The ledgers came from a fallen treasury scribe—one who once served in the dowry records of the Empress's youth. They were buried beneath old bolts of cloth, bound in waxed thread.
Zhou laid them across the table. "These weren't meant to be found."
Shen Lian flipped through the fragile pages.
Silk shipments, jade weights, gold coins—and a single line: Special consignment for Lady Jing of Cold Wing Court.
"Lady Jing," Shen Lian whispered. "She died in childbirth ten years ago. Quietly."
Zhou frowned. "Why would she receive a private consignment of ten thousand taels?"
"Because she was meant to buy silence," Shen Lian said, eyes narrowing. "Or loyalty."
That evening, she visited Cold Wing Court—a place now abandoned, vines curling around its roof.
There, she found old lacquered boxes. Inside: embroidered robes never worn, letters never sent, and a faded family seal.
Shen Lian traced it with one finger.
"The Yan family crest."
Zhou's eyes widened. "Yan... That was the house rumored to support the Third Prince, before they disappeared."
She nodded. "They didn't disappear. They were erased."
Back in her rooms, Shen Lian penned three anonymous notes. One to a merchant in Suzhou. One to a retired seamstress. One to a former stablehand.
"They will remember the crest," she said.
"And they will come," Zhou finished.
Outside, a spring breeze stirred the blossoms.
The Cold Palace had once silenced her.
Now it whispered names back into the world.