The palace walls had ears.
Jian felt it in every glance cast over a shoulder, in every conversation that faltered at his passing. The marble corridors, once resplendent with murals of dragon kings and sunlit fields, now seemed to twist upon themselves, coiling tighter with every step he took.
Something unseen slithered just out of reach - a suffocating presence lurking beneath the grandeur.
He moved with purpose but not haste, careful to project the image of a lowly scribe tending to forgettable duties. He dared not show his fear; in the palace, fear was blood in the water.
The letter he had written the night before was tucked securely within his inner robes, sealed thrice over. He needed only one thing: a trusted hand to carry it beyond the capital's walls.
But trust was a rare and dying flower here.
His mind turned to old alliances, distant friendships forged in youth before ambition sharpened men's smiles into knives. There was one name that rose above the others - Mei Lin, a woman once betrothed to a minor noble before she abandoned court life for the seclusion of the Royal Archives.
She had chosen wisdom over power.
Perhaps she still lived untouched by the rot spreading through the heart of the empire.
Jian wound his way toward the eastern wing, where the Archives sat like a silent tomb, forgotten by all but the most devout scholars.
As he passed beneath towering archways, he caught sight of the lotus ponds again - their waters black under the mid-morning sun, petals bobbing like tiny corpses.
He looked away.
Inside the Archives, the air was thick with the musk of parchment and candle wax.
Ancient scrolls lined the walls from floor to vaulted ceiling, each bearing the histories of kings, the decrees of dynasties long turned to dust.
And among them, hunched over a cracked ledger, sat Mei Lin.
Her hair was streaked with silver now, bound in a simple braid.
Her eyes - once sharp and bright - were dulled by years of self-imposed exile. Yet, when she looked up and saw him, something sparked to life.
"Jian," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I thought you were dead."
"Not yet," he replied grimly, stepping forward.
She scanned the empty hall behind him, then rose swiftly, guiding him deeper into the labyrinth of shelves.
When they were well hidden from any casual glance, she turned to face him, arms crossed.
"Why have you come?"
Jian hesitated, tasting the weight of his next words.
"There's rot festering in the heart of the palace," he said quietly. "Worse than mere politics. Worse than ambition."
Mei Lin's brow furrowed.
"I have seen enough plots to last a lifetime," she said. "What makes this one different?"
Jian pulled the letter from his robe and held it out.
"I need you to get this out of Yanliao. To the northern outposts."
She did not move to take it.
"And what will it cost me?" she asked.
"Perhaps your life," Jian said. "Or perhaps everything you've spent so long trying to forget."
For a long moment, Mei Lin stared at him, the silence stretching between them like a drawn bowstring.
Finally, she sighed and plucked the letter from his grasp.
"Leave before someone sees you," she said, slipping the sealed parchment into her sleeve. "The Archives are not as abandoned as they seem."
Jian bowed his head once, grateful beyond words, and turned to go.
But before he could take two steps, Mei Lin spoke again, her voice a low tremor:
"Be careful, Jian. The Queen's shadow reaches further than you know."
Outside the Archives, the world seemed changed - harsher, as if the very light recoiled from the palace stones.
Jian made his way back toward the servants' quarters, keeping to less-traveled paths. Yet no matter how careful he was, he could not shake the feeling of being watched.
Twice, he spotted figures lingering where none should be - a guard too still at the corner of a corridor, a servant who ducked away the moment Jian's gaze touched them.
By the time he reached his small, windowless room, he was drenched in cold sweat.
He barred the door, shoved a heavy chest against it, and slumped onto the narrow cot.
The walls seemed to close in.
Somewhere deep within the palace, a gong sounded - low, ominous.
It was not the call to prayer.
Nor the changing of the guard.
It was the summoning bell - a rare sound, meant only for the most urgent of councils.
Heart hammering, Jian rose and pressed his ear to the door.
Footsteps thundered past outside, voices barking orders.
He could catch only fragments:
"...found another body—"
"...same marks, same black veins—"
"...orders from Her Majesty... double the patrols."
Jian's blood turned to ice.
The sickness was no longer confined to the outer villages.
It had breached the palace walls.
Later that night, long after curfew had cloaked the palace in unnatural quiet, Jian slipped out again.
He moved like a ghost through the lower halls, making for the storage cellars - a place even the bravest guards avoided after sunset.
He needed proof.
Proof that what he had seen was not some fever dream.
Proof that could not be so easily buried under silk and ceremony.
As he descended the narrow stone stairs, a foul stench assaulted his senses - rot, blood, and something worse, something unnatural.
He gagged but pressed on.
The cellars were a maze of old supplies, broken furniture, and forgotten relics of earlier reigns. Rats skittered at his approach, and mold grew thick on the walls.
Near the back, he found the source of the smell.
Three bodies, laid out upon the cold stones, shrouded hastily in rough cloth.
His hands trembling, Jian peeled back one of the coverings.
The corpse beneath was barely human.
Skin bloated and blackened.
Eyes milky white.
Mouth twisted into a rictus grin.
Worse - strange symbols, burnt into the flesh.
Symbols he recognized from the blood rituals he had witnessed in the lotus garden.
His stomach rebelled, and he staggered back, retching into the corner.
He had his proof now - though he doubted he would live long enough to use it.
As he stumbled from the cellar, he caught the faintest echo of laughter - soft, sweet, chilling - drifting through the halls like smoke.
A woman's laughter.
It slipped under his skin, poisoning his thoughts.
And though Jian could not yet name her aloud, deep in his marrow he knew: the heart of this darkness did not lie with petty sorcerers or renegade nobles.
It sat crowned and smiling upon the throne itself.