Vermilion String

Chapter 4:Sixteen Pieces: Her Dowry

Dawn had not broken. But the Inner Court was already awake.

The phoenix palanquin entered through the Zhengyang Gate.

Eight bearers. Their feet did not make a sound on stone. Red lacquer gleamed like fresh blood. Gold phoenixes glared from the roof, wings spread, ready to tear. Silk curtains embroidered with peonies hid the woman inside. But everyone knew.

The Empress Dowager's personal guard surrounded it. Spears upright. Faces carved from winter.

No one announced it. No one needed to.

The whole Inner Court held its breath.

Minister Liu's daughter had arrived.

---

Wen Shuyan woke to pain, and to silence.

The infirmary was too quiet. No coughing patients. No clatter of medicine bowls. The physician who’d bound his back was gone. Even the mice in the walls had stopped.

Only the smell remained. Blood and bitter herbs. And underneath it — fear.

Every breath burned. Eight strikes. The physician had said he was lucky. Two strikes deeper and his spine would have shattered. He would never walk again.

He did not feel lucky.

He turned his head. The thin pillow stuck to his cheek with dried blood. His tongue tasted of iron. Of the courtyard. Of Yichen.

*Yichen.*

The name tore through him like the bamboo rod. He remembered the bench. The wood wet. Yichen's blood on the stone, spreading, reaching his knees where he knelt.

*"On our wedding night. The night they strangle us for it."*

The words burned worse than the wounds. Worse than the eight lines carved into his back.

The door creaked.

Shuyan flinched. Expected guards. Expected the white silk for hanging. Expected the Empress Dowager’s smile as the noose went round his neck.

Instead, it was Commander Pei.

He carried a tray. White porcelain bowl. Steam rising, fragile in the cold room. Congee with red dates. A small dish of salted plums. Food for mourners. Food for the condemned.

He set it on the stool beside the cot. Did not look at Shuyan’s face. Only at the bandages. Only at the blood.

"Eat," Pei said. His voice was flat. Scraped clean. "Her Majesty orders it. You are not to die. Not yet."

Shuyan stared at him. At the man who knelt in the courtyard. Who unrolled the bamboo slip with steady hands. Who condemned him with a voice that did not shake.

"Why?" Shuyan whispered. His throat was raw. Torn from screaming Yichen’s name. "Why did you... you saw us. You know..."

Pei's jaw tightened. For one second — one heartbeat — something cracked in his eyes. Guilt, maybe. Or grief. Then it was gone. Stone again.

"I serve the Great Qing," Pei said. "I serve Her Majesty. I saw what I saw. I spoke what I spoke. The law does not care for *why*."

He turned to leave. His armor did not clink. He moved like a ghost.

"Commander," Shuyan said. The word scraped his throat bloody. "The string... on my wrist. That night. In my room. Did you... did you tell her that too?"

Pei stopped. His back to Shuyan. His hand on the door.

"I saw foreheads touch," Pei said. Quiet. Almost too quiet to hear. "I saw a vermilion string. I saw His Highness's hand in your sleeve. The rest..." He paused. "The rest is for Her Majesty to judge. And for me to live with."

The door shut.

Shuyan closed his eyes. The congee smelled of dates and death. Of the offerings left at graves.

He could not eat.

---

The Eastern Palace.

Xiao Yichen could not breathe without tasting blood.

Ten strikes. The physician bound his back with silk and herbs and lies. Said three ribs were cracked. One lung bruised. If he moved wrong, if he laughed, if he cried, he would cough blood for a month.

He lay on his stomach. The sheets beneath him were white. Clean. As befitted the Crown Prince. His inner robe — thin white silk — pulled tight over the bandages. The white gauze was already stained brown and red, the color showing faintly through the silk. The physicians had warned the Empress Dowager: *“If His Highness walks, each step will tear the cuts. He may collapse. He may bleed internally.”*

She answered: *“Then he will walk. A Crown Prince does not receive his bride from a palanquin like a corpse.”*

A eunuch knelt beside the bed. Head bowed so low his forehead touched the floor. His voice shook.

"Your Highness. The Empress Dowager commands. You will receive Minister Liu's daughter at the hour of the dragon. You will show courtesy. You will smile. You will accept the betrothal gifts."

Yichen said nothing. His cheek was pressed to clean silk. His eyes, open. Cold.

"Your Highness," the eunuch whispered. "Please. Answer. If you do not, Her Majesty will send the guards. She will send them to the infirmary. She said..."

"I heard," Yichen said.

His voice was rough. Broken glass. But steady. Jade Frost. Not the boy who bled. The Crown Prince who ordered armies.

The eunuch bowed lower. "The lady's name is Liu Meixue. Twenty years. Known for virtue. For talent in poetry. For embroidery. Her dowry includes jade. Eight pieces. Carved..."

"Get out."

The word was soft. But the eunuch ran like the hall was on fire.

Yichen pushed himself up. Slow. Every muscle in his back screamed. His vision went white for a second. He gripped the edge of the bed until the wood creaked. He did not make a sound.

He turned his head. On the floor beside his bed lay green dust. Powdered jade. The eunuchs had swept it from the courtyard and left it there — by Her Majesty’s order. A warning. A trophy. His thumb ring. The one he crushed yesterday.

He stared at it. His face did not change.

*Mine by blood.*

He had said it. In the courtyard. In the infirmary. With Shuyan’s hand bleeding in his.

Now they would bring him a bride. With eight pieces of jade.

He stood. The room tilted. Pain tore up his spine like claws. He locked his knees. Breathed through his teeth. One breath. Two.

He walked.

Each step was a knife between his ribs. Each step threatened to drop him. He walked anyway.

---

Hour of the dragon.

The main hall of the Eastern Palace smelled of incense and new silk and fear. The great doors stood open. They were always open for a betrothal. To show the heavens were witness.

Liu Meixue entered with her father, Minister Liu. She wore pink silk. Pale as cherry blossoms before they fall. Her face was powdered white. Her lips painted the red of a wound. She walked with small steps. Eyes down. Every inch the virtuous daughter of a high minister.

She carried a tray covered in red silk.

The Empress Dowager sat on the high seat. Her face was calm. Carved from jade. She had won. The board was set. The pieces were moving.

Xiao Yichen stood at the foot of the steps. He wore court robes. Black and gold. The nine-dragon crown had been forced back onto his head. He had walked here. Alone. Every step had been agony. No one saw it. His back was straight as a spear. Two guards flanked him, hands near but not touching — ordered not to catch him unless he fell before the court. He would not give them the satisfaction.

Only the sweat on his temples betrayed the pain. Only the way his fingers, hidden in his sleeves, dug into his palms until they bled betrayed the effort. His face was Jade Frost. Cold. Empty. A mask carved from ice.

Through the black outer robe, the faint stain of his bandages showed at the collar of his white inner silk — brown and red against white. Not enough to shame him. Enough to say: *I’m still bleeding. I’m still standing.*

He did not look at Liu Meixue.

Minister Liu bowed so low his beard touched the floor. "This subject presents his daughter. May she serve His Highness. May she bring honor to the Eastern Palace. May she bear sons to strengthen the Great Qing."

Liu Meixue knelt. Raised the tray above her head. Her hands did not shake. "I offer my dowry. Eight pieces. To show my sincerity. To show my heart."

A eunuch lifted the red silk.

Eight pieces of jade. Carved into pairs. Dragon and phoenix. Male and female. Each pair bound with red string. Vermilion. Bright. Festive.

The hall went silent. Dead silent.

Every servant, every guard, every official knew what vermilion string meant now. The whole palace had whispered it since yesterday. *The Crown Prince. The servant. The string.*

That eight pieces was the number in Article 17. *Cut into eight pieces at the market.*

The Empress Dowager's eyes cut to Yichen. Sharp. Testing. Waiting for him to break.

He did not break.

But his jaw. It clenched. Once. The only crack in the ice.

Liu Meixue kept her head bowed. Voice sweet as poisoned honey. "I heard... His Highness favors vermilion string. I stayed up three nights to tie these myself. To please His Highness. To show I know his heart."

She did not know. She could not know. She thought it was romance. She thought eight pieces was lucky. She thought she was winning.

The Empress Dowager smiled. It did not reach her eyes. It never did. "Raise your head, child. Let His Highness see your face. See the face of his future Empress."

Liu Meixue raised her head.

She was beautiful. Twenty. Skin like the finest porcelain. Eyes like a startled doe. Innocent. Untouched. Everything Shuyan was not.

She looked at Xiao Yichen. Hopeful. Shy. Expectant.

He looked through her.

He saw a cot in the infirmary. A thin back bleeding through white bandages. A hand pressed to his, skin to skin. Blood to blood. A vermilion string bright against dirty skin.

*"Mine,"* he had whispered. *"By blood. Always."*

"His Highness?" the Empress Dowager said. Soft. Dangerous. "You will accept the lady's dowry. You will thank her for her sincerity."

The whole hall waited. No one breathed.

Yichen opened his mouth. He tasted iron. From his bitten lip. From his broken lung. From his broken heart. He swallowed it.

"I..."

A servant ran through the open doors. Prostrated himself at the threshold. Forehead to the floor. Voice high with terror, with tears.

"Your Majesty! Your Highness! The infirmary! The servant Wen Shuyan..."

Every head turned. The Empress Dowager went still.

"He hanged himself," the servant sobbed. "With a sheet. From the beam. He is... he is..."

The tray fell from Liu Meixue's hands.

Eight pieces of jade scattered across the floor. Red string tangled, snaked, like severed veins.

One piece rolled. And rolled. And stopped near Xiao Yichen's foot.

A phoenix. Carved in jade. Bound in red.

Xiao Yichen looked down at it.

And then he laughed.

Soft. Broken. Awful.

The sound was worse than screaming. Worse than the bamboo rod. Worse than death. It was the sound of ice shattering.

He took one step forward. The movement tore something in his back. White-hot. His vision blurred. He grabbed the dragon pillar to stay upright. His knuckles went white. The only sound was his breath — sharp, controlled, each one costing him.

He wrenched himself away from the pillar. Past Liu Meixue. Past her father, who was now on his knees, shaking. Past the Empress Dowager, whose jade mask had finally cracked.

No one stopped him. No one *dared*.

He walked. Each step was a battle. Each step was defiance. He did not stumble. He was Jade Frost. He would not give them the sight.

But a single drop fell from his mouth onto the stone. Just one. Red on white.

---

The infirmary reeked of death.

Shuyan hung from the beam.

A white sheet twisted into a rope. Stained brown and red with his own blood from the beating. Tight around his neck. His face was pale as the sheets below. His lips blue as dusk.

But his eyes were open.

And he was breathing. Ragged. Wet. Alive.

Commander Pei stood beneath him. Sword drawn, gleaming. He had cut the sheet the second he entered. Caught the body before it hit the ground. His face was stone. But his hands shook.

Shuyan gasped. Choked. Clawed at his throat. At the rope burn. At the air.

"Alive," Pei said. His voice was flat. Empty. "Barely. You fool."

The door slammed open. It hit the wall hard enough to crack the plaster.

Xiao Yichen stood there. Leaning on the frame. Face white as death. A trace of blood at the corner of his lips — the only color on him. His black court robes were immaculate. Only at the collar of his inner silk could you see the faint brown-red of his bandages. No stains on the outer robe. Only the way he held himself, too still, too careful, said every step had been agony.

He pushed off the frame. Staggered three steps. Collapsed to his knees. The impact must have been unbearable. His face did not change. He did not make a sound. He gathered Shuyan into his arms. Heedless of the blood on Shuyan. Heedless of the wounds on both their backs. Heedless of Pei's sword.

"Shuyan," Yichen breathed. "Shuyan, look at me. Look at me."

Shuyan's eyes focused. Slowly. Swimming through pain. He saw Yichen. Saw the crown askew. Saw the tears. Saw the faint stain at his collar — Yichen’s blood, like his own.

He raised a shaking hand. Touched Yichen's face. The vermilion string on his wrist brushed Yichen's cheek. It was still there. It had never left.

"On our wedding night," Shuyan whispered. Voice broken. Ruined. Rasping from the sheet. "You promised... you promised we'd die together..."

"I did," Yichen said. Tears fell before he could stop them. Hot. Fast. Onto Shuyan's face. Onto the red mark on his neck. Onto the vermilion string at his wrist, washing it clean. "I promised. I keep my promises. We die together. Not you alone. Never you alone. Do you hear me?"

He pressed their foreheads together. The way he had that night in the servant room. Desperate. Claiming.

Skin to skin. Blood to blood. Tears to tears.

Commander Pei watched.

For a long moment, he did not move. His sword hand tightened. Then, slowly, he sheathed it.

The sound was very loud in the quiet room.

And then he walked out.

He did not bow. He did not speak.

He would tell the Empress Dowager before the incense burned out.

That the Crown Prince had chosen.

That the servant had chosen.

That Article 17 would have to cut sixteen pieces now. Because eight was not enough.

Because if one died, the other would follow.

By law. By blood. By beating.

By wedding night.