Chapter 30: The Scent of Return and Scars of Flame

The imperial carriage rolled through Liángzhōu’s eastern gate before sunrise, its lacquered panels reflecting the first pink blush of dawn. Inside, Li Xiao sat beside Grand Advisor Jin Tao, the road’s rhythm a steady heartbeat beneath her. Though their caravan bore the emperor’s seal, the return felt more like a quiet homecoming than a triumphal march. The northern fires had been extinguished, the cult’s embers scattered, yet the air crackled with unsettled tension.

Li Xiao watched the mist retreat from tiled rooftops and blossoming pines. She traced the chipped shard of obsidian glass in her palm—the fragment they had found in the cult’s cave, a dark promise of hidden flames. Its edges were cold and unforgiving. She pressed it to her heart.

“Is it truly over?” she asked, voice soft as the wind through bamboo.

Jin Tao’s crimson eyes, so often calm as still water, held a faint unrest. He rested a hand on hers. “Evil does not die with a single blow, Li Xiao. We have driven back the hidden flame, but vigilance must burn brighter.”

She nodded, the shard’s weight reminding her that every victory bore scars.

At the palace gates, the reception was subdued. No fanfare, no trumpets—only the clack of hooves and the rustle of silken robes. Courtiers inclined their heads in respect, their eyes flicking toward Li Xiao with a new measure of admiration. She offered them a polite nod, her heart fluttering at the unaccustomed attention.

They passed beneath lanterns still unlit from last night’s Festival of Lanterns—hundreds of paper orbs suspended like fallen stars. Their glow had symbolized unity; now they seemed to watch in silent judgment.

In the eastern wing’s corridor, Li Xiao caught the hiss of hushed laughter. She rounded a pillar and saw two maids of the highest‑ranked concubines—dressed in ornate silks—hovering near a younger servant, Huai Ning. The junior maid knelt, clutching a bucket of water. One of the concubines’ maids, red‑painted lips curved in malice, knocked the bucket, sending a spray of water across the corridor.

The junior servant flinched as water drenched her robe. Laughter rippled from the two maids. Li Xiao’s chest tightened. Memories of the cult’s cruelty—using flame as terror—flared in her mind. She could not stand aside.

She stepped forward, her voice steady but cold: “Water can cleanse floors, but no river in the world can wash away a sick heart.”

The bully froze, crimson lacquered nails poised in mid‑gesture. Her companion gaped. Li Xiao knelt, lifted the bucket, and handed it back to Huai Ning. The junior maid’s eyes glistened with gratitude.

“I—I’m sorry,” Li Xiao said gently. “Don’t let them dim your spirit.”

The concubines’ maids bowed stiffly and retreated, their laughter snuffed like candle flames. Li Xiao stood and brushed her hands on her robes.

Huai Ning bowed deeply. “Thank you, Archivist Li Xiao. I… I didn’t know what to do.”

Li Xiao placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “You are never alone here.”

Later, in Jin Tao’s study, Li Xiao recounted the incident. He regarded her with quiet pride.

“You spoke with the authority of justice,” he said. “This palace needs more hearts like yours.”

She smiled wanly. “I only spoke what was right.”

He rose and crossed to the desk, where the emperor’s seal glowed on a fresh scroll. “Tomorrow, the court reconvenes. We will strengthen the code of conduct for palace staff. Cruelty has no place under these roofs.”

Li Xiao nodded, the shard of obsidian burning in her pocket. “I will draft the edict.”

He placed a hand on her arm. “Rest tonight. You have earned it.”

That evening, Li Xiao found a quiet moment in the Lantern Council pavilion. Lanterns hung like pale moons, their light softened by rice‑paper shades. She unfolded a fresh sheet of parchment and began drafting regulations: penalties for bullying, protections for junior staff, mandatory training in palace etiquette. Each word felt like a lantern cast against the darkness.

A soft rustle of silk made her look up. Jin Tao stood in the doorway, concern in his crimson eyes.

“You should not work so late,” he said, stepping inside.

She smiled tiredly. “The edict must be ready by dawn.”

He crossed the pavilion and sat beside her. “Your care for others inspires me.”

She hesitated, then laid the parchment aside. “There’s something else.” She withdrew the obsidian shard. “I keep this to remind me: even the smallest ember can start a blaze.”

He took the shard, turning it in his palm. “And you have learned to quench it with wisdom.”

Li Xiao reached for his hand. “Together.”

He nodded, their fingers intertwining.

At first light, the court gathered in the Hall of Reflections to hear the new palace edict. Li Xiao stood at Jin Tao’s side as he presented the decree:

All palace staff, from concubines’ maids to archivists, shall uphold the code of compassion and respect. Any act of cruelty—verbal, physical, or symbolic—shall be met with strict discipline, including reassignment to remote service. Let our halls be sanctuaries of light, not shadows of fear.

Murmurs of approval rippled through the assembly. Lady Shen, Minister of Rites, inclined her fan in respect. Even Lord Gao, Minister of War, offered a curt nod.

Li Xiao exhaled, relief warming her chest. The palace’s silent code of cruelty had been shattered.

That afternoon, Li Xiao and Jin Tao strolled through the imperial gardens, where cherry trees still held faint blooms. A gentle breeze stirred fallen petals, and lanterns—now unlit—hung as reminders of both triumph and vigilance.

She paused by the koi pond, its water clear and calm. Jin Tao knelt beside her, offering a cup of jasmine tea.

“To new beginnings,” he said, raising the cup.

She met his gaze. “To the light we keep alive.”

They sipped in companionable silence, the palace’s walls echoing with promise. Though the hidden flame had been snuffed, their journey continued—Archivist and Grand Advisor, bound by duty, trust, and the unwavering belief that even the smallest spark of kindness could banish the deepest darkness.