Chapter 190: Either I die or you die!
The cold palace was nothing like the splendor the Empress had once known. The grand chambers of the Phoenix Pavilion, with their gilded walls and jeweled ceilings, were a faraway memory now. Her robes were no longer woven with gold thread or embroidered with phoenixes. The only fabric that now touched her skin was a coarse, dull-gray garment that scratched with every movement. Her hair, once adorned with jade pins and shimmering pearls, hung loosely around her face, tangled and greasy.
Only one maid had been assigned to her—a surly, disinterested girl who barely hid the disdain in her gaze. She swept the dusty corners of the room with languid strokes, making no effort to engage with the woman she once would have bowed to.
The Empress paced in the dim light of the cold palace, gnawing on her fingernails like a madwoman. Her mutterings grew louder and more frenzied with every step. "This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening," she repeated, each time more shrill. "I still need to put Ling Xu on the throne. I still need to..."
She stopped in the center of the room, her eyes wide with desperation. Her once-regal face was pale and sunken, twisted into a grimace of fury. "Zhao Yan," she hissed, clenching her fists so tightly her knuckles turned white. "I curse the day you were born. You worthless child! How dare you do this to me? After everything, after how I raised you, how dare you throw me away like this!"
Her voice rose to a scream, echoing off the cold stone walls. "You cannot treat me this way! You—worthless child—I will make sure you’re dead!"
A voice, calm but dripping with menace, cut through the air like a blade. "You want to ensure that I am dead?"
The Empress spun around, her eyes darting to the shadowed corner of the room. Zhao Yan stepped forward, the torchlight casting a fierce glow over his face. Gone was the golden mask he often wore in court, the stoic symbol of imperial restraint. What stood before her now was a man unmasked, both literally and figuratively, his face carved in stone, his eyes lit with cold fire.
She gasped, stepping back involuntarily. Her knees buckled, but pride held her upright. She straightened, narrowing her eyes at him with all the defiance she could muster. "What are you doing here? Come to mock me, have you? Release me from this prison this instant. That throne doesn’t belong to you. It never did. It belongs to my son."
Zhao Yan took slow, measured steps toward her, and with each step, the Empress felt a prickle of something she hadn’t felt in decades: fear. "Your son," he repeated quietly. "The same son whose very existence you tried to hide. The same son who doesn’t even want the throne."
"Lies!" she spat. "All lies. You were never fit to be emperor. I did what I had to do for the good of the empire."
"You poisoned my father," Zhao Yan said evenly, his voice void of emotion, which made it all the more terrifying. "You plotted against my mother. You manipulated the court, silenced dissenters, and corrupted the very soul of this palace. And still, you claim righteousness?"