All sound within the hall ceased abruptly.
The crowd immediately rose, stepped quickly into the open spaces before their respective seats, faced the palace entrance, and knelt, lowering their heads in respectful welcome.
Yan Linyuan, dressed in black casual robes embroidered with a golden dragon pattern and draped in a black fox-fur cloak, walked in with steady, calm steps.
Lin Qingwan followed half a step behind him, dressed in a smoky purple gown embroidered with silver-threaded chrysanthemum patterns. Her hair was piled high, adorned with a red-gold phoenix hairpin inlaid with kingfisher feathers and a few simple pearl ornaments. She appeared dignified, graceful, and wore a look of calm gentleness.
Under the gaze of the palace lanterns and countless eyes, the two walked along the red-carpeted aisle, ascended the steps, and took their seats at the head of the hall.
As Yan Linyuan sat down, his gaze habitually swept across the hall first. It paused for a moment on the empty, carved rosewood chair to his right. His brow furrowed almost imperceptibly before smoothing out again.
“Rise,” he said. His voice was not loud, yet it clearly reached every corner of the vast hall.
“Thank you, Your Majesty. Thank you, Your Empress.” The assembly replied in unison. They rose, adjusted their robes, and sat down again, moving with a synchronized, well-practiced caution.
Lin Xiuxing and Song Chengye sat closest to the main seats, one on the left and one on the right, like a microcosm of the hall’s civil and military power, clearly defined and distinct.
Yan Linyuan did not speak immediately. Instead, he reached out and picked up the imperial wine that had already been poured for him, his thumb rubbing slowly against the warm wall of the jade cup.
Lin Qingwan sat quietly to his left, her hands folded on her lap, eyes lowered, her gaze fixed on the exquisite tableware before her with her usual tranquil demeanor.
The hall remained silent for a moment, so quiet that a falling needle could be heard. Within this silence, countless thoughts and observations were hidden.
Soon, as if following a secret signal, low conversations, toasts, and well-wishes gradually arose, attempting to create a harmonious scene of a monarch and his subjects enjoying the night together.
However, the noise felt forced. The undercurrents beneath the surface, rather than subsiding, surged more violently due to the arrival of the Emperor and Empress and the presence of that empty seat.
Song Chengye was a man who could not hold his tongue. He stared at the empty chair to Yan Linyuan’s right repeatedly, finding it more of an eyesore with every passing second.
Finally, he could endure it no longer. He beckoned a young, unfamiliar eunuch serving nearby.
The eunuch trotted over, terrified, and bowed. “What are your orders, General?”
Song Chengye pointed his chin toward the empty seat and asked in a gruff voice, “Whose seat is that? Why is it still empty? Is it waiting for me to sit there?”
The eunuch shivered, dropping his head even lower, his voice trembling. “Answering the General, that is the seat prepared for Young Master Yun.”
“Young Master Yun?” Song Chengye’s thick brows arched, his voice raised unintentionally. “The one from Linhua Palace?”
“Yes.”
“Ordered personally by the Emperor?” Song Chengye pressed, his gaze darting toward Yan Linyuan at the head of the hall.
The eunuch was on the verge of tears. “Yes, it was personally ordered by the Emperor, and Eunuch Wang personally oversaw the arrangements.”
Song Chengye snorted from his nose. This sound was jarringly abrupt in the carefully manufactured harmonious atmosphere, causing several nearby tables to glance over.
He stopped lowering his voice, turned toward Yan Linyuan, and cupped his hands. His tone sounded respectful, yet it carried an underlying recklessness.
“Your Majesty, I am a rough man who does not understand many customs, but I am curious. That Young Master Yun, does he have a rather grand sense of self-importance? Your Majesty and the Empress have been here for quite some time, and the banquet has already begun, so why is there still no sign of him? Is he planning to wait until we have all finished eating so he can come and pick at the scraps?”
This was extremely rude, even carrying a hint of disdain for such male concubines. The hall fell silent again instantly. Many held their breath, stealing glances at the Emperor’s face.
Yan Linyuan paused, his hand gripping the wine cup, and raised his eyes to look at Song Chengye. His expression remained calm, devoid of anger, but his eyes were deep and tranquil, like the surface of a frozen lake.
“General Song,” Yan Linyuan said, his voice flat and waveless, “you seem very concerned about my inner palace affairs?”
Song Chengye felt a chill run through him at the Emperor’s gaze, but he maintained his reckless demeanor on the surface. “I would not dare. It is just that at today’s palace banquet, with all court officials and inner palace consorts present, the absence of one person naturally invites discussion. I am acting for Your Majesty’s sake, fearing that some who do not know their place might become arrogant due to favor, break palace rules, and damage Your Majesty’s reputation.”
Yan Linyuan did not respond to this. Instead, he turned his head and spoke to Wang Shunde, who was standing respectfully behind the imperial throne: “Go and ask what is happening at Linhua Palace.”
Wang Shunde bowed immediately, walked quickly to the side of the hall, and gave urgent, low-voiced instructions to a trusted young eunuch. The young eunuch nodded and scurried out.
Before long, the eunuch returned panting, whispering rapidly into Wang Shunde’s ear.
After listening, a look of distress appeared on Wang Shunde’s face, but he dared not delay. He walked back to Yan Linyuan’s side, leaned in close, and replied in a voice only those near the throne could hear.
“Your Majesty, Wang Sheng at Linhua Palace just sent word. He says Young Master Yun is still asleep. They finally managed to wake him, but the Young Master does not seem to have had enough sleep. He is somewhat throwing a tantrum, saying he is in a bad mood and does not want to move. Wang Sheng is inside trying to coax him, saying that once he is coaxed, he will come immediately.”
Although Wang Shunde lowered his voice, the hall was so quiet that those in the front row with sharp ears, such as Lin Xiuxing, Song Chengye, and Lin Zexuan, caught the keywords “asleep,” “throwing a tantrum,” and “coaxing.”
Song Chengye, being closest, heard it most clearly and immediately sneered aloud, the mockery in his laughter undisguised. “Throwing a tantrum? Coaxing? Your Majesty, I have truly been enlightened today. This is not taking in a Young Master; this is serving an ancestor.”
Lin Zexuan also heard it. The hand holding his cup paused slightly, his eyes filled with deeper interest. His gaze drifted once more toward the empty seat, a faint smile lingering at the corners of his mouth, as if he were watching a fascinating play.
Yan Linyuan’s fingers tightened on the wine cup, the jade wall feeling icy cold.
His face darkened, and hidden undercurrents swirled in his eyes, but with the entire court present, he ultimately did not flare up.
He glanced at Wang Shunde. “Send someone again. If he does not wish to come, then let him stay; I will go see him later.”
“Yes, this old servant will go urge him personally.” Wang Shunde felt miserable internally, knowing the Emperor was truly furious. The Emperor’s attitude toward Young Master Yun was genuine favor.
General Song’s words had definitely displeased the Emperor.
He bowed and hurriedly exited Linde Hall, hastening toward Linhua Palace.
Inside Linhua Palace, however, the scene was entirely different.
Only one lamp was lit in the bedchamber, casting a dim, soft light.
Yun Biechen was huddled in a silk quilt, sitting on the edge of the large bed. He wore only a snow-white nightgown, his ink-black hair cascading like a waterfall over his shoulders and back, with a few strands slipping down to his chest.
His face was expressionless, no anger and no grievances, only a hollow, cold indifference, as if shrouded in a layer of early winter mist.
But Wang Sheng, who knew him well, understood that this was precisely when the Young Master was hardest to coax. Having been forcibly awakened from a deep sleep, the Young Master was in his worst mood.
He usually did not dare wake the Young Master carelessly, for fear of the Young Master’s temper.
Wang Sheng stood two paces away from the bed, holding a gilded bronze basin filled with hot water, a snow-white soft towel draped over his arm. He bent low, his voice soft and filled with twelve thousand percent pleading:
“Young Master, dear Young Master, please have mercy and rise to wash. The palace banquet starts at the third quarter of the You hour; it is already nearly the second quarter. Eunuch Wang has already come to urge us three times. My heart is about to jump out of my throat. If you do not go, this servant’s head might be hanging at the West Market gates by tomorrow morning.”
Yun Biechen’s eyelashes drooped, his gaze landing on his own hands folded over the silk quilt. His fingertips were pale and white, showing a faint, delicate pink.
He seemed entirely unresponsive to Wang Sheng’s talk of losing his head. Only after a long while did he slowly raise his eyes. Those glass-like pupils still retained remnants of sleepiness, misty as they looked at Wang Sheng.
“I will not go,” he said, his voice bearing the characteristic huskiness of someone who had just woken, his tone flat.
“Young Master!” Wang Sheng was sweating with anxiety. He inched forward a little, not daring to get too close. “You must go! This is the palace banquet; all the court officials and inner palace consorts are watching. The Emperor personally prepared a seat for you. If you do not attend, would that not be a public slap to the Emperor’s face? If the Emperor truly flares up, what will happen?”
“If he is angry,” Yun Biechen said in that same flat tone, even tilting his head slightly as if seriously pondering the causal relationship, “what does that have to do with me?”
Wang Sheng was choked by these words, nearly unable to breathe, tears swirling in his eye sockets. “Young Master! Ancestor! You cannot think like that! The Emperor is the Son of Heaven, the master of this palace and this world! If he is angry, no one will end well, especially you! What if he issues a decree to lock us back in the Cold Palace? Or something worse?”
Yun Biechen seemed touched by the words Cold Palace, and his long eyelashes trembled.
He remained silent for an even longer time.
Wang Sheng watched his expression, knowing there was a chance. He struck while the iron was hot, his tone even more mournful, bordering on a sob: “Young Master, even if you do not think of yourself, think of this servant, think of Chun Ying and Xia Que, think of everyone here in Linhua Palace. If you truly anger the Emperor, none of us who serve you will end well. Young Master, please have pity on us.”
Yun Biechen’s gaze shifted from his own hands to Wang Sheng’s face, which was crumpled with anxiety and eyes rimmed with red.
The hall was so quiet that only the occasional crackle of the charcoal fire remained. Outside the window, the sky had turned completely black, and snow fell silently.
A long time passed, so long that Wang Sheng felt his legs going numb and his heart growing cold, before Yun Biechen finally moved.
He exhaled softly. The breath was light, like a sigh, yet not quite. Then, he stretched out his hand, pushed aside the silk quilt, and stepped barefoot onto the thick carpet covering the floor.
His ankles were slender and pale, resembling jade carvings under the dim light.