The creak of the chamber doors echoed through the hall as Zhao stepped across the threshold. The scent of sandalwood drifted through the air—his father’s favorite—and for a brief moment, the young emperor felt as though he were walking into memory itself.

He had chosen to inherit this study for that very reason. The hanging row of finely crafted brushes, every half-open scroll, his prized inkstone—still resting where Emperor Heqiang had left it—made Zhao feel nearer to the man he missed most. The room carried both his father’s presence and the weight of his own responsibility.

As the doors closed behind him, Zhao leaned back against the cool seam, letting the quiet settle. The air here felt heavy, but warm—like a hand on his shoulder. He wondered if Heqiang had ever stood where he stood now, feeling the same mixture of doubt and duty.

— ➿ — 

Zhao had barely settled at his desk when the Prime Minister entered.

“Your Grace,” Wēn Zhiming began, bowing low, “when will the Sun and Moon cross paths? Her Majesty has informed me that your footsteps have been absent from the harem for quite some time.”

Zhao sat hunched over a sea of scrolls, the lamplight deepening the shadows beneath his eyes. He rubbed his temples before replying.

“Father,” he said softly—using the word only in private, as he often did when the walls could be trusted—“how can I think of creating new life when I cannot feed the lives already starving? Every day brings a hundred new memorials: criticisms, pleas for aid, accounts of suffering.”

Wēn Zhiming was more than a minister; he was Zhao’s father-in-law, father to the empress herself. His reputation was unmatched—stern, incorruptible, precise as the edge of a blade. To the empire, he was the pillar of governance. To Zhao, he was both ally and shadow.

Zhao had never found him easy to read. As a boy, he had known that one of Wēn’s daughters would be his bride, but even then, suspicion lingered—that the Prime Minister sought to bind the throne through marriage, and through the heirs that union would bring. His cold, unyielding exterior often kept Zhao on guard.

The mistrust had deepened during Zhao’s first year as emperor, when his late father appointed Wēn as regent. To Zhao, it had felt like humiliation, a final sign that even on his deathbed, Emperor Heqiang doubted his strength. But to the court, and to the Empress Dowager, it was a masterstroke. Wēn Zhiming was steady, incorruptible, fiercely loyal to Jinri. Heqiang had not meant to weaken Zhao, but to shield him. Only in hindsight could Zhao see that truth.

The late emperor’s last edict named Wēn regent for fourteen months. Yet at the twelfth, before any decree demanded it, he returned the regent’s seal to the Empress Dowager and declared Zhao ready to bear the weight of the throne. That single act was the first time Zhao glimpsed the man beneath the stone—a hint that perhaps Wēn’s loyalty was not control, but care.

Even so, when the Prime Minister entered that evening, the old unease returned.

Resting his chin on one hand, Zhao lifted a scroll from the pile with the other. Its edges were worn soft, its paper darkened by oil and the touch of many rereads. He handed it across the table, his voice rough with fatigue.

“Here. This village head writes that the last child in his village has died. He buried the boy in secret, fearing the villagers would desecrate the grave to fill their bellies. And you ask me of heirs?”

Wēn unrolled the memorial in silence. His face, usually carved from granite, twitched faintly at the words. Still, his reply came firm and steady.

“A country without princes,” he said, “is like a room without coal—cold and lifeless. Without succession, even survival loses meaning. Your line must continue, or Heaven’s mandate may turn away from you.”

Zhao’s hands clenched upon the table. His patience, worn thin, splintered.

“Coal,” he repeated bitterly. “Tell me, Father—of what use is coal to warm a room when the house itself is burning?”

Silence filled the chamber. Beyond the gilded doors, the faint strains of court musicians drifted in like mockery.

Wēn replaced the scroll gently upon the table and bowed low. “You are emperor, and your duty is both to the living and to those yet unborn. Do not forget either, my son.”

Then he withdrew, leaving Zhao alone with the heavy breath of sandalwood and the accusing stillness of a thousand unread petitions.

I think he has a maxim for everything…

— ➿ — 

Next Episode — Chapter 4: The Shadow at Court

When the fire burns low, a new shadow moves — and not every smile in the palace hides goodwill.