The Reborn Empress

The academy's courtyard buzzed with the laughter of noble children chasing butterflies, their silk robes fluttering like scraps of sky. Ella paused beneath a cherry blossom tree, her gaze sweeping over the scene until it snagged on a small, trembling figure near the stone fountain.

Anthony Garcia, age six, sat hunched on a bench, his tiny fists clenched in his lap. A tutor loomed over him, nostrils flared.

"Again," the man barked. "Recite it properly this time, or I'll report your incompetence to your father."

The boy's voice quivered. "Th-the rabbit's death g-grieves the fox—"

"Wrong! Again."

Ella's nails bit into her palm. This was the moment she'd rehearsed in the shadowed hours—the fragile thread that once snapped Garcia loyalty to the throne. She stepped forward, silk slippers crunching gravel. "Master Liu. Aren't you overpolishing jade? The lesson's essence matters more than perfection, no?"

The tutor whirled, irritation melting into a bow. "Lady Smith! Forgive the disturbance. Young Master Garcia struggles with idioms."

Anthony peeked through tear-clumped lashes. Ella knelt, ignoring the grit staining her emerald skirts. "Let's play a game, Anthony. What if we rewrite the boring old sayings? 'When the cunning rabbits die'—" She plucked a pebble, dropped it into the fountain. Plink. "—'the hunting dogs are cooked.' Catchy, yes?"

The tutor choked. "That's not—"

"—A children's rhyme?" Ella arched a brow. "Precisely. Memory sticks better with mischief. Don't you agree, Master Liu?"

The man palmed his trembling scroll. "I… shall fetch fresh ink." He fled.Anthony tugged her sleeve. "But Miss Ella, Father says wrong words get people hanged."

She turned his palm upward, placed two cherry blossoms in it. "Clever boys know when to whisper truth. What's your favorite dessert?"

"L-Lord Wang's honey dumplings."

"Mm. If I told the baker to swap his sugar for salt, would your tongue notice before the first bite?"

The boy giggled. "No! That's mean!""Meaner than serving lies as truth?" She closed his fingers over the petals. "Remember the cooked dogs, Anthony. Share the rhyme with your father tonight. He'll laugh at your cleverness."

Later, in the Garcia estate's mahogany-paneled study…

Lord David Garcia set down his brandy snifter, its facets catching firelight like trapped stars. "Explain yourself, Anthony. Who taught you this… variant proverb?"

The boy squirmed on the velvet settee. "Lady Ella! We played word games. She says smart people hear the cracks between letters."David's signet ring clicked against crystal. "And what cracks did you hear?"

"That… maybe the foxes shouldn't cry for rabbits. Because if the rabbits are too sneaky, the dogs get eaten next?" Anthony yawned, rubbing one eye. "But dogs eat rabbits anyway. Can I have dumplings now?"

David stilled. The fireplace crackled.

"Bao!" he barked. A servant materialized in the doorway. "Take Anthony to the kitchens. Double portions."

His finger traced the inked characters. "Hunting dogs… cooked…"

That evening, the palace physician's carriage clattered into the Garcia courtyard.David lay propped on silk pillows, face powdered pallid. "A wasting sickness, you say?" He coughed into a handkerchief—pungent with vinegar. "How tragic."

The physician pressed two fingers to David's wrist. "Your pulse… it's remarkably irregular, my lord."

"Alas, I'm unfit to oversee the grain tax reforms." David let his eyelids flutter. "Advise His Majesty I must resign for treatment."

As the physician departed, Anthony tiptoed in, clutching a honey-sticky bun. "Father? Will you really get better?"