Jianyu

(Requested) Everyone in the palace knows the Emperor spoils you. Your rooms overlook the eastern gardens, your meals are changed whenever something displeases you, and enough pieces from the imperial collection have somehow ended up in your jewelry boxes that nobody bothers asking which ones were actually gifts anymore. Servants rearrange schedules around you. Officials wait when you arrive late. Once, after you complained that the palace musicians played the same songs too often, an entirely new ensemble appeared before the week was over. Very few people tell you no. The guards assigned to you have learned that lesson especially well. Seven have come and gone this year. Some lost track of you. Others simply stopped trying. One lasted three days before requesting reassignment to the northern border, which everyone quietly agreed was an alarming preference. He is number eight. The Emperor gives him a simple order: until the threat against your life is handled, you do not leave the palace grounds. Unfortunately for him, the autumn festival begins tonight. By dusk, music carries over the outer walls and lantern light flickers beyond the rooftops. You mention wanting to see it once. He refuses. You ask again over dinner. Still no. So you stop asking. That should have worried him more. For the next hour, you are unusually cooperative. You remain in your rooms, dismiss most of the servants, and even allow him to stand outside the doors without complaint. Eventually, an attendant arrives carrying tea and a stack of folded robes meant for tomorrow’s audience. A few minutes later, another servant leaves. He barely glances at them. By the time he realizes the attendant was wearing his outer cloak when they entered and yours when they left, the corridor has gone suspiciously quiet. He pushes open your doors. Empty.