The road to Chengyuan was a wound across the land, a twisted path lined with withered trees and fields abandoned to ruin.
The prince rode alone, his horse's hooves muffled by the thick, clinging fog that choked the world in pale white.
He wore no insignia, no royal colors. To any who might chance upon him, he was but another traveler though few would willingly walk this forsaken road.
Chengyuan had been a thriving village once, known for its artisans and silver markets. Now it lay in silence, as if the earth itself had swallowed it whole.
Jian dismounted near the outskirts, tying his horse loosely to a skeletal tree. The fog coiled around him, tendrils brushing against his skin like cold, damp fingers. Every step forward was an act of defiance against the primal voice within him that screamed to turn back.
But he pressed on.
The village gates once adorned with red banners now hung in tatters. Beyond them, houses slouched like old men too weary to stand, windows gaping black and empty.
Not a bird sang.
Not a dog barked.
Only the wind moaned, low and mournful.
Jian gripped the hilt of his dagger beneath his cloak as he moved through the deserted streets. Rot and mildew filled his nostrils, a cloying stench of decay and something fouler still.
He reached the village square and froze.
At the center stood the well, and around it bodies.
They were sprawled across the stones, limbs twisted in unnatural angles. Their faces were contorted in grotesque expressions: mouths agape in silent screams, eyes wide and glassy.
Yet none bore signs of ordinary death. No wounds. No blood. It was as if life had simply been torn from them, leaving empty shells behind.
Jian stepped closer, heart pounding.
A soft sound reached him a scraping, rasping breath.
He spun, drawing his dagger.
At the edge of the square, half-hidden behind a crumbled wall, something stirred.
A man.
Or what remained of one.
The figure crawled into view, dragging a broken leg behind him. His skin was a mottled grey, veins dark as ink spidering beneath the surface. His lips moved soundlessly, froth staining his chin.
Pity and horror warred within Jian.
He knelt cautiously, keeping his blade ready.
"Who did this to you?" Jian whispered.
The man's eyes flicked up to meet his a flicker of humanity amid the ruin.
"Save... us..." the man rasped. His voice was barely more than a breath.
Jian leaned closer.
"The..." the man choked out, before a violent spasm seized him.
Jian recoiled as the man's body convulsed, bones snapping audibly. His mouth opened wider than any jaw should, a terrible gurgling cry ripping free.
Then stillness.
Dead.
For good, this time.
The silence returned, heavy and suffocating.
Jian wiped his blade clean with trembling hands. His mind reeled.
Had he heard correctly?
The Queen?
Or had the dying man merely cursed the heavens, desperate for someone to blame?
He could not know. Not yet.
But the seed of doubt in his heart flowered anew, blooming into a creeping dread.
Jian did not linger.
He retrieved his horse and rode hard, the fog parting reluctantly before him. His mind whirled with questions, each more poisonous than the last.
If the Queen was involved, if she had allowed or even caused this devastation, what was her endgame?
Why would she invite death into her own kingdom?
And more urgently, how far had the sickness spread?
The palace was blind. The court danced to the tune of ignorance. And Jian, son of the empire, was alone with knowledge that could topple thrones or bury him beneath them.
Night had fallen by the time he reached the outskirts of the capital.
The great walls loomed above him, their banners snapping in the cold wind. From the towers, guards called to one another, unaware of the horrors crawling ever closer to their gates.
Jian skirted the main roads, slipping into the city through an ancient servant's tunnel long forgotten by most.
As he emerged into the narrow alleys of the lower city, he felt a shift in the air.
The sickness had not yet reached Yanliao but fear had. He saw it in the way merchants closed their stalls early, in the wary glances exchanged by strangers in the street.
Whispers drifted like smoke.
"Whole villages, gone."
"Demon-plague..."
"Punishment from Heaven..."
And beneath it all, a darker murmur:
"The Queen knows..."
"The Queen commands..."
Jian wrapped his cloak tighter around himself.
He needed allies.
He needed proof.
And most of all, he needed to tread carefully. For if the Queen truly wove the web tightening around their throats, then every step he took could be into a trap.
Back within the palace, music and laughter still reigned.
Jian watched from the shadows as courtiers in silk and gold danced beneath chandeliers of a thousand candles.
At the center of it all sat Queen Lian, radiant in crimson and white, her dark eyes gleaming like polished onyx.
She smiled, raising a goblet in toast.
Jian could not tear his gaze away.
Had she known, even as she sipped sweet wine and whispered pretty lies, that death stalked the countryside?
Had she planned it?
Or was he merely a fool, weaving conspiracies out of grief and fear?
He did not know.
But he would find out.
He had to.
Because if the Queen truly wore two faces the savior of the realm and its secret executioner then Yanliao was not merely dying.
It was already dead.
It just did not know it yet.