Gathering of Masks

Moonlight poured across the imperial lake like molten pearl, casting silver ripples across the surface. On this night, the palace glowed with quiet grandeur. Silk lanterns floated in the air, tethered by wishes and politics alike. Musicians tuned their instruments behind gauzy screens, and servants scurried like shadows behind veils of incense.

The Mid-Autumn Gathering had begun.

Lin Ruyan stood at the edge of the promenade leading into the Garden of Auspicious Stars, where the nobles had already begun to arrive. Her gold silk robe shimmered like candlelight, modest in cut but regal in aura. Her hair was swept into a coiled crown, a phoenix hairpin—carved from bone, not jade—pierced through it like quiet defiance.

Xiao Zhen fussed with her sleeves. “All eyes will be on you tonight, miss.”

Ruyan smiled faintly. “Let them look. Let them wonder.”

---

Inside the garden, nobles mingled like birds in a gilded cage. Gossip flowed as richly as wine. The Empress sat at the highest terrace beneath a canopy of silk clouds, her expression cool and unreadable, the Emperor absent—ill, they said. Or perhaps just disinterested.

The Crown Prince stood below her, flanked by his ever-present attendants, his posture serene. He wore black brocade tonight, lined with starlight silver.

When he saw Ruyan, he said nothing—but his gaze lingered.

She passed through murmurs.

“There she is again—Lin Ruyan.”

“No one knew her name before the Spring Banquet.”

“She’s dangerous. Too quiet.”

“She’s nothing.”

Ruyan took her place near the lower tiered pond, where the koi swam like flickering secrets beneath lily blossoms. Her position was neither prominent nor low—exactly where she wanted to be.

From this vantage, she could watch everything.

---

The night’s performances began: sword dancers traced arcs of light; a veiled girl played the sheng until the stars seemed to weep. Courtiers clapped politely.

Then the games began.

Paper lantern riddles.

A tradition meant to entertain the imperial family and embarrass the clever.

The Crown Prince held up a lantern inscribed with ink-black brushstrokes:

“Born of ink, silent as snow, I vanish when the fire glows. What am I?”

A ripple of confused laughter passed through the crowd.

Lady Meng Lihua stepped forward first, ever bold.

“A scroll,” she offered.

He shook his head.

Lady Su Yinyin tried next. “A shadow?”

“Wrong again.”

Ruyan spoke from her place without rising. “Ink itself.”

Heads turned.

Ji Wuxian’s lips curled faintly. “Correct.”

Murmurs rose. Whispers slithered.

Lady Meng's smile cracked.

---

After the riddles, the crowd thinned as nobles wandered the moonlit gardens. Ruyan moved with quiet precision, hands folded, gaze watchful. She paused by the lotus bridge.

She wasn’t alone.

“Lady Lin,” came a familiar voice. Su Yinyin stepped beside her, elegant and smiling.

“Lady Su.”

“You’ve grown bolder since spring.”

Ruyan gave her a measured look. “And you’ve grown more curious.”

Yinyin’s fan tapped lightly against her palm. “There’s no need to duel with words. We’re both clever enough to know there’s something behind that mask of yours.”

“Everyone wears masks.”

“But not all wear them well.”

Their gazes locked. For a moment, a silent accord passed between them—not trust, not alliance. Recognition.

Two knives studying each other’s sharpness.

---

Later, as she passed near the western corridor, Ruyan heard something she wasn’t meant to.

Two voices in hushed tones.

“…You’re certain she has the token?”

“I saw it with my own eyes. A red phoenix hairpin. The very one buried with the late Empress.”

Ruyan froze.

“Then it’s true—she’s connected to the fire. If she speaks—”

“She won’t. Not yet. But someone must watch her. Closely.”

Footsteps approached. Ruyan melted into the shadows, breath shallow.

Two palace guards passed, their armor light for stealth, their insignia unmarked.

Her hand clenched around the folds of her sleeve.

They remembered the phoenix.

And now, they watched.

---

Before the night ended, Ji Wuxian approached her once more.

He didn’t speak immediately. He stood beside her, facing the koi pond.

“There are stories,” he said. “Of birds that rise from fire. That remember lifetimes.”

Ruyan turned to him slowly. “And what do they do in their next life?”

His voice was quiet. “They burn brighter.”

She studied him.

In his gaze was not memory—but suspicion.

She had lit the match.

Now the flames would come.

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