The Emperor’s Summons
The summons arrived at dawn, carried by a eunuch whose face was smooth as polished bone and just as expressionless. Shen Weiyu had been awake for hours, sitting at his desk with a blank scroll before him, the golden thread on his wrist pulsing with a warmth that did not belong to him. Somewhere across the city, Zhao Yuning was probably still asleep, tangled in silk sheets, his dreams bright and careless. Weiyu could feel the faint echo of them—a sensation like sunlight on closed eyelids.
He had not slept at all.
The eunuch bowed, his voice a thin reed. “The Son of Heaven commands the presence of the Jade Scribe at the Hour of the Dragon. You are to bring your brushes and your ink.”
Weiyu’s fingers tightened around the brush in his hand. The Hour of the Dragon was the most auspicious time for imperial audiences, reserved for matters of state that required divine guidance. The Emperor had not summoned him for a routine consultation. This was about the succession. This was about the prophecy he had written three days ago, the one that named Zhao Yuning as the shatterer of the jade throne.
“I will prepare,” Weiyu said.
The eunuch left without another word. The door clicked shut, and Weiyu was alone again with the silence and the faint, foreign warmth in his chest.
He looked down at his wrist. The golden thread was thin, almost invisible in the pale morning light, but it was there, a constant reminder that he was no longer his own. Every beat of his heart was shared. Every breath was borrowed. He had felt Yuning’s laughter last night, bright and reckless, and it had filled him with a joy so sharp it had hurt. He had felt Yuning’s hunger, his thirst, his irritation at a slow servant. It was like living inside a storm.
And now he had to stand before the Emperor and lie.
Weiyu dressed with deliberate care. His formal robes were the color of winter jade, pale green silk embroidered with silver cranes. He pinned his hair with a simple jade hairpin, the only ornament he allowed himself. He looked like what he was: a scholar, a servant, a tool of the empire. He picked up his brush case and his inkstone, and he walked out into the cold morning air.
The palace was already awake. Servants hurried through the corridors with trays of tea and baskets of documents. Guards stood at every gate, their armor polished to a mirror shine. Weiyu kept his eyes down, his steps measured. He had walked these halls a thousand times, but today they felt different. The walls seemed closer. The air was thicker.
He could feel Yuning stirring in the distance, a flicker of awareness like a fish breaking the surface of a pond. Weiyu pushed a thought toward him, not words, just a sense of urgency. *Stay still. Stay quiet.*
He did not know if Yuning could feel it. The bond was still new, still unpredictable. But the warmth on his wrist pulsed once, twice, and then settled into a steady rhythm, like a heartbeat matching his own.
The throne room was vast, a cavern of marble and gold. The ceiling was painted with dragons chasing pearls through clouds of lapis lazuli. The floor was polished black stone, so reflective that Weiyu could see his own face staring back at him, pale and hollow-eyed. At the far end of the room, the Emperor sat on the jade throne, a figure of immense stillness and power.
He was old. That was the first thing anyone noticed about the Emperor of Linyang. His face was a map of wrinkles, his beard thin and white as spider silk. But his eyes were sharp, black as ink, and they missed nothing. He wore robes of imperial yellow, embroidered with five-clawed dragons, and his hands rested on the arms of the throne like claws.
Weiyu knelt. His knees pressed into the cold stone. He pressed his forehead to the floor and waited.
“Rise,” the Emperor said. His voice was dry, like leaves rustling in autumn.
Weiyu rose. He kept his eyes lowered, his hands clasped in front of him. The brush case felt heavy at his belt.
“You have served me faithfully for six years,” the Emperor said. “You have written prophecies that have guided this empire through famine, war, and flood. Your gift is a gift from heaven, and I have honored it.”
“I am unworthy of your praise, Your Majesty,” Weiyu said. The words came automatically, a script he had memorized long ago.
“But I have heard whispers,” the Emperor continued, his voice hardening. “Whispers that your latest prophecy has caused unrest. That the words you wrote have been repeated in the courts of my sons. That they speak of a dragon’s son shattering the jade throne.”
Weiyu’s heart stopped. For a moment, the world went silent. He could feel the golden thread on his wrist tighten, as if Yuning had sensed his fear and was reaching for him across the distance.
“Your Majesty,” Weiyu said, his voice steady despite the trembling in his hands, “the stars are not always clear. The heavens speak in riddles, and I am but a humble scribe who interprets their whispers. The prophecy I wrote was a warning, not a certainty.”
“A warning,” the Emperor repeated. He leaned forward, and the movement made the courtiers in the shadows shift, their robes rustling like the wings of startled birds. “A warning of what, exactly?”
Weiyu’s mind raced. He had spent the night rehearsing this moment, but now that it was here, the words felt like sand in his mouth. He could not tell the truth. The truth would condemn Yuning to death. But he could not lie too boldly, either. The Emperor was no fool.
“The stars spoke of upheaval,” Weiyu said carefully. “Of a storm gathering on the horizon. The dragon’s son is a symbol, not a name. It could mean any of the princes, or none of them. The jade throne is the empire itself. The prophecy warns that the empire will be tested, that the next succession will be a trial by fire.”
The Emperor’s eyes narrowed. “You speak in circles, Scribe.”
“I speak as the heavens dictate, Your Majesty. The stars do not give clear answers. They give riddles, and it is my duty to present them as they are.”
A long silence. The Emperor’s fingers tapped against the arm of the throne, a slow, rhythmic sound that echoed through the hall. Weiyu could feel sweat beading on his forehead, but he did not dare wipe it away.
“And what of my second son?” the Emperor asked. “What do the stars say of Zhao Yuning?”
Weiyu’s throat tightened. The golden thread burned against his skin. He could feel Yuning’s presence now, sharp and alert, as if the prince had sensed the danger and was listening through the bond.
“The stars are silent on Prince Yuning,” Weiyu said. The lie tasted like ash. “His fate is unclear. The heavens have not yet decided his path.”
The Emperor stared at him. The silence stretched, thin as a blade. Weiyu did not blink. He did not breathe.
Then the Emperor laughed. It was a dry, brittle sound, like old bones rattling in a box. “You are a poor liar, Shen Weiyu. But you are a useful one. I will let your words stand for now. But know this: if I discover that you have hidden something from me, if I discover that your prophecies have been twisted to serve a prince’s ambition, I will have your tongue cut out and your hands broken. You will never write again.”
Weiyu bowed his head. “I understand, Your Majesty.”
“Leave me.”
Weiyu backed out of the throne room, his steps measured, his face blank. The moment the doors closed behind him, he let out a breath he had been holding since the audience began. His hands were shaking. His heart was pounding so hard he could hear it in his ears.
He walked quickly, his robes swishing against the marble floor. He needed to get back to his study. He needed to sit down. He needed to—
A hand grabbed his arm and pulled him into a side corridor.
Weiyu’s first instinct was to fight, but the grip was familiar, the warmth unmistakable. He looked up and found himself staring into Zhao Yuning’s eyes, dark and furious.
“What did you do?” Yuning demanded. His voice was low, urgent. “I felt it. I felt you lying. It was like swallowing glass.”
Weiyu pulled his arm free. “Not here. Someone will see us.”
“I don’t care.”
“You should.” Weiyu glanced down the corridor. A pair of eunuchs were walking toward them, their heads bowed. He grabbed Yuning’s wrist and dragged him into an empty storage room, closing the door behind them.
The room was small, filled with dusty scrolls and broken furniture. A single window let in a sliver of gray light. Weiyu leaned against the door, his chest heaving.
“The Emperor summoned me,” he said. “He asked about the prophecy. He asked about you.”
Yuning’s face went pale. “What did you tell him?”
“I told him the stars were unclear. I told him your fate was undecided. I lied.”
“You lied to the Emperor.” Yuning’s voice was flat, disbelieving.
“Yes.”
“For me.”
“Yes.”
Yuning stared at him. The anger in his eyes faded, replaced by something else, something Weiyu could not name. The golden thread pulsed between them, and for a moment, Weiyu felt a surge of emotion that was not his own—gratitude, sharp and overwhelming, mixed with fear.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” Yuning said quietly. “If he finds out—”
“He won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know that if I had told the truth, you would be dead by sunset.” Weiyu’s voice was harsh, harder than he intended. “I know that if you die, I die. I did not do this for you, Prince Yuning. I did it for myself.”
The lie hung in the air between them. Yuning’s eyes searched his face, and Weiyu felt exposed, as if the bond had stripped away all his defenses.
“You’re a terrible liar,” Yuning said, echoing the Emperor’s words. But his voice was soft, almost tender.
Weiyu looked away. “We need to be careful. The First Prince was watching me in the throne room. He knows something.”
“My brother is always watching.” Yuning’s jaw tightened. “He’s been waiting for a reason to destroy me. If he finds out about the bond—”
“He will use it.”
Silence. The dust motes danced in the sliver of light. Weiyu could hear Yuning’s heartbeat through the bond, fast and steady, a drumbeat of life.
“We need a plan,” Yuning said finally. “We can’t keep reacting. We need to move first.”
Weiyu looked at him. The prince’s face was serious, his usual carefree mask gone. In its place was something harder, something that looked almost like a ruler.
“What are you suggesting?” Weiyu asked.
Yuning met his eyes. “I’m suggesting that we stop being pieces on the board. I’m suggesting that we start playing the game.”
The words hung in the air, heavy with meaning. Weiyu felt a chill run down his spine. He had spent his whole life avoiding the game, hiding in his study, writing prophecies that he hoped would keep him invisible. But the golden thread on his wrist was a leash, and the Emperor’s suspicion was a noose.
There was no hiding anymore.
“What do you have in mind?” Weiyu asked.
Yuning smiled. It was a dangerous smile, sharp and bright. “First, we need to find out what my brother knows. Second, we need to make sure he can’t use it. And third—” He paused, his eyes flickering to Weiyu’s wrist. “Third, we need to find a way to break this bond before it kills us both.”
Weiyu’s heart clenched. The bond was a curse, a chain, a death sentence. But it was also the only thing that had made him feel alive in years. The thought of losing it, of going back to the cold, empty silence of his own mind, was terrifying in a way he could not explain.
“Agreed,” he said, and the word tasted like a betrayal.
Yuning nodded. He reached out and touched Weiyu’s wrist, his fingers brushing the golden thread. The touch sent a jolt through Weiyu’s body, a spark of warmth that spread through his chest.
“We’ll figure this out,” Yuning said. “Together.”
Weiyu did not answer. He could not. The words were stuck in his throat, tangled with fear and hope and something else, something he did not dare name.
Outside, the palace hummed with whispers and schemes. The game had begun. And Shen Weiyu, the Jade Scribe who had never wanted to play, was already in the middle of the board.
He had not slept at all.
The eunuch bowed, his voice a thin reed. “The Son of Heaven commands the presence of the Jade Scribe at the Hour of the Dragon. You are to bring your brushes and your ink.”
Weiyu’s fingers tightened around the brush in his hand. The Hour of the Dragon was the most auspicious time for imperial audiences, reserved for matters of state that required divine guidance. The Emperor had not summoned him for a routine consultation. This was about the succession. This was about the prophecy he had written three days ago, the one that named Zhao Yuning as the shatterer of the jade throne.
“I will prepare,” Weiyu said.
The eunuch left without another word. The door clicked shut, and Weiyu was alone again with the silence and the faint, foreign warmth in his chest.
He looked down at his wrist. The golden thread was thin, almost invisible in the pale morning light, but it was there, a constant reminder that he was no longer his own. Every beat of his heart was shared. Every breath was borrowed. He had felt Yuning’s laughter last night, bright and reckless, and it had filled him with a joy so sharp it had hurt. He had felt Yuning’s hunger, his thirst, his irritation at a slow servant. It was like living inside a storm.
And now he had to stand before the Emperor and lie.
Weiyu dressed with deliberate care. His formal robes were the color of winter jade, pale green silk embroidered with silver cranes. He pinned his hair with a simple jade hairpin, the only ornament he allowed himself. He looked like what he was: a scholar, a servant, a tool of the empire. He picked up his brush case and his inkstone, and he walked out into the cold morning air.
The palace was already awake. Servants hurried through the corridors with trays of tea and baskets of documents. Guards stood at every gate, their armor polished to a mirror shine. Weiyu kept his eyes down, his steps measured. He had walked these halls a thousand times, but today they felt different. The walls seemed closer. The air was thicker.
He could feel Yuning stirring in the distance, a flicker of awareness like a fish breaking the surface of a pond. Weiyu pushed a thought toward him, not words, just a sense of urgency. *Stay still. Stay quiet.*
He did not know if Yuning could feel it. The bond was still new, still unpredictable. But the warmth on his wrist pulsed once, twice, and then settled into a steady rhythm, like a heartbeat matching his own.
The throne room was vast, a cavern of marble and gold. The ceiling was painted with dragons chasing pearls through clouds of lapis lazuli. The floor was polished black stone, so reflective that Weiyu could see his own face staring back at him, pale and hollow-eyed. At the far end of the room, the Emperor sat on the jade throne, a figure of immense stillness and power.
He was old. That was the first thing anyone noticed about the Emperor of Linyang. His face was a map of wrinkles, his beard thin and white as spider silk. But his eyes were sharp, black as ink, and they missed nothing. He wore robes of imperial yellow, embroidered with five-clawed dragons, and his hands rested on the arms of the throne like claws.
Weiyu knelt. His knees pressed into the cold stone. He pressed his forehead to the floor and waited.
“Rise,” the Emperor said. His voice was dry, like leaves rustling in autumn.
Weiyu rose. He kept his eyes lowered, his hands clasped in front of him. The brush case felt heavy at his belt.
“You have served me faithfully for six years,” the Emperor said. “You have written prophecies that have guided this empire through famine, war, and flood. Your gift is a gift from heaven, and I have honored it.”
“I am unworthy of your praise, Your Majesty,” Weiyu said. The words came automatically, a script he had memorized long ago.
“But I have heard whispers,” the Emperor continued, his voice hardening. “Whispers that your latest prophecy has caused unrest. That the words you wrote have been repeated in the courts of my sons. That they speak of a dragon’s son shattering the jade throne.”
Weiyu’s heart stopped. For a moment, the world went silent. He could feel the golden thread on his wrist tighten, as if Yuning had sensed his fear and was reaching for him across the distance.
“Your Majesty,” Weiyu said, his voice steady despite the trembling in his hands, “the stars are not always clear. The heavens speak in riddles, and I am but a humble scribe who interprets their whispers. The prophecy I wrote was a warning, not a certainty.”
“A warning,” the Emperor repeated. He leaned forward, and the movement made the courtiers in the shadows shift, their robes rustling like the wings of startled birds. “A warning of what, exactly?”
Weiyu’s mind raced. He had spent the night rehearsing this moment, but now that it was here, the words felt like sand in his mouth. He could not tell the truth. The truth would condemn Yuning to death. But he could not lie too boldly, either. The Emperor was no fool.
“The stars spoke of upheaval,” Weiyu said carefully. “Of a storm gathering on the horizon. The dragon’s son is a symbol, not a name. It could mean any of the princes, or none of them. The jade throne is the empire itself. The prophecy warns that the empire will be tested, that the next succession will be a trial by fire.”
The Emperor’s eyes narrowed. “You speak in circles, Scribe.”
“I speak as the heavens dictate, Your Majesty. The stars do not give clear answers. They give riddles, and it is my duty to present them as they are.”
A long silence. The Emperor’s fingers tapped against the arm of the throne, a slow, rhythmic sound that echoed through the hall. Weiyu could feel sweat beading on his forehead, but he did not dare wipe it away.
“And what of my second son?” the Emperor asked. “What do the stars say of Zhao Yuning?”
Weiyu’s throat tightened. The golden thread burned against his skin. He could feel Yuning’s presence now, sharp and alert, as if the prince had sensed the danger and was listening through the bond.
“The stars are silent on Prince Yuning,” Weiyu said. The lie tasted like ash. “His fate is unclear. The heavens have not yet decided his path.”
The Emperor stared at him. The silence stretched, thin as a blade. Weiyu did not blink. He did not breathe.
Then the Emperor laughed. It was a dry, brittle sound, like old bones rattling in a box. “You are a poor liar, Shen Weiyu. But you are a useful one. I will let your words stand for now. But know this: if I discover that you have hidden something from me, if I discover that your prophecies have been twisted to serve a prince’s ambition, I will have your tongue cut out and your hands broken. You will never write again.”
Weiyu bowed his head. “I understand, Your Majesty.”
“Leave me.”
Weiyu backed out of the throne room, his steps measured, his face blank. The moment the doors closed behind him, he let out a breath he had been holding since the audience began. His hands were shaking. His heart was pounding so hard he could hear it in his ears.
He walked quickly, his robes swishing against the marble floor. He needed to get back to his study. He needed to sit down. He needed to—
A hand grabbed his arm and pulled him into a side corridor.
Weiyu’s first instinct was to fight, but the grip was familiar, the warmth unmistakable. He looked up and found himself staring into Zhao Yuning’s eyes, dark and furious.
“What did you do?” Yuning demanded. His voice was low, urgent. “I felt it. I felt you lying. It was like swallowing glass.”
Weiyu pulled his arm free. “Not here. Someone will see us.”
“I don’t care.”
“You should.” Weiyu glanced down the corridor. A pair of eunuchs were walking toward them, their heads bowed. He grabbed Yuning’s wrist and dragged him into an empty storage room, closing the door behind them.
The room was small, filled with dusty scrolls and broken furniture. A single window let in a sliver of gray light. Weiyu leaned against the door, his chest heaving.
“The Emperor summoned me,” he said. “He asked about the prophecy. He asked about you.”
Yuning’s face went pale. “What did you tell him?”
“I told him the stars were unclear. I told him your fate was undecided. I lied.”
“You lied to the Emperor.” Yuning’s voice was flat, disbelieving.
“Yes.”
“For me.”
“Yes.”
Yuning stared at him. The anger in his eyes faded, replaced by something else, something Weiyu could not name. The golden thread pulsed between them, and for a moment, Weiyu felt a surge of emotion that was not his own—gratitude, sharp and overwhelming, mixed with fear.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” Yuning said quietly. “If he finds out—”
“He won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know that if I had told the truth, you would be dead by sunset.” Weiyu’s voice was harsh, harder than he intended. “I know that if you die, I die. I did not do this for you, Prince Yuning. I did it for myself.”
The lie hung in the air between them. Yuning’s eyes searched his face, and Weiyu felt exposed, as if the bond had stripped away all his defenses.
“You’re a terrible liar,” Yuning said, echoing the Emperor’s words. But his voice was soft, almost tender.
Weiyu looked away. “We need to be careful. The First Prince was watching me in the throne room. He knows something.”
“My brother is always watching.” Yuning’s jaw tightened. “He’s been waiting for a reason to destroy me. If he finds out about the bond—”
“He will use it.”
Silence. The dust motes danced in the sliver of light. Weiyu could hear Yuning’s heartbeat through the bond, fast and steady, a drumbeat of life.
“We need a plan,” Yuning said finally. “We can’t keep reacting. We need to move first.”
Weiyu looked at him. The prince’s face was serious, his usual carefree mask gone. In its place was something harder, something that looked almost like a ruler.
“What are you suggesting?” Weiyu asked.
Yuning met his eyes. “I’m suggesting that we stop being pieces on the board. I’m suggesting that we start playing the game.”
The words hung in the air, heavy with meaning. Weiyu felt a chill run down his spine. He had spent his whole life avoiding the game, hiding in his study, writing prophecies that he hoped would keep him invisible. But the golden thread on his wrist was a leash, and the Emperor’s suspicion was a noose.
There was no hiding anymore.
“What do you have in mind?” Weiyu asked.
Yuning smiled. It was a dangerous smile, sharp and bright. “First, we need to find out what my brother knows. Second, we need to make sure he can’t use it. And third—” He paused, his eyes flickering to Weiyu’s wrist. “Third, we need to find a way to break this bond before it kills us both.”
Weiyu’s heart clenched. The bond was a curse, a chain, a death sentence. But it was also the only thing that had made him feel alive in years. The thought of losing it, of going back to the cold, empty silence of his own mind, was terrifying in a way he could not explain.
“Agreed,” he said, and the word tasted like a betrayal.
Yuning nodded. He reached out and touched Weiyu’s wrist, his fingers brushing the golden thread. The touch sent a jolt through Weiyu’s body, a spark of warmth that spread through his chest.
“We’ll figure this out,” Yuning said. “Together.”
Weiyu did not answer. He could not. The words were stuck in his throat, tangled with fear and hope and something else, something he did not dare name.
Outside, the palace hummed with whispers and schemes. The game had begun. And Shen Weiyu, the Jade Scribe who had never wanted to play, was already in the middle of the board.