Life in prison wasn't dramatic. It was quiet. Too quiet.
No footsteps. No gossip. No Xiaohua muttering about split ends or the scandal of last week's tea leaves. Just stone walls sweating cold air, a straw mat that might've once passed for bedding, and the faint, rhythmic drip of water echoing from somewhere far beyond the torchlight.
I didn't cry. Not because I was brave. Because I was emptied out. Wrung dry.
Whatever fire I had left fizzled somewhere between the second bowl of lukewarm porridge and the realization that the walls weren't going to answer me.
Twice a day, they fed me—porridge as thin as the patience of the palace court, served in chipped ceramic bowls that clinked with finality. I ate it without complaint. What was I going to do? Send it back with a note that said needs salt and justice?
I tried to sleep. I tried to meditate. I even tried to call the water again—stretching out with my breath, the way Ming Yu taught me, willing the basin to respond.
Nothing. Not even a ripple.
Either the Goddess of Water was on vacation, or she was done with me.
But it wasn't the boredom that got to me.
It was the silence.
The kind that filled your lungs until you couldn't tell if you were breathing or just remembering how. The kind that replayed every moment on loop, dragging out each thought like a confession.
Maybe I should've walked away. Let Yufei throw her tantrum. Let the tea spill and smiled politely while she mocked my maid. Maybe I should've caught the pitcher midair instead of reversing it. Maybe I should've shut up. Smiled. Curtsied. Pretended not to feel anything at all.
But she slapped Xiaohua. Open-handed. Loud enough to silence the room. She drew blood from someone who had done nothing but serve quietly, loyally, with more grace than Yufei could ever teach or fake
And I realized—if I had the chance to go back, I wouldn't do it differently. I would do it again. Without hesitation.
****
By the second morning, the silence cracked.
Footsteps echoed down the corridor—measured, armored. A key scraped into the iron lock with a noise that sounded like judgment.
The door opened with a low groan. Cold air rushed in.
A guard stepped inside, face carved from stone.
"It's time."
I stood slowly, smoothing the wrinkles from my robe as if that could smooth out the chaos inside me. My legs ached from kneeling. My heart slammed against my ribs like it wanted to escape without me.
But I walked.
They led me through the inner corridors of the palace—once familiar, now foreign. What had once been lined with warm lanterns and laughter now felt sterile, hushed, like a mausoleum of whispered betrayals.
The Hall of Virtuous Justice loomed ahead, cloaked in smoke from ceremonial incense and the cold breath of expectation.
As I stepped inside, the scent hit me first—sandalwood, camphor, and something sharper beneath it. Fear, maybe.
The air was thick, pressing against my skin. The stone tiles gleamed underfoot like glass polished for an execution. At the far end of the hall, elevated on the dais of carved jade and ebony—
The King.
Seated beside Queen Li Hua.
My breath caught in my throat.
That wasn't right.
The King wouldn't usually attend the inner court trials. These were matters for the Queen, the ministers, the whispering silks of the harem. His presence meant something had shifted.
Queen Li Hua looked exquisite and lethal. Her robes were pristine, her posture a work of art. But her smile was tight. And the muscle in her jaw… clenched once. Briefly.
She was not in control. Something was wrong.
I was led to the center of the hall, where the ceremonial mat waited like a trap. I knelt. The woven reed scratched my knees through the fabric of my robes. My hands rested on my thighs, palms up—open, vulnerable.
Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian sat at the left flank, draped in formal robes, their silence louder than any protest. Wei Wuxian's brow was furrowed, lips a tight line. His gaze met mine. Sharp. Focused.
Where is Ming Yu?
I scanned the crowd. The rows of ministers. The seated consorts and stewards.
He wasn't here.
Why wasn't he here?
Before panic could fully coil in my gut, a court official stepped forward. His robes rustled like dry leaves. He cleared his throat and unfurled the ceremonial scroll—every movement practiced, slow, final.
"Li Mei Lin, consort to Prince Wei, stands accused of assaulting Lady Wang Yufei with scalding water during a cultural gathering, resulting in injury to the face and upper body."
Each word struck like a hammer on stone.
Still, I didn't flinch.
The court ladies were called. Three of them. Pretty, poised, well-rehearsed. They bowed low, voices soft and perfectly distressed.
"She raised her voice." "She lost her temper." "She threw the water."
Same script, three different performances. No one mentioned the way the water moved. No one mentioned the way Yufei lifted the pitcher first.
No one even mentioned about me controlling water? That was odd.
I looked to Wei Wuxian again. His eyes narrowed. Something had shifted in his posture.
The physician stepped out from behind the screen, his face composed, voice neutral, but the weight of his words settled like stone.
"The patient sustained burns across the left shoulder, upper chest, and collarbone," he said, hands folded in front of him. "In addition, there are visible scalds along the left side of the face, extending from the cheekbone to the jawline. The skin in several areas was blistered, with some layers broken. Swelling and inflammation remain significant."
He paused, letting the silence stretch before continuing.
"Though treatment has begun, scarring—particularly to the face—cannot be ruled out."
Yufei, naturally, was "too unwell" to attend.
How convenient.
The Queen's advisor stepped forward next—an ancient relic of a man with brows like tassels and a voice sharpened by decades of condemnation.
"To mar a noble lady's face is not merely violence," he intoned. "It is an offense against her honor, her future, her value. This is not an impulsive act. This is cruelty."
A few ministers nodded in grim agreement. Another rose, voice laden with performative sorrow. "She may be a prince's consort, but that cannot excuse harm. We must consider the highest punishment."
My breath caught. My stomach turned to stone. Every eye shifted to the throne. Queen Li Hua didn't look at me, but the King did. His gaze was steady, unreadable, and unbearably heavy
Highest punishment.
This wasn't a trial. It was a ritual—an erasure in progress.
The King raised his hand. "Before judgment is passed," he said, calm but resonant, "I wish to hear the full truth." The words fell like a dropped veil, silencing the chamber.
A beat later, movement to my left drew every gaze. Wei Wuxian stood, tall and clear-eyed. "Your Majesty, I would also like to present new evidence," he said, voice steady as stone.
Heads turned. Eyes widened. The room shifted.
The great doors of the Hall of Virtuous Justice slammed open with the force of a battering ram.
A thunderclap of sound echoed off marble columns, rattling the incense burners.
Gasps rippled through the court like a flock of startled doves—sharp, sudden, collective. Fans twitched. Sleeves rustled. A feather dropped from someone's headdress and spiraled silently to the floor.
Ming Yu
He stood framed in the doorway like judgment carved in silhouette—dust clinging to his robes, wind still tugging at the hem as if the storm hadn't finished with him yet. His hair was slightly disheveled, cheeks flushed from exertion, and his eyes—
His eyes burned. Cold. Controlled. Glacial fire.
He didn't say a word. He didn't have to.
Because beneath him—no, dragged beside him, stumbling with every step—
Was Lady Wang Yufei.
She looked nothing like the vision painted by court physicians. Just a single silk slipper dangling from one foot, the other bare and dusty. Her robe—once perfectly arranged—was wrinkled and askew, the sash hanging loosely like it had been tied in haste or yanked mid-struggle.
Her makeup, once pristine, was smeared slightly at the edges—less tragic injury, more someone cried into her pillow after losing an argument.
She looked annoyed. Not in pain. Not injured. Certainly not disfigured. Not a single blister marred her porcelain skin. No swelling. No bruises. No trace of the so-called trauma they had just etched into scrolls and official court records.
Silence followed—not the awkward kind, but the kind so thick with implication that even the flicker of a torch felt like shouting.
Ming Yu stepped forward, brought her like evidence, every stride deliberate, every motion louder than words.
And then—without ceremony, without hesitation—he dropped her.
Yufei dropped to her knees in the center of the court, right next to me. Her silks pooled beneath her like a collapsed lie.
Ming Yu turned to face the throne and bowed his head—just once, a gesture stiff with restrained fury.
"My apologies for the delay," he said, voice like velvet stretched over steel. "Lady Wang was… reluctant to appear."
Queen Li Hua paled. The movement was small, but I saw it—how the color drained from her lips, how her hand tightened around the edge of her sleeve.
Several ministers shifted in their seats, eyes darting like startled mice. One of them actually recoiled, his fan dropping from limp fingers.
The King slowly leaned forward, the carved jade ornament in his headdress catching the lantern light. His voice—low and dangerous—rumbled like distant thunder.
"What is the meaning of this?"
Before Ming Yu could speak, Wei Wuxian stepped in, every movement precise and deliberate. His robes flowed behind him like water, and his expression had shifted—no longer playful, no longer composed.
Now, he was dangerous.
He bowed slightly toward the throne and gestured to the woman still kneeling at the center of the court.
"Your Majesty, as you can see," he said smoothly, "Lady Wang appears in no such condition as described in the physician's report. There are no burns. No bruises. No sign of permanent damage—despite the written testimony sworn moments ago."
He turned slowly, gaze landing on me with quiet force.
"Which leads us to a single, irrefutable conclusion—"
A pause.
"—my consort, Li Mei Lin, did not assault Lady Wang. Because no such injury ever occurred."
The words struck the room like a lightning bolt.
I couldn't breathe. My hands were trembling. My chest felt too tight.
And then suddenly, helplessly, the tears came. Hot. Unruly. Rushing down my cheeks before I could stop them. I bowed my head, fists clenched in my lap, breath catching as wave after wave of relief crashed through me.
Yufei trembled where she knelt, her spine hunched and fragile beneath her silks. Her lips parted, quivering—caught somewhere between a sob, a gasp, and another well-rehearsed lie that couldn't quite find the stage.
She looked like a porcelain doll that had been dropped and realized too late it wasn't made to break.
The King turned slowly, gaze sweeping across the assembled ministers like the arc of a sword being drawn—silent, deliberate, and sharp enough to draw blood without touching skin.
"I expect an explanation," he said, voice like polished ice cracking under pressure.
"From everyone who supported this accusation."
No shouting. No theatrics. Just authority so cold and clear it left frost in the air.
That was the moment I knew.
This trial wasn't about me anymore. It was about them. And for the first time since I'd stepped into this gilded maze of power and whispers—
I wasn't the only one on my knees.
The silence shattered. A loud, collective thud echoed through the chamber as all three palace witnesses dropped to the floor. The sound of their knees hitting marble reverberated like the beat of a war drum muffled in guilt.
Their foreheads pressed to the ground. Faces hidden. Voices cracking.
"Forgive us!" one of the girls cried, her voice high, frantic, soaked in shame. "We were forced—threatened—we didn't want to lie!"
The court gasped again, sharper this time. Real shock and fear.
Even the palace physician, once calm and clinical, was now shaking, ghost-pale. He dropped beside them with trembling hands, spine bowed low as if trying to disappear into the floor.
The Queen's fan trembled in her grasp, ever so slightly. Her knuckles turned white as snow. But she said nothing.
The King's jaw flexed. His grip tightened on the armrests of his throne until the carved wood groaned beneath his fingers.
Just then, Wei Wuxian stepped forward.
No flourish. No flare. Just presence. Commanding, sharp, and calm as a rising tide. His voice remained steady. "Your Majesty," he said, each word smooth as silk drawn over steel, "in light of what has been revealed, may I humbly request permission to lead an official investigation into this incident," he paused deliberately, "and into the threats that silenced these witnesses."
His voice rang like a distant temple bell, low, measured, and impossible to ignore. The court held its breath. The King studied him, his expression unreadable but not indifferent. A long pause passed between them, slow and heavy, like a gauntlet falling.
A single nod. Permission granted. And with that quiet gesture, the tide shifted.
The Queen's mask did not crack, but her silence carried weight. It was the loudest sound in the room.
She sat still as marble, serene and untouched, yet the quiet around her pulsed with tension, like something coiled just beneath the surface.
The three girls remained bowed, foreheads pressed to the floor, their backs trembling with each breath. Then, finally, one of them lifted her head slightly and spoke, her voice no louder than a fraying thread.
"It was the Wang family," she whispered. "Their servant cornered us. Said if we didn't testify against Consort Li… our families would suffer."
Another girl lifted her head slightly, eyes wide and red-rimmed. "They forged the physician's report," she said, barely louder than the first. "Lady Wang… she wasn't injured. Not at all. They told us exactly what to say. Word for word."
Gasps rippled through the court again, sharper now. Not surprise. Outrage.
The physician broke first. His sobs cracked the air like glass underfoot.
"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" he cried, collapsing to his knees. "They handed me the report. I was ordered to read it aloud. I never examined her. I never even saw her."
The chamber erupted into whispers—no longer cautious, but venomous. And this time, none of it was directed at me.
It was all turning.
Ministers who had been so quick to demand my punishment now avoided the King's gaze.
Then, the third girl finally raised her face. Tears clung to her lashes. She didn't speak to the court. She looked at me.
"Xiaohua didn't mean to spill the tea," she said softly. "She was pushed. By Lady Wang's maid."
Her voice caught. She swallowed hard, then continued.
"Lady Wang slapped her. Hard. I saw it. And when Consort Li stood up to stop it…"
She hesitated. The whole room leaned in.
"…something happened. The water—it moved. Like the air bent around it. It didn't spill. It… flew. She controlled it straight back onto Lady Wang."
Gasps broke out in earnest this time, audible and uncontained. The room rippled with unease. Heads turned. Someone dropped a scroll. Even the guards at the door exchanged tense glances.
Across the chamber, Wei Wuxian's expression shifted. Subtle, but there. The moment the word controlled left the girl's mouth, something behind his eyes flickered. Alarm. Like he had just realized this was no longer the narrative he had prepared to defend.
Lan Wangji stood as still as ever, but I saw it. The faintest twitch in his jaw. His fingers, barely curled at his side, tensed like a bowstring.
Oh no. They weren't ready for this truth.
The King, sharp-eyed and suddenly very still, turned his gaze toward the witness.
"What do you mean," he said slowly, "she controlled the water?"
The girl trembled. "I—I don't know, Your Majesty. It just… it looked like the water moved on its own. Like it didn't splash normally—it flew. It… flew back toward Lady Wang."
The King's eyes narrowed. Then he turned, slowly, toward Wei Wuxian. His voice, when it came, was velvet-wrapped steel.
"Prince Wei," he said, each word deliberate, "is your consort… a cultivator?"
Wei Wuxian stiffened. His expression was composed, but the pause before his reply was telling.
"Not that I know of, Your Majesty," he said, carefully measured. "If she is… she does not know it herself."
The King did not nod.
Did not speak.
Did not so much as blink.
He simply turned his head and glanced, just once, at the captain of the royal guard. No words were needed.
The man stepped forward immediately, his footsteps echoing in the charged silence of the hall. Every minister, every servant, every noble eye followed his approach like something sacred or dangerous was about to unfold.
He stopped in front of me. His armor caught the light, lacquered black trimmed with crimson thread, and he bowed slightly at the waist.
"My apologies, Consort Li," he said, voice low and formal.
I barely had time to draw breath before he reached out, extending two fingers. They hovered for half a second, then gently pressed to the inside of my wrist.
A pulse of warmth surged through me. Spiritual energy—clean, precise, and unmistakably trained. It sank into my skin like a tide brushing against stone, cool and soft, but searching.
The guard held still. Eyes closed. Listening to the flow within me—listening for something I didn't know how to give.
Then slowly, he withdrew. His brow furrowed. He turned toward the throne. A single shake of the head.
"She does not possess a golden core," he said clearly.
A ripple moved through the court.
The King leaned back, resting one hand on the carved armrest of his throne. His gaze didn't soften. If anything, it sharpened—cutting past me like a blade trying to find the truth beneath my skin.
"Then how," he asked, voice slow and deceptively calm, "does a woman without cultivation ability… command water?"
No one answered.
And then, another voice. Low, measured, laced with the dust of old scrolls and deeper truths.
"Your Majesty," a man said, stepping out from the line of ministers with the slow gravity of someone who rarely spoke in court, because when he did, everyone listened.
He was tall and lean, his scholar's robe layered in soft earth tones, the seal of the Royal Archive glinting faintly at his chest. His beard was streaked with silver, and his eyes carried the weight of long years buried in ink and silence.
"The girl may not be lying," he said. "In fact… she may be part of something we no longer understand."
The King's gaze turned toward him. Sharp. Measuring. "Explain."
The minister bowed. "I am Minister Chang, Keeper of the Royal Archives and Records of Cultivation. My duty is to preserve and study the ancient scrolls, especially those long sealed or forgotten."
He paused, carefully weighing his next words.
"In the earliest records of cultivation," he began, "there are stories of elemental control. Earth, fire, wind, and lightning. Over the centuries, powerful cultivators have emerged, rare talents capable of commanding these forces."
A quiet murmur of acknowledgment moved through the court.
"But water," he continued, his voice lowering, "has remained elusive."
Curiosity stirred among the ministers.
"Why?" the King asked.
"Because," Minister Chang said, his tone turning solemn, "for reasons unknown, no cultivator has been able to control water for the past five hundred years. Not a single sect. Not a single lineage. The records show it once existed, barely and faintly, but it has not been awakened since. The element resists. Some say it is tied to emotion or memory. Others say it requires something more."
He looked toward the center of the hall.
"But no one knows why. Only that water has remained silent for centuries."
Minister Shen continued, stepping forward with reverent care.
"There is, however, one record. One scroll, buried in the sealed vaults of the old dynasty. A myth, almost. It speaks of a figure known only as the Goddess of Water—a woman who, it is said, could summon rivers from stone and part lakes with her hands. Her power was not inherited but awakened."
My mouth went dry.
Minister Chang glanced at the King, then the Queen, and finally at me.
"But the scroll is fragmented," he admitted. "Much was lost to time. We do not know her name. We do not know where she came from. Only that she appeared once... and was never seen again."
The chamber felt colder somehow, as if the air itself had recoiled in awe.
The King turned his head slowly. His gaze was sharp, like a blade drawn halfway from its sheath, and he looked directly at me.
"Consort Li," he said, voice low, deliberate, each word dropped like a stone into still water. "Can you control water?"
The question hit harder than I expected.
I opened my mouth. Closed it again.
My tongue felt thick. My breath caught. I could feel every pair of eyes in the hall pressing against my skin like a second, suffocating robe.
I scanned the room—searching for a lifeline. Any lifeline.
Wei Wuxian. He didn't speak. But his face?
That tight, this-was-not-in-the-plan look.
Ming Yu was already watching me. His posture steady, arms at his sides, face unreadable except for his eyes—focused, unwavering.
No fear. No hesitation. Only the silent question waiting in his gaze: Are you ready?
I took a breath. Swallowed.
And then, slowly and deliberately, I rose from the mat. The weight of my sleeves tugged at my arms as I stood, but I straightened my back, lifted my chin, and stepped forward to the center. I planted my feet firmly, like I belonged there.
Okay. Let's do this.
My voice came out clear. Steady. Stronger than I felt.
"Your Majesty, I cannot control water," I said.
Yet.
The word hovered in the silence like a ghost. I didn't have to say it. It echoed anyway.
"But…" I said, pausing, steadying.
"Water… responds to me."
Gasps tore through the chamber like wind sweeping through dry leaves—soft at first, then louder, rippling from one end of the court to the other.
I stood there, spine straight, pulse slamming through my ears.
The King stared at me for a long moment. Then he turned slowly to the court.
"I want the ancestral records brought forward," he commanded. "Every scroll that mentions this matter. Have the historians and sect leaders review them by dawn."
Then he looked at me again.
"Until we understand what you are, Consort Li… you will remain under palace watch."