To Lie Divine

Shadow

The palace never truly slept. Not even in the silent hours between dusk and dawn, when the lanterns were dimmed and the laughter faded. It only held its breath — waiting.

And in the hush of twilight, when even ghosts dared not tread too loudly, a single figure walked barefoot through the Hall of Painted Silence.

Ye Yun.

He moved like smoke.

Hair bound in the high knot of the inner court, robes soft and silver-gray. His fan — always folded — rested in his sleeve, a symbol more than an ornament. Where the generals wore steel and the concubines wore pearls, he wore only the whisper of silk and the weight of unspoken things.

Few knew when he entered a room. Fewer knew when he left.
But everyone — everyone — knew to lower their voice when he passed.

---

The Emperor waited for him in the
Pavilion of Falling Snow — a private chamber reserved for meetings too delicate for the Council or too dangerous for the tea garden. No guards stood at the entrance. None were needed.

Ye Yun stepped inside.

The Emperor sat in shadow, sleeves loose, crown set aside. His wine was half-poured, and the game board between them was already mid-play. Black and white stones dotted the lacquered wood like a battlefield frozen mid-war.

“You’re early,” the Emperor said, not looking up.
Ye Yun bowed low. “You have a habit of not sleeping when your dreams are troubled, Your Majesty.”

A soft chuckle. “When are they not?”

The Emperor. Once a prince. Now a myth.

Born as the seventh son of a fading dynasty, he was never meant to rule. While his brothers fought over bloodlines and banquets, he played alone with ravens and maps. They mocked his quiet, called him the Ghost Son. It was said he barely spoke until he was twelve.

But when war struck the capital — a betrayal from within — the Ghost Son vanished for six months. And returned with fire.

Three brothers dead. One disappeared. One kneeling at his feet.

The old Emperor, his father, choked on poisoned tea during a banquet he didn’t attend.

The boy who had been invisible became the Emperor without a war.
And at his side, always, was Ye Yun — the only one who had followed him into exile. The only one who returned alive.

---

“Your little fox,” Ye Yun said, glancing at the board. “He bleeds too easily.”

“He hides it better than most,” the Emperor replied, placing a black stone. “That’s why I keep him.”
Ye Yun picked up a white one. “You keep him because he amuses you.”

“True,” the Emperor grinned. “But also because he sees things others do not. And because he does not care to be seen himself.”
Ye Yun placed his stone. “Then he is like me.”

The Emperor’s grin faltered — just a fraction. “No. You are worse. You see too much.”

The game continued in silence. Outside, the cicadas hummed. Inside, the board filled.

“I still remember the day you brought him,” the Emperor murmured. “So small. So sharp. You didn’t even bow when you delivered him. Just said—what was it?”

Ye Yun smiled faintly.
“The gods have cursed another mouth.”

The Emperor laughed. “Yes. That.”
“He’s dangerous,” Ye Yun said, fanning himself slowly. “You know that.”

“Good. So is the wind.”
“But unlike the wind, he’s not loyal.”
The Emperor’s eyes darkened. “Is that your warning, old friend?”

Ye Yun’s voice remained soft. “It is not a warning. It is a truth. And like all truths, I trust you’ll know when to ignore it.”

Ye Yun left before the board was finished.

He stepped back into the corridors just as the first whisper of morning light spilled across the palace floors. Servants bowed without meeting his eyes. Eunuchs shifted to make way. Not a ripple. Not a word.

And yet, as he passed the gardens, he paused.

On the far end of the moonlit path, Wei Wuxian sat cross-legged beneath the flowering pear tree, chin in his palm, grinning faintly as he teased a rabbit with a plum.
His robes were still rumpled from last night’s collapse. His eyes carried shadows that laughter could not wash away.

Ye Yun watched. He said nothing.

But a note fluttered in his hand — unread by all but him. On it, a list of court officials. One circled. Two crossed out. At the bottom, a new name recently scribbled.

Lan Wangji.

Ye Yun smiled. It was a tired, knowing thing.

The quietest ones always hit the hardest.

_______
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