Rebirth of the Phoenix Empress

The once-abandoned Cold Palace stood like a forgotten scar upon the landscape of the inner court, its stone steps worn by time and its roof tiles dulled by age. Where vines once crept unchecked across the eaves and ivy wove through shattered lattice windows, now a quiet, solemn order had returned. The moss had been brushed away. The broken floorboards replaced. Yet the air remained hushed, holding the ghosts of exiles past.

This was where Xianlan had chosen to create her sanctuary.

To most, it was madness to return to the very site of her shame, her punishment. But for her, it was necessary.

"If I'm to reclaim everything," she had once said softly to herself, while overseeing the restoration, "then I must begin where they believed I'd never return."

Now, the Cold Palace served not as a prison, but a place of music. Of memory. Of resolve.

Zither strings hummed gently through the morning air, the melody soft and wistful, wrapping around the stone columns like silk threads in a loom. Xianlan sat poised, fingers dancing lightly over the strings, her back straight, her expression distant.

The song was an old one. Its notes rose and fell like the wings of a bird caught in a long flight westward. Her fingers moved with quiet grace, but her eyes were elsewhere looking inward, not outward.

Then a soft sound, like footsteps over crushed leaves, stirred at the threshold.

She glanced up.

Jiang Xinluo stood in the doorway. Her gown was pale green, simple but elegant, the sleeves embroidered with faint clouds. Her hair was tied back, a single jade pin anchoring it in place. There was no fanfare in her arrival, no arrogance in her stance only silence.

She stepped in.

"The song you're playing…" she said softly, her voice low but clear. "My mother used to play it when she was alive."

Xianlan lifted her hands from the strings, allowing the final note to ring out and fade.

She met Jiang Xinluo's gaze.

"Then you must know the tune 'Swan Soars Westward,'" she replied.

Jiang Xinluo nodded slowly.

"But I've only just learned…" she said, stepping forward, "the true composer wasn't my mother."

Her voice trembled.

"It was Consort Yifei your mother."

A breeze stirred through the open screens, brushing strands of hair across their faces. The scent of plum blossoms drifted in, subtle and haunting.

Xianlan's expression remained composed. But in her eyes, something shifted an acknowledgment. A memory shared. A wound reopened.

The two women stood in the quiet that followed, two figures once set against each other by circumstance and manipulation.

Jiang Xinluo looked down.

"I'm beginning to question…" she said, almost to herself, "who it was that wrote the story I've believed my whole life."

—

That night, in the quiet of her chambers, Jiang Xinluo sat beneath the glow of an oil lamp. Before her lay a volume of royal history, its pages worn smooth by the passage of time. Her fingers turned them slowly, eyes scanning each word with growing unease.

The early chapters spoke of Consort Yifei her rise, her talents, her influence.

Then came the accusations.

"Foreign collusion."

"Inciting high-ranking ministers."

But the language… something was wrong.

The term "collusion" had been scratched out and replaced with a softer phrase in newer ink. "Inciting" had been redacted entirely, a heavy black stroke obscuring what had once been written.

She touched the page.

"The ancient letters… the vanished paintings… her poetry…" she murmured. "If I believe all of it then I'll have to stop believing in everything I thought I knew."

Her chest tightened.

From deep within, a voice resurfaced soft, warning, maternal.

Her mother's words.

"Never trust a woman who cries in silence… for she's likely threading a poisoned needle beneath her sleeve."

Jiang Xinluo exhaled sharply.

She had repeated that lesson to herself for years. But now, it echoed differently.

—

Days passed.

Jiang Xinluo began moving pieces.

She volunteered to attend a prayer ceremony at the Temple of Harmonious Light, offering to accompany Noble Consort Gui as an observer. The invitation was accepted without question after all, Xinluo's behavior had always been exemplary.

But her eyes were sharper now.

She watched.

And during the ceremony, amid the chants and bowed heads, she noticed one of the consort's maids slight of frame, eyes constantly flicking side to side move toward the altar. She bent to adjust the base of the candleholder.

But what she left behind wasn't wax.

A small scroll. Carefully hidden beneath the base.

Jiang Xinluo's breath stilled.

"A letter… or an order?"

She memorized the maid's face.

—

That same night, in another wing of the palace, a plan unfolded in silence.

Xianlan crept through the lantern-lit corridors of the inner palace. Her footsteps were soundless, her robe hem lifted slightly to avoid catching on stone.

Wen Yichen moved elsewhere, engaging a curious steward with questions about shipment ledgers. His voice, calm and precise, bought her the time she needed.

Xianlan slipped into the fabric storage chamber a room rarely visited, used for housing old bolts of silk, disused embroideries, ceremonial robes.

She moved quickly.

She knew what she was looking for.

And at the bottom of a cedar chest, beneath layers of faded brocade, she found it.

Twin Swans Under the Moon.

An embroidery piece. Her mother's. She recognized the stitching the asymmetry of one wing, the silver thread used in the beaks, the signature hidden in the lower corner.

"This… should not be here," she whispered.

Her fingers closed over the edge.

"It was declared missing after the scandal lost, destroyed…"

Unless it had been kept.

Hidden.

As evidence. Waiting for the right moment to be used against someone again.

Her hand trembled, just once.

Then she folded the cloth gently and tucked it away.

—

In a secluded chamber of the imperial palace, Feng Yuhan stood over a lacquered desk, his eyes scanning a report delivered by his most trusted informant.

A candle flickered behind him.

"There's a letter…" the report began.

"Written by Jiang Xinluo to the Wen family in the Li Palace. The content remains unclear but one thing is certain: she's beginning to question her allegiance."

He didn't react for a long while.

His gaze remained steady.

Then, at last, he spoke.

"She's still dangerous…"

His fingers tapped the paper.

"…But that's precisely what makes her interesting."

—

That night, within the solitude of her chamber, Xianlan sat at her desk, a single candle casting a pool of golden light. The flame danced with every draft, but her gaze never wavered.

Above her hung the recovered painting of her mother Consort Yifei restored to its rightful place.

Xianlan reached for a small wooden tablet. Dipped her brush in ink. And wrote.

Each stroke was slow, deliberate, unshaking.

"If Mother died for a crime she never committed, I will restore her honor."

"And if that truth must be paid for with hatred…"

She paused.

"…so be it."

The wind howled suddenly, pushing against the windows.

The flame trembled.

But she did not.

Her eyes remained cold.

And unwavering.

"This chapter has been updated with improved narrative and deeper character perspective. The plot remains unchanged."

*********************************************************************************************************

✨ Thank you for reading this chapter of Rebirth of the Phoenix Empress!If you're enjoying Xianlan's journey, please add this story to your Library, leave a comment, or tap a heart 💖 your support truly fuels the fire!