Episode 4: Crimson Threads

(Xie Mansion, Crimson Pavilion - Morning, 1522)

Dawn bled into the Crimson Pavilion like spilled wine, casting long, accusing shadows across the polished lacquer floors. Lin Zhiruo stood just inside the doorway, clutching her embroidery basket like a shield. Auntie Liu had deposited her here with a final, warning glance before melting back into the corridor. The air was thick with the cloying scent of rare incense, heavy and oppressive. This was not a place of warmth, but of calculated power and veiled threats.

Xie Zhan sat near a low table by a window overlooking a starkly beautiful courtyard of raked gravel and a single, ancient plum tree. He wasn't working. He was simply… present. Dressed in robes of deep charcoal grey, devoid of ostentatious embroidery, he looked like a blade sheathed in shadow. He held a scroll but wasn't reading it; his obsidian gaze was fixed on the courtyard, or perhaps on nothing at all. He acknowledged her entrance with only the slightest tilt of his head.

"Honored Husband," Zhiruo murmured, forcing her voice level. She bowed low, the motion stiff.

"Sit," he commanded, his voice a low rumble that barely disturbed the heavy air. He gestured to a cushion placed opposite him, separated by the low table.

Zhiruo moved cautiously, settling onto the cushion. She kept her gaze lowered, focusing on the intricate weave of the rush matting beneath her. Her hands, hidden in her lap, trembled slightly. She felt exposed, raw under his silent scrutiny. The returned handkerchief, tucked into her sleeve, felt like a live coal.

"You brought your needlework?" he asked, his tone deceptively casual.

"Yes, Honored Husband," Zhiruo replied, opening the basket. She withdrew a half-finished piece – a simple floral design on pale silk, chosen for its innocuousness. She threaded a needle with crimson silk, her movements deliberate, focusing on the familiar task to steady her nerves.

"Show me."

Zhiruo hesitated, then held up the embroidery frame. The delicate peonies seemed absurdly fragile in this den of power.

"Hmm." The sound was noncommittal. He finally turned his full attention from the window to her. His gaze wasn't on the flowers; it was on her hands. "Your skill is noted. But peonies… too common. Too soft."

He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table. The movement brought him closer, invading the already minimal space between them. Zhiruo could feel the intensity radiating from him, cold and demanding. "Embroider something else. Here. Now."

He slid a square of pristine, undyed silk towards her across the table. It was a command, not a request.

"What… what would the Honored Husband have me embroider?" Zhiruo asked, her throat tight.

"Something worthy of this household," he stated, his dark eyes locking onto hers. "Something that reflects… strength. Permanence." A pause, deliberate and heavy. "A tiger. Watching. Waiting."

A tiger. The symbol of ferocity, power, and unwavering focus. The symbol of *him*. Embroidering it felt like stitching her own surrender, branding herself with his mark. The crimson thread in her needle suddenly looked like blood.

Swallowing hard, Zhiruo picked up the new silk square. Her fingers felt clumsy. She sketched the outline of a powerful tiger head in her mind, its eyes narrowed, predatory. She began to stitch, the needle piercing the fabric with small, precise movements. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, broken only by the faint whisper of silk against silk and the pounding of her own heart.

Xie Zhan watched. Not her hands this time, but her face. She could feel his gaze like a physical touch, tracing the line of her jaw, the curve of her cheekbone, the slight furrow of concentration between her brows. It was unnerving, invasive. She kept her eyes fixed on the emerging tiger, pouring her fear and defiance into the tight, angry stitches of its muzzle.

"The Nightingale Bureau," he spoke suddenly, his voice cutting through the silence like a knife. "They train their birds well. To sing sweetly. To strike silently. To blend into the shadows." He picked up his teacup, swirling the dark liquid. "Li Chen chose his weapon carefully. A broken songbird, fueled by righteous fury. Easy to manipulate."

Zhiruo's needle slipped, pricking her fingertip. A tiny bead of crimson welled up. She flinched, sucking in a sharp breath. Before she could react, Xie Zhan's hand shot out across the table. Not to strike, but to grasp her wrist. His grip was like iron, cold and unyielding, pulling her injured finger towards him.

"Careless," he murmured, his voice low. His thumb brushed roughly over the tiny puncture, smearing the blood. His touch sent a jolt of something electric and terrifying through her. It wasn't pain; it was the sheer shock of contact, the violation of his proximity, the intensity of his focus on such a small wound.

He didn't release her. His obsidian eyes held hers, searching, probing. "Righteous fury is a brittle blade, Lin Zhiruo," he said, his thumb still resting on her bleeding fingertip. "It shatters against harder truths. Li Chen fed you lies to sharpen your edge against me. Did he tell you *why* your father was condemned? Did he tell you who truly benefited from the Lin family's fall?"

Zhiruo tried to pull her hand back, but his grip tightened infinitesimally. "He told me of your evidence! Your forged documents!" she hissed, the hatred flaring, momentarily overpowering her fear. "You framed him!"

"Evidence can be planted," Xie Zhan countered, his voice dangerously calm. "Motives can be fabricated. The Lin family held lands Li Chen coveted. Their influence challenged his faction within the Ministry of Rites. Their removal cleared a path… for *him*."

The accusation hung in the air, monstrous and destabilizing. Zhiruo stared at him, the embroidery forgotten, the sting of her finger forgotten. "You lie," she whispered, but the conviction sounded hollow, even to her own ears. A seed of doubt, poisonous and insidious, had been planted.

Xie Zhan’s lips curved into that chilling, almost-smile. "Do I?" He finally released her wrist. Zhiruo snatched her hand back, cradling the injured finger. He picked up the pale blue handkerchief she had tucked into her sleeve – he must have seen it or felt it when he grabbed her. He unfolded it, revealing the embroidered nightingale.

"See this bird?" he said, holding it up. "Singing loyally for its master. Unaware the hand that feeds it also holds the snare." He looked from the nightingale to her, his gaze piercing. "Ask yourself, little songbird: who wove the trap that caught your family? And who holds your leash now?"

He didn't wait for an answer. He tossed the handkerchief back onto the table beside her embroidery. "Finish the tiger," he commanded, rising to his feet with lethal grace. "Make its eyes… penetrating. It sees the truth, even when others are blind." He walked towards the door, pausing only to glance back, his silhouette framed against the light. "We will continue our discussion tomorrow. Same time. Do not be late."

He was gone, leaving Zhiruo alone in the Crimson Pavilion with the half-stitched tiger, the accusing nightingale handkerchief, the smear of her blood on the silk, and his devastating words echoing in the sudden, crushing silence.

Her fingertip throbbed. Her mind reeled. The foundations of her vengeance, carefully built over years of pain and hatred, felt suddenly unstable, cracking under the weight of Xie Zhan's cold, plausible lies. Or were they truths? The image of Li Chen's warm, reassuring smile warred violently with Xie Zhan’s chilling accusation. She looked down at the tiger taking shape under her trembling fingers – its eyes, as yet unstitched, seemed to watch her, waiting to see which truth she would believe.

Outside the pavilion, unseen, Auntie Liu stood sentinel. She hadn't heard the words, but she had seen the Minister grasp his new wife's wrist, seen the intensity of his gaze. A thoughtful, almost calculating frown creased her stern face before she smoothed it away, resuming her watchful stance. The game within the Crimson Pavilion had just begun, and the threads of truth and deception were becoming perilously tangled.

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