The moment the chamber doors closed, Zhao let out a soundless groan, throwing his head back like a child scolded by his tutor. “Ugh,” he hissed through his teeth, slouching deep into his seat. For a long while, he stared into the distant fire, watching the coals glow and crumble. Wēn’s words echoed like chimes in his ears. 

Coal. Always coal. The man had an infuriating way of being right, though Zhao would sooner swallow ink than admit it. 

A ripple disturbed his thoughts. From the edge of the lamplight crept a slinking shadow, its presence heavy and moist, like slime slipping beneath a door. Zhao’s lips tightened. He knew this shadow well. 

“Your Majesty,” a voice drawled, oily and deliberate, “I trust all is well on this fine night.” 

From behind a carved screen stepped Liang Xuánmóu, Duke of State—his uncle, younger brother of the late Emperor Heqiang. Once a general of renown, he had long since traded the rigors of the battlefield for the intrigues of court. His posture was loyal, his smile rehearsed. For years he had positioned himself as Zhao’s supporter, even fooling Heqiang in his later days. 

Zhao sighed inwardly. Great. Another talking memorial. 

Outwardly, he forced a smile, bowing his head slightly. “Good evening, Uncle. I would not call it ‘fine,’ but it is, at least, good.” 

His head eunuch, standing silently nearby, caught the flash of teeth in Zhao’s smile and turned quickly to hide a smirk. He knew well how hard the emperor fought the urge to roll his eyes. 

— ➿ — 

Once, the Regent’s Seal had nearly fallen into Xuánmóu’s hands. But fortune turned: his son and heir made a fatal mistake during a military drill, needlessly costing a soldier his life. The outcry was fierce, the whispers sharper still. In the end, Heqiang entrusted the regency not to his brother, but to Wēn Zhiming. 

The Empress Dowager had never trusted Xuánmóu; her suspicion stretched back into their childhood, across decades of rivalry and bitter memory. She warned her children—and even the princes of the harem—to keep clear of him. But Zhao had no such luxury. First as Crown Prince, and now as Emperor, he was bound to endure his uncle’s shadow. 

“What brings you here at this hour, Uncle?” Zhao asked, his tone carefully flat. 

Xuánmóu returned the smile, though it never reached his eyes. “I came only to offer comfort. These endless memorials must weigh on you. Perhaps… there are easier ways to lighten such burdens.” 

The hint was clear—an offer to place his son in some honored position, disguised as aid. 

“The people’s hunger, the ministers’ scorn,” Xuánmóu went on smoothly. “None of it should fall upon shoulders as young as yours. Let us share the weight. Strong roots, after all, can hold even the heaviest tree.” 

Zhao’s stomach twisted. Strong roots, yes… but roots can choke as easily as they support, he thought. 

“I noticed the Prime Minister leaving,” Xuánmóu pressed. “Is there anything I may assist you with tonight, Majesty?” 

Zhao’s first thought was sharp and immediate: Absolutely not. But his tongue spoke softer words. “Not at the moment, Uncle. But thank you for thinking of me.” He leaned forward slightly, his eyes sharpening. “How fares my cousin? I hear he has taken a seventh concubine.” 

The words, delivered as idle courtesy, were laced with steel. Zhao had no interest in the Young Duke’s private life. What he meant was clear enough: 

Tend to your own gates before wandering into mine. 

Xuánmóu’s smile faltered, his jaw stiffening as though the barb had struck true. “He… is well...” A pause, then a brisk bow. “I shall take my leave. Please, do not hesitate to send for me should you need me.” 

As the Duke of State’s shadow slipped back into the corridor, Zhao exhaled slowly, pressing fingers against his temples. The fire flickered still, its coals burning low, their glow steady but fragile. 

I should… probably have him followed…  

— ➿ — 

Next Episode — Chapter 5: Silken Binds

The night deepens, and even emperors crave a moment of warmth — but who can rest when shadows linger in every flame?