The Dragon's Gambit

The Forbidden City, November 15, 1908 – Dawn

The tolling of bronze bells echoed across the Forbidden City, their deep, resonant chimes vibrating through stone walls and silk curtains. Every corner of the palace seemed to hold its breath. Eunuchs scurried through frost-covered courtyards with downcast eyes, their feet shuffling across cobbled stones. Guards stood at attention, their breath fogging in the bitter morning air, faces hidden beneath lacquered helmets.

Beyond the palace walls, General Yuan Shikai commanded the Beiyang Army, its disciplined troops discreetly securing key points across Beijing. Gates were sealed. Roads leading out of the city were patrolled. Watchtowers gleamed with lantern light as soldiers stood sentinel, their rifles gleaming faintly in the pale morning glow.

In a hidden command post on the outskirts of the palace, Yuan Shikai met with his top lieutenants.

"The city is locked down," said General Jiang, a sharp-featured officer whose reputation for ruthlessness preceded him. "No one enters, no one leaves without your authorization."

Yuan nodded slowly, his gloved fingers tapping against the hilt of his ceremonial sword. "Good. The palace is the heart of the empire. If it falls into chaos, the provinces will fracture, and warlords will rise from the cracks."

He turned his sharp gaze to the assembled officers. "We are not conquerors today—we are guardians. Let no blood be spilled unless absolutely necessary. If anyone challenges our authority, they are to be restrained—not killed. Am I understood?"

A chorus of salutes and affirmations followed.

"Make sure every soldier knows their place. No one acts without my order."

Yuan paused for a moment, his voice dropping low. "And if anything happens to Prince Chun—if his authority is challenged—hold your ground. I will deal with the court myself if I must."

The officers saluted again and dispersed, leaving Yuan Shikai alone in the dimly lit chamber.

"Your Highness," he murmured under his breath, staring at the map of Beijing spread before him. "The pieces are in place. Do not falter now." Yuan Shikai stood up, and walked towards the court, where it will all be settled.

The Imperial Court was bracing itself for the inevitable: Empress Dowager Cixi was dead.

The Hall of Supreme Harmony was a sea of black mourning robes, each minister and noble wearing the somber weight of loss upon their bowed shoulders. The air was cold, despite the flickering lanterns casting faint golden light on the jade tiles. Prince Chun (Zaifeng) stood at the head of the chamber, flanked by Yuan Shikai, his imposing figure like a stone sentinel beside him.

The murmurs of uncertainty spread like wildfire among the court. Two sovereigns had died within days—Emperor Guangxu and Empress Dowager Cixi—and yet no successor had been formally declared.

A conservative minister stepped forward, his long beard trembling slightly as he spoke. "Your Highness, with the passing of both His Majesty the Emperor Guangxu and Her Majesty the Empress Dowager, the throne sits empty. This is unprecedented. The empire cannot remain leaderless."

Another minister, his voice sharp and urgent, added, "Tradition demands clarity. It was understood that Puyi, the son of Your Highness, would ascend as emperor. The late Empress Dowager—surely—would have left instructions for succession."

Zaifeng's sharp gaze cut through the court. His voice, though measured, carried authority. "And yet, no edict exists. No scroll bears Her Majesty's command. No successor was officially named by either the Guangxu Emperor or the Empress Dowager Cixi. Are we to conjure imperial will from shadows and whispers?"

The room fell into uneasy silence. Ministers exchanged wary glances, their hands twitching inside their wide silk sleeves.

An older nobleman, Prince Qing (Yikuang), one of the most senior princes of the Aisin-Gioro clan, stepped forward. His voice was slow, deliberate. "Prince Chun speaks true. Without an imperial edict or formal command, tradition does not dictate that the throne must pass automatically to a child. It must return to the Aisin-Gioro Clan Council, as precedent commands."

Heads turned toward Prince Qing. His words carried weight, his lineage unimpeachable. The Aisin-Gioro Clan Council—a body consisting of the senior princes and elders of the imperial family—held the responsibility of determining succession when ambiguity reigned.

Prince Qing continued, his gaze lingering on Zaifeng. "It has happened before in our dynasty, during the confusion of past transitions. When there was no clear successor, the family decided. And so it must be again. The council must convene."

Zaifeng's face remained carefully neutral, but inside, his heart pounded with sharp clarity. The decision would not fall immediately to conservative ministers or military strongmen—it would fall to the imperial clan, his family. And in that arena, Zaifeng had leverage.

A conservative minister's voice rose from the crowd, laced with unease. "But—but His Highness Zaifeng is the father of Puyi! Surely, there is bias in such a council!"

Prince Qing silenced him with a sharp glance. "Bias? Are you suggesting the Aisin-Gioro Clan cannot be trusted to make a decision for the survival of our dynasty? Be careful with your words, Minister."

The court stilled, the tension hanging heavy in the air. For once, there was no immediate challenge, no outburst. The murmur of dissent faded into the marble walls of the hall.

Zaifeng took a step forward, his voice carrying through the vast chamber. "The empire cannot endure further chaos. The council must meet—swiftly—and decide the fate of the Dragon Throne. We cannot allow opportunists, foreign powers, or our own ambitions to fracture this court."

He turned slightly, his eyes scanning the rows of assembled nobles and officials. "Let the council decide. Let the dynasty endure."

The ministers had broken into loose clusters, each whispering, debating, and gesturing in tight circles. The conservative nobles, remnants of Cixi's Dowager Circle, huddled together like anxious ravens, while reformists and moderates lingered on the periphery, their faces taut with caution.

"Who else could ascend the throne but Puyi?" hissed a senior conservative minister, his thin mustache quivering with frustration. "He is the son of Prince Chun—his blood is imperial, and his claim undeniable."

"But the Empress Dowager named no successor!" barked another official, younger but equally resolute. "Without an imperial edict, how can we assume her will? Are we to fabricate a mandate from ashes?"

A third voice, calm and sharp, cut through the heated whispers. "And even if we proclaim Puyi, do you imagine General Yuan Shikai will accept a two-year-old emperor issuing commands through trembling regents? Do you think the Beiyang Army will march on foreign threats while petty ministers squabble over royal nursery schedules?"

The conservative minister fell silent, his face flushed with anger but devoid of rebuttal. Around them, the factions fell into uneasy silence.

Across the hall, Prince Qing (Yikuang) observed the scene with an expression of quiet authority. As one of the most senior princes of the Aisin-Gioro clan, his word carried weight even among the most stubborn traditionalists. He finally stepped forward, his voice calm but firm as it carried through the cavernous hall.

"This endless quarreling serves no purpose. The Aisin-Gioro Clan Council has been invoked, and it is they who will decide the succession. Such has been our tradition in uncertain times, and such it must remain now."

A murmur of agreement rippled across the hall. Even the conservatives fell silent in the face of the prince's authority.

One of the younger nobles, emboldened by the temporary calm, raised his voice. "But the council will favor Prince Chun! He is the father of Puyi, and—"

Prince Qing's sharp glance cut him off mid-sentence. "The council will favor the survival of the Qing Dynasty. It will favor the one who can lead, who can stabilize, who can endure."

Zaifeng, standing at the head of the hall with Yuan Shikai just behind him, observed the scene without speaking. His silence was deliberate—it forced the court to fill the void with their own uncertainty.

The conservatives huddled again, muttering among themselves in subdued tones. Even those who favored Zaifeng exchanged cautious glances, knowing the weight of the upcoming decision. The Clan Council—a collection of elder princes and noble family heads—would carry the authority of tradition, and their verdict would be final.

But outside the chamber, Yuan Shikai's soldiers remained at their posts, silent but watchful. The knowledge of their presence hung over the court like a blade suspended by a single thread.

In the background, Zaifeng's allies worked quietly. Yuan Shikai's officers ensured that key routes out of Beijing remained locked down. Zhang Zhidong's envoys sent messages to provincial officials, subtly urging calm and patience. Meanwhile, Kang Youwei's letter circulated among reformist nobles, carrying a simple but potent message:

"The Aisin-Gioro Clan must choose not only a successor but a leader. Stability must prevail, or the dynasty will crumble into dust."

Zaifeng's eyes moved slowly across the hall, taking in the anxious faces, the quiet conspiracies, and the fading confidence of his opponents. The ministers were trapped—not by walls or guards, but by the weight of their own indecision.

Later, in a dimly lit chamber tucked away in the northern wing of the palace, Zaifeng stood at a carved window, watching the faint flicker of lanterns in the courtyard below. Behind him, Yuan Shikai stepped into the room, his boots clicking softly on the polished wooden floor.

"The court is still divided, Your Highness," Yuan said, his voice low but resolute. "But they have accepted the authority of the Aisin-Gioro Clan Council. For now, there will be no open defiance."

Zaifeng nodded slowly, his hands clasped behind his back. "They were too afraid to challenge Prince Qing openly. But fear is fleeting, Yuan. Tomorrow, they may grow bold again."

Yuan crossed his arms over his chest. "The council will decide, Your Highness. But we both know how these councils are decided—through whispers, promises, and unseen hands."

Zaifeng turned slightly, his eyes sharp under the lantern light. "And ours will be the steadiest hand of all."

Yuan bowed his head slightly. "The Beiyang Army remains loyal. The city is secure. No message will leave Beijing without our knowledge. Whatever happens in the council, we are prepared."

Zaifeng exhaled slowly, turning back to the window. The shadows of the Forbidden City stretched long into the night, and somewhere beyond those walls, destiny turned on a knife's edge.

"The council must choose. But I will not rely on fate to guide their hands. Tomorrow, the empire will have an emperor. And it will not be a child."