Chapter 4: Flames of Betrayal
Three days later, the unexpected happened: the Emperor died.
The great bells tolled across the imperial city, low and heavy, like thunder trapped in bronze. The sound rolled over rooftops, through winding corridors, and into chambers where breath froze and hearts sank.
Wu Zhao stirred from a restless sleep, her dreams still tangled with shadows of whispered fears. She blinked against the dim light as the morning bells echoed again, a slow, solemn rhythm that chilled the bones. She sat up quickly. Something was wrong.
The door to her chambers burst open. "My lady!" Mei Lin gasped, breathless and pale, her eyes wide with terror. "It's... it's the Emperor. He's... he's gone."
Wu Zhao stared at her. "Gone?"
The word felt foreign on her tongue.
"Dead," Mei Lin whispered. "They say he passed just before dawn. The Empress has summoned the court. Guards are already doubling at every corner. The mourning drums have started."
The silence that followed was deafening, suffocating.
Wu Zhao rose slowly, the chill of the floor biting through her slippers. Outside, the palace moved like a disturbed hive. Eunuchs whispered behind fans. Ministers arrived in black robes. Servants wept, some with dry eyes, already calculating, already shifting allegiances. Whispers filled the Taiji Palace:
Who will hold power now? Will the Crown Prince ascend swiftly? Will the Empress take over everything? Who will be removed... or rewarded?
Panic brewed beneath the silk and incense.
Wu Zhao stood by the window, watching birds scatter from the temple roof as the third bell echoed across the sky. Her heart did not weep.
It prepared
The Hall of Supreme Harmony was draped in black silk. Lanterns burned low. Thick incense curled into the air like silent cries.
Ministers, princes, nobles, and generals filled the vast chamber, all dressed in mourning robes. Heads bowed, the weight of the empire pressing down on their shoulders.
Then came the Empress.
Zhangsun swept in like a storm veiled in elegance. Her expression was carved from jade, hard, cold, unreadable. Behind her stood the Crown Prince, Li Zhi, his gaze heavy, his face unreadable. No tears. Not yet. Not here.
The Empress stood before the throne and raised her voice, steady as steel:
"The Dragon has returned to the heavens."
The court bent low in unison, robes whispering against polished marble.
"In the year 649 AD, at the hour of the tiger, His Majesty, Emperor Taizong of the Great Tang, breathed his last. May his soul find peace beyond the mortal world."
The hall echoed with quiet sobs and murmurs.
Empress Zhangsun continued, "In accordance with the wishes of the late Emperor, and by the Mandate of Heaven, the Crown Prince Li Zhi shall be crowned as His Imperial Majesty in three days."
She turned her gaze across the court, sharp as the blade of justice.
"However, before this new dawn rises, we must cleanse whatever shadows still linger."
A collective stillness gripped the chamber.
Then her words struck like thunder:
"Lady Wu Zhao of the Taiji Palace is to be removed. Her proximity to the Crown Prince, her sudden rise, her silence amidst chaos, all cast a shadow upon her virtue. She shall be sent to Ganye Temple as a nun. Effective immediately."
Li Zhi took a sharp breath, fists clenched at his sides. But he said nothing. Not here. Not now.
The Empress turned away.
"Let her prayers serve the empire better than her presence did."
Court officials bowed.
Within the private chambers of Empress Zhangsun, heavy curtains muffled the sounds of the mourning court. Li Zhi stood before his mother, jaw clenched.
"You had no right to send her away," he said. His voice was low but intense. "Wu Zhao is not a threat."
The Empress poured tea with measured calm. "Sadness is clouding your judgment. The court watches your every glance at her. Tongues wag, Li Zhi. Perception is everything."
He stepped forward. "She's innocent. You just needed a scapegoat."
Zhangsun finally looked up, eyes sharp. "And you need to learn that ruling is not about emotion. It's about preservation."
Silence fell.
Then she added softly, like a dagger sheathed in silk, "You will thank me later."
That evening, cloaked in plain robes, Wu Zhao waited in the quiet confines of her quarters. Her belongings had already been taken. She was to leave before sunrise.
The doors creaked open. Li Zhi entered, his eyes red-rimmed. He said nothing for a moment. Then he walked up to her and pressed a small jade pendant into her hand, shaped like a phoenix, delicate and tied with a silk thread.
"This is a promise," he whispered. "I don't care what they say. I will bring you back."
Wu Zhao looked at him, her lips trembling. "They want to erase me."
"Then rise above them," he said.
Their fingers touched, briefly, before he turned away, a future emperor leaving behind the woman he could not save.
At dawn, Wu Zhao was escorted out of the palace gates. No chariots. No fanfare. Just Mei Lin, two guards, and a covered cart. Her once-silken hair blew gently in the breeze, her phoenix pendant hidden beneath her plain robe.
The palace watched, but no one spoke. As the gates shut behind her, she looked back one last time, at the memories she left behind.
At twenty-five years old, just like that, she was cast out into the cold.
The Ganye Temple stood austere on the outskirts of the capital. No gold. No grandeur. Just wind, stone, and silence.
Her head was shaved without ceremony. Long black locks fell like severed dreams to the ground.
The nuns were stern. They spoke little. Wu Zhao cleaned floors, fetched water, meditated until her legs bled. No name. No title. No voice. She became a ghost.
Inside the Great Hall, drums beat. The officials cheered. The banners of the Tang dynasty fluttered as Li Zhi knelt before the ancestral tablets and accepted the crown.
But his face was tight. Hollow.
As the court shouted, "Long live the Emperor!" his thoughts were not in the hall.
They were in a cold temple far away.
Wu Zhao sat alone in the stone garden, sweeping dead leaves into a pile. A novice nun approached and bowed slightly, slipping a folded cloth into her hand before disappearing.
Wu Zhao opened it carefully. Inside was a note, written in neat brushstrokes:
The phoenix will rise again. Wait for me. Li Zhi.
Her fingers trembled. For the first time in weeks, a faint smile touched her lips.
The fire had not gone out.
Not yet.