Chapter 189: The whispers
The winds that whispered through the streets of the capital seemed colder than usual, as if they carried the breath of death itself.
The air hung heavy with mourning, and an eerie stillness blanketed the imperial city.
Flags of white fluttered solemnly on every building, and the palace gates, once adorned with scarlet banners and gilded finery, now stood stripped, their austerity casting a shadow across the hearts of all who passed.
News of the Emperor’s death had swept through the empire like wildfire, but it was not grief alone that stirred the masses. No—rumors, vile and persistent, slithered through the alleys and markets, whispered from mouth to mouth with both terror and glee.
The Empress and the Prime Minister—was it true? Had they truly been lovers all these years? Had they conspired to poison the Emperor and take the throne for their illegitimate son, Zhao Ling Xu?
In teahouses, customers huddled together, voices barely above a hush. "I heard they say the Empress wasn’t even with His Majesty when he died," one old man murmured, his beard quivering as he took a sip of bitter brew. "She came late, wailing like a banshee, but not a tear in her eye."
"My cousin serves in the palace," another chimed in. "He said the Crown Prince—our new Emperor to be, I suppose—accused her outright! Said she and the Prime Minister were nowhere to be found when the Emperor breathed his last."
The marketplace buzzed with talk of betrayal and hidden truths. Children, oblivious to the weight of it all, played funeral games with white ribbons in their hair, while adults speculated freely. "The Empress before her, Zhao Yan’s mother, died too suddenly," a woman selling silks whispered. "Didn’t they say it was illness? Bah! Illness, my foot. I always said something was off about that woman."
Others nodded gravely. "It all makes sense now, doesn’t it? The Prime Minister and the Empress plotted this long ago. Zhao Yan was never meant to take the throne in their eyes. They wanted their bastard child to rule. But look how it turned out. Karma has sharp claws."
Inside the palace, the transformation was even more jarring. Where once the grand corridors echoed with laughter and the scents of blooming orchids, now there lingered only the faint scent of incense and the soft shuffle of mourning steps. Every servant wore white. The walls bore the mark of sorrow. And in every corner, eyes watched, whispering, suspecting.
Officials gathered in anxious circles, debating the storm of gossip. Some were loyal to Zhao Yan and stood firm, but others—those who had once bent knee to the Prime Minister—looked pale and uncertain, their alliances shaken by the spectacle they had witnessed in the mourning hall.