The final performance had just ended—dancers in peony robes retreating like petals in the wind—when the tension in the room shifted once again.
Jin Yuanzhao stood with a cup of wine in hand, golden robes gleaming in the lanternlight. His smile was sharp, his eyes colder than the early spring wind.
“My lords,” he began, raising his voice just enough to draw the attention of nearby guests. “It seems this year’s gathering is truly generous in spirit. Even those who were once exiled to the border are now welcomed among nobles and scholars. How… inclusive of His Majesty’s court.”
Laughter rippled through the nearby guests—polished, empty, nervous.
Jin Zhenyu, seated off to the side, remained motionless, head lowered slightly, as if the insult had passed through him without touching bone.
But Qingyan saw it—the stillness that came not from weakness, but restraint. A blade held back, just barely.
Yuanzhao stepped closer. “Tell me, brother—what title should we greet you with this year? 'Son of a maid'? 'Minister’s mistake'? Or simply ‘the forgotten shadow’?”
The room grew quieter. Whispers buzzed like insects. No one moved.
Zhenyu finally stood.
He met Yuanzhao’s gaze calmly, his tone flat. “You speak a great deal for someone so frightened of silence.”
Yuanzhao’s smile froze.
Qingyan took a step forward before she realized it. Her voice rang out clearly, slicing through the tension like silk over steel.
“Young Master Jin,” she said, addressing Yuanzhao with formal precision. “It surprises me that someone raised in the capital lacks the grace to behave properly in front of the Emperor’s table.”
Yuanzhao turned sharply. “Lady Xu, this matter does not concern—”
“But it does,” she said, stepping between the brothers. “You insult a guest at a formal court banquet. You disrupt an imperial gathering with personal grievances. If you were anyone but the Prime Minister’s son, you would have been escorted out already.”
Gasps spread through the hall. Eyes turned. Some in awe. Others in disbelief.
Yuanzhao’s face darkened. “You dare speak to me like this?”
“I do,” Qingyan replied evenly. “Because someone must.”
For a long moment, no one spoke. Zhenyu stood silent behind her, unreadable.
Then, from the dais, a low voice echoed:
“That is enough.”
It was the Emperor’s Chief Eunuch, speaking on behalf of the aging ruler. His voice held the quiet weight of finality.
“This is a gathering of harmony. Those who forget themselves may take their quarrels outside the palace gates.”
Yuanzhao bowed stiffly and retreated a step, fury hidden behind a thin smile. “As His Majesty commands.”
The tension loosened—but not completely.
Qingyan turned slightly, her voice dropping low enough only Zhenyu could hear.
“You could have humiliated him yourself. Why didn’t you?”
He looked at her for a long moment, then replied:
“Because I’ve already seen how petty power ruins men. I don’t care to become one.”
She met his gaze.
“Then let others speak when you choose silence.”
He didn’t thank her. He didn’t bow. But his eyes, cold and distant before, now held something else.
Recognition. Respect. And perhaps… the beginning of something deeper.
As the musicians resumed, and laughter returned to the room, a quiet understanding passed between them.
In this world of names and shadows, alliances were rarely forged in declarations.
Sometimes, they began with silence—and a single voice willing to break it.
---
End of Chapter Three
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