It was a false spring. Three months into the new year, the weather turned, and it snowed again. The flowers, tricked into blooming, now froze in the bitter wind.
It was a lesson the boy-emperor, only two winters on the throne, took deep into his heart like a throbbing drumbeat:
Do not trust. Do not. Do not ever trust.
—
Wang Kaixuan crouched beneath the study-room table, mere steps away from the two men he was hiding from. The yellow, heavily embroidered tablecloth that flowed down to the four dragon-claw legs shielded him from view. He dared not move a muscle, not even to scratch his nose, which was—you won’t be surprised to hear—itching terribly. It always does under such circumstances, doesn’t it? Kaixuan wasn’t sure if it was an ant, a cobweb, or simply a very bad feeling.
“He’s not here,” one of the men was saying. “He must have finished his studies early and gone off to play.” His tone was low and musing, the words unfurling slowly like smoke coiling off his tongue.
Kaixuan recognized the voice straightaway. How could he not? It had whispered into his ear every day for the past two years, telling him what to say during his morning audiences with the ministers, instructing him how to respond to the proposals submitted to him. It belonged to Zhang Yu, the grand chancellor. He was the late queen’s brother and had climbed to his position through a combination of blood ties and ruthless ambition. The boy shuddered. It had been a long time since he’d trusted anyone, and there was no one he distrusted more than his uncle.
“Do we have to chase after that child again?” the other man grumbled. This voice, haughty and nasal, was familiar too, and no less hated by the boy-emperor. It was the imperial secretary, Liang Jin.
These two men had controlled every aspect of Kaixuan’s life since his father died two years ago from a sudden, unidentified illness. Now, you must know that as a rule, emperors
do not die suddenly from unexplained causes. I’m sorry to say that he had probably been murdered, and by men clever enough to hide the evidence. Ascending the throne at the tender age of ten, Kaixuan had had no choice but to let himself be guided by the very people who he knew had likely killed his father.
“That child,” Zhang Yu replied in a measured tone, “if I may remind you, is our emperor.”
Liang Jin snorted. “In name only. Oh, I’m so tired of this babysitting. We should just kill him now and be done with the farce.”
Kaixuan’s fists tightened against his sides, not from fear but from anger. He wanted to rise up now and throw Liang Jin’s treasonous words back against his face. He wanted to yell to the palace guards to come and arrest these traitors. But the palace guards were all under Zhang Yu’s control. Kaixuan
was the emperor, but he was just a child and had no real power.
Even knowing this, the boy wanted to rise up. He had smiled and nodded and obeyed these evil men for two long years, and still they wanted to kill him. The hot blood rushed in his ears, and his calf muscles tensed, ready to support him.
And then it seemed the wind blew through the room, knocking over a slim vase on the table with a clunk that felt like a sharp rap to his head, and he remembered what he had in his anger forgotten:
You knew this already. There is nothing to be agitated about. Be still.
The boy stilled.
“Kill him?” Zhang Yu was saying, his tone casual. Kaixuan imagined him standing tall in his dark palace robes, his narrow face as smooth and cold as stone. He would be flicking some imaginary dust off his long, wide sleeves while looking at Liang Jin with a sideways glance, as he did with those he considered beneath his contempt. Which was, basically, everyone—even his emperor. “Of course we’ll kill him,” Zhang Yu continued. “But now is not yet the right time.”
Copyright © 2026 by Ying Ping Low. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
