NOVEL NEXT Chapter 320: The Phoenix Throne
The throne room smelled of ink, sandalwood, and nerves.
I had been in halls like this before—war courts, midnight councils, hushed sessions with only a handful of ministers daring enough to argue against me.
But this was different.
This was the court.
Every minister, every secretary, every watcher with a ledger waited in rows that climbed like terraces around the dragon throne.
And beside that throne, for the first time in Daiyu's history, a seat had been raised for an Empress.
Not gold.
That belonged to the sun.
Mine was silver, hammered into phoenix wings that arched as if mid-flight.
Moonlight to his sunlight, reflection to his blaze.
My robes matched—woven with white cranes and phoenixes stitched in threads so pale they looked carved from light. When I stepped forward, silence carried me like a tide.
They weren't ready for me.
And that was the point.
The court crier announced titles until the air sagged under their weight. "The Emperor of Daiyu, Zhu Mingyu. The Empress, Zhao Xiuying—by mandate of Heaven, moon to the Emperor's sun."
A murmur rolled through the rows like wind over wheat.
"Unprecedented."
"Improper."
"Has such a thing ever been done—?"
I heard every word and ignored all of them.
Mingyu ascended first, his robes steady, and his expression unreadable. He paused at the dragon throne, then looked over his shoulder at me—not to invite, but to affirm. He had made this seat. He had made this moment.
My steps followed. One, two, three. The hem of silver kissed each stair. At the final rise, I lowered myself into the phoenix throne, my back straight, my gaze level.
The sound that followed wasn't quite applause, wasn't quite outrage. It was the sound of old men realizing the bones of the world had shifted and they hadn't been consulted.
The Chancellor broke first, his voice quivering with the kind of outrage only ritual breeds. "Your Majesty—never in the history of Daiyu has an Empress been seated in the deliberative court. These walls are for governance, not—"
"Not women?" I asked, soft enough that it carried like a knife.
He faltered.
"If propriety alone could keep borders safe," I went on, "then Baiguang would never have marched. If silence alone could keep families fed, we would never have burned fields to cover our retreat. Tell me, Chancellor—has propriety ever once lifted a spear?"
His mouth opened, but nothing came out.
Mingyu didn't intervene. He didn't need to. This was my seat now.
The petitions began, minor ones at first—grain disputes, tax rolls, repairs to a southern bridge. I remained silent as Mingyu's voice carried the verdicts as easily as my hand might lift a blade.
Approve. Decline. Send to Treasury. Investigate the overseer. Each decision was quick, clean, leaving no room for hesitation to take root.
But the chamber was waiting for something else.
When the clerk reached the lacquered tube marked with the Left Prime Minister Zhao's seal, the weight of it thickened the air.
He unrolled it, brush tremoring, and began to read:
"By petition of Zhao Hengyuan, Left Prime Minister of Daiyu, request is made that Zhao Meiling, younger daughter of his house, be admitted to the Imperial harem. As the Empress has yet to produce a child of Mingyu's direct bloodline, it is proposed that Zhao Meiling provide an heir of proper lineage, thereby strengthening the throne and securing loyalty through established familial ties—"
The silence afterward was worse than outrage. It was fascination. Ministers leaned forward. Some shocked. Some calculating.
Mingyu did not move. His profile was still, carved as if in jade.
I let my fingers rest on the phoenix armrest, cool silver grounding me. "So that is the rope he meant to tie."
A murmur rippled.
Mingyu raised one hand. The chamber stilled instantly. His voice was mild, but every syllable was weighted. "Curious, is it not, that a father who once called his eldest daughter a curse now finds her womb central to the empire's survival? Tell me, Zhao Huangyuan—was this your plan all along? To crown yourself through my bed? Or through my son's blood?"
The Left Prime Minister dropped to his knees. "Majesty—I mean no treason. Only that the empire requires a direct heir, not a child of questionable origin—"
"Questionable?" My voice cut across him, sharper than steel. "The boy sleeps under my roof. He eats at my table. He breathes because I chose to keep him breathing. That makes him heir enough. Your younger daughter has no place here. Not in my halls. Not in my bed. Not in my child's shadow."
His head remained bowed, but his knuckles pressed white into the floor. "Empress, you mistake me. I do not wish to diminish your standing. But a minister must consider legacy. My daughter offers security. She offers blood that cannot be doubted—"
"Your daughter offers you," Mingyu corrected, cold now. "You want your blood tied to the throne so that you may sit taller at council. You want your grandchild named heir so that you can rule by proxy. Say it plainly, Minister Zhao. You want power that does not belong to you."
The chamber stirred. A single word began whispering around the edges—treason.
Zhao Hengyuan's head shot up, sweat bright at his temple. "I want only what is best for Daiyu—"
"No," I interrupted. "You want Daiyu bent into a mirror that flatters you. You think you can use me as a bridge. You think you can use Mingyu as a vessel. You think you can use my womb as your ledger. But bridges burn, vessels break, ledgers burn faster than parchment. What will you have then?"
He opened his mouth. No sound came.
The phoenix beneath my hand seemed to sharpen its wings.
Mingyu leaned back against his throne, utterly composed. "You forget, Zhao Hengyuan, that I was never raised to trust you. My Empress may forgive insult. I do not. You will answer, in time, whether your petition was arrogance or intent. Either way, your days of whispering behind screens are finished."
The chamber breathed as one. Some in fear. Some in awe.
I looked down at the petition, now crumpled in the clerk's hands. "File it," I instructed, voice even. "Not as grievance. Not as request. As evidence."
The clerk bowed so low his ink stone nearly tipped.
The court dissolved after that, slower than usual, ministers stumbling under the weight of precedent they hadn't chosen. I rose last, silver throne gleaming cold as moonlight behind me.
The era of whispering was over.