of the candle's halo.

"Perhaps because I was never meant to be seen."

His brow furrowed. "And now you choose to be?"

She tilted her head. "I choose nothing. The spring wind turns where it pleases."

A pause.

He studied her more closely now, and she could feel the weight of it—not lecherous, not cruel. Curious. Intelligent. Dangerous.

"You speak in riddles, Lady Lin."

"Does that trouble you?"

"It reminds me of someone," he said quietly. "But she is dead."

Ruyan's heart stilled. For a moment, the room seemed to narrow, breathless with the past.

"Then I must be someone else," she whispered.

She left the pavilion without bowing, though she gave him a respectful nod.

Zhao Ming, waiting outside, opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. He led her back in silence.

By the time she returned to the Lin estate, the sky was laced with indigo. Xiao Zhen had dozed on the porch and stirred as Ruyan arrived.

"Miss? You were summoned..."

"To observe an old storm," Ruyan murmured. "It hasn't changed. But perhaps I have."

She stepped past the girl and into the house.

By midday, the rumors had spread.

"The Lady Lin—did you hear?" came the whispers. "She spoke directly to the Crown Prince. Alone."

"They say he smiled. He never smiles."

"She's from the second row. Barely titled. Why her?"

The court buzzed like a disturbed hive. Some sought her out in idle curiosity. Some avoided her entirely, as if she were now marked.

Lady Meng Lihua sent an invitation to tea.

Ruyan declined.

Lady Su Yinyin sent a folded fan bearing an exquisite poem about frost and stubborn plum blossoms.

Ruyan returned it blank.

She had no use for rivals who wore masks over knives.

That evening, her father summoned her.

General Lin sat in his private study, armor retired but pride undiminished. His stern face was carved of stone, but there was a tightness in his gaze.

"You embarrassed yourself."

Ruyan stood calmly before him. "Did I?"

"The Crown Prince does not call for idle girls. What did you say to him?"

"Only a poem."

"Then stay silent. Be obedient. If he favors you, it will be by grace, not wit."

Ruyan met his eyes. "If grace is his weapon, then wit is mine."

He stood, fury threatening.

"You forget your place."

"I remember it too well," she said. "That is why I will never return to it."

He raised a hand. She did not flinch.

It did not fall.

He lowered it slowly, rage caged. "You will attend the Mid-Autumn Gathering. Wear gold this time. I will not have you ignored again."

She bowed, low and unbending. "As you wish."

But inside her, the phoenix stirred.

In her chambers, Ruyan drew ink across parchment in long, fluid strokes. Not poetry. Not letters.

A map.

The palace corridors. The servant routes. The guards' rotations.

She remembered it all.

Each curve of the Emperor's hallways. Each shadowed corner. Each hidden door.

There were secrets in this court. Some buried. Some waiting.

And she would uncover them all.