The village of Chengyuan had always been a quiet place. Tucked between misty hills and endless rice fields, it thrived under the favor of the gods and the benevolence of the court or so the elders said. But favor was a fickle thing, and the gods, perhaps, had turned their faces away.
It began with the cattle. One morning, the villagers found them dead in their pens, eyes wide open, their bodies rigid with a stillness that no one could name. Then the children fell ill, their skin pale as moonlight, their cries fading into a silence too heavy for any mother to bear.
By the time the healers came, it was already too late.
They burned incense and offered prayers, but the sickness spread like a brushfire. Within a week, the blacksmith's son was found lifeless by the river. Within two, the baker's entire family perished in their sleep, their faces contorted in expressions of terror. And then, the dead began to vanish.
At first, it was thought to be the work of desperate grave robbers. But when footprints were found leading out of the shallow graves, dragging trails through the mud toward the forests, fear took root deeper than any sickness.
The elders, desperate and trembling, sent a messenger to the capital. His horse carried him faster than any prayer could fly but few believed he would make it through the dark woods alive.
Night after night, the villagers huddled together behind locked doors, clutching talismans and whispering forgotten charms. They spoke little, except in frightened murmurs about shapes moving through the fog. About how, once, Old Han swore he saw his dead wife standing outside his window, her mouth open as if to scream yet no sound came out.
It was said that the dead walked, and they carried with them a hunger that could not be sated.
Far beyond the dying fields of Chengyuan, within the marble embrace of the Yanliao Palace, music floated through the air like perfume.
Silk-clad courtiers laughed behind painted fans. Servants scurried between them, bearing trays of honeyed lotus cakes and golden jugs of plum wine. Lanterns hung like stars across the grand banquet hall, their light dancing on the polished jade floor.
At the center of it all sat Queen Lian, radiant as a spring bloom, her robes a cascade of crimson and gold. Her hair was coiled into an intricate crown of braids, adorned with pearls that shimmered with every movement. She raised her jeweled cup, and the assembly fell into a reverent silence.
"To health," she declared, her voice warm, the perfect blend of authority and gentleness. "To prosperity."
The courtiers echoed her toast, their voices trembling slightly whether from loyalty or fear, none could say.
Queen Lian smiled, a vision of serenity. Only those who dared to look closely might have noticed the slight tightening around her eyes, the shadow behind her smile.
For Queen Lian knew. She always knew.
Reports had reached her days ago rumors of sickness, whispers of monstrosities lurking beyond the forests. She had read the hastily scribbled scrolls in the privacy of her study, her fingers gliding thoughtfully over the trembling ink of terrified scribes.
But she had given no command for aid. No decree for investigation.
The problems of peasants were not the concern of gods.
As musicians plucked their zithers and dancers twirled with feathered fans, Queen Lian reclined against her throne of carved sandalwood, surveying the revelry with an inscrutable gaze.
The court must see her unshaken. Yanliao must see her eternal. The Queendom could not afford weakness not now, not ever.
Far above the great hall, perched upon the highest balcony, the royal astronomer peered at the stars, his fingers trembling. He had seen the signs: the blood moon rising too soon, the blackened comet slicing the sky. He had tried to request an audience with Her Majesty, but had been turned away with soft words and sharper smiles.
Down below, oblivious or willfully blind, the feast raged on.
In the village of Chengyuan, the last remaining bell of the old temple tolled once at midnight.
A boy, no older than twelve, pressed his face against the cracks of his family's wooden door. His father clutched a rusted blade; his mother sobbed into her hands. Outside, in the mist, he saw them figures, hunched and staggering, their skin the color of spoiled milk.
One of them turned, and for a brief, terrible moment, he thought it was the miller's daughter. But her eyes gods, her eyes were empty wells, staring but not seeing, hungering for warmth she no longer possessed.
The door shuddered as hands many hands beat against it with unnatural force.
The boy screamed.
And the world fell into the silence of death.