The Forbidden City, November 16, 1908
The chill of early November had seeped into the marrow of Beijing, its pale sky hanging low over the Forbidden City like an oppressive curtain. Within the palace, the Aisin-Gioro Clan Council had assembled in the Hall of Preserving Harmony, a chamber far more intimate than the Hall of Supreme Harmony, but no less grand.
Golden dragons curled along wooden pillars, and soft silk banners hung heavy with imperial insignias. The air was sharp with the scent of incense, curling in faint tendrils beneath the lacquered ceiling.
Zaifeng, dressed in a subdued dark robe embroidered with subtle patterns of dragons and clouds, knelt at the center of the chamber. Around him sat the elder princes, the family heads, and noble scions of the Aisin-Gioro Clan, each representing generations of imperial bloodlines.
At the head of the gathering stood Prince Qing (Yikuang), his frail form draped in heavy robes, eyes sharp beneath thinning eyebrows. His every gesture carried weight, every word an invisible scepter of authority.
"Brothers, cousins, sons of Nurhaci and Hong Taiji," Prince Qing began, his voice steady despite his frail appearance, "the empire lies at a precipice. Two sovereigns have passed, and no successor was named. It falls to us—to the clan—to decide who shall ascend the Dragon Throne."
Murmurs rippled through the assembly. Faces turned toward Zaifeng, but also toward other senior princes. A handful of younger princes shifted uncomfortably, caught between family loyalty and their own ambitions.
Prince Qing continued. "This is not a decision we make lightly. The empire trembles under the weight of foreign cannons and internal unrest. The provinces grow restless, and the court whispers rebellion. We must choose stability. We must choose strength."
The murmurs subsided, and the chamber fell into an expectant silence.
One of the elder princes, Prince Zaitao, Zaifeng's cousin, cleared his throat. His voice, though polite, carried an undercurrent of suspicion.
"Prince Chun," he began carefully, his eyes narrowing slightly, "it is no secret that you wield considerable influence in the court. The Beiyang Army obeys you. The ministers step lightly in your presence. But tell us this—do you seek the throne for yourself, or for the empire?"
All eyes turned to Zaifeng. The silence was suffocating.
Zaifeng rose to his feet slowly, his every movement deliberate, every rustle of silk audible in the stillness.
"I seek neither crown nor title for my own vanity, Cousin Zaitao," Zaifeng said, his voice calm but resolute. "I seek only what is necessary for the survival of our dynasty. Tell me—would you entrust the weight of our empire to a child, barely old enough to speak? Would you have this council turn into regents bickering over authority while our enemies march across our borders?"
A few princes nodded slightly, while others remained impassive.
Zaifeng continued. "I am not here to deny my son Puyi's inheritance. But I am here to tell you that inheritance alone will not save us. The throne requires strength, decisiveness, and the ability to act—not in twenty years, but today."
His voice lowered, though it carried no less authority. "We all know this. Every man in this chamber knows this. You have seen the ministers cower and plot. You have seen the generals hesitate at the borders. You have seen foreign envoys smirk behind their polished facades."
Prince Qing spoke up then, his voice soft but commanding. "If not you, Prince Chun, then who? Who among us can command loyalty from both ministers and generals? Who has the strength to rule?"
No one answered. No one dared.
As the council recessed briefly for deliberation, Zaifeng retreated to a quiet chamber nearby. He sat alone, his hands folded neatly over his knees, his head bowed slightly. The weight of the moment pressed against him, heavier than the finest jade crown.
A faint knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. Li Yuan, his trusted eunuch ally, stepped inside and bowed low.
"Your Highness, word from General Yuan Shikai. The city remains calm, and the army holds firm. The ministers are silent, and the envoys remain cautious."
Zaifeng nodded faintly. "And the council?"
Li Yuan hesitated. "There is hesitation among a few princes. Some worry about violating precedent. Others fear that your ascension will provoke rebellion."
Zaifeng sighed and closed his eyes briefly. "They are afraid of shadows while the fire rages at their feet."
Li Yuan hesitated for a brief moment before stepping closer. "Your Highness, if the council hesitates further, if they waver… the empire may fracture before dawn."
Zaifeng's eyes opened, sharp and piercing. "Then let them see what hesitation will cost."
The Aisin-Gioro Clan Council reconvened in the Hall of Preserving Harmony. Prince Qing stood once more at the head of the assembly, his face pale but resolute.
"The council has deliberated," he began, his voice carrying over the chamber. "We have considered tradition. We have considered duty. And we have considered the survival of the Qing Dynasty."
Every head in the room turned toward Zaifeng.
"By unanimous decision," Prince Qing declared, his words ringing like iron on stone, "Prince Chun (Zaifeng) shall ascend as Emperor of the Qing Dynasty."
For a moment, silence reigned. The weight of those words seemed to press down on every man in the room.
Zaifeng bowed deeply, his voice steady as he spoke: "I accept this burden, not as a privilege, but as a duty. The Qing Dynasty will not fall—not while I still draw breath."
The princes rose in unison, bowing deeply before their new emperor.
As night descended upon Beijing, lanterns burned brightly across the Forbidden City. Riders galloped into the provinces, carrying imperial edicts declaring Zaifeng's ascension to every corner of the empire.
The private quarters were cloaked in shadows, the faint glow of lantern light flickering across silk drapes embroidered with dragons in gold and silver thread. The scent of sandalwood lingered faintly in the air, mingling with the bitterness of cooling tea.
Zaifeng sat in a low chair by a lacquered table, still clad in his formal court robes. His shoulders, which had borne the weight of the empire's future throughout the day, now slumped slightly as fatigue gnawed at the edges of his focus.
From behind the silk curtains, Youlan emerged quietly, her pale blue robe trailing softly along the polished floor. Her face, illuminated by the lantern glow, carried a serene calmness—a stark contrast to the chaos of the court.
"Your Highness," she said softly, her voice like a breeze in a still forest, "you haven't slept. Nor have you eaten."
Zaifeng looked up, the tension in his face briefly softening as his eyes met hers. "Sleep eludes me tonight, Youlan. The crown feels heavier now than it did in the council hall."
She approached him slowly, carrying a small lacquered tray with a porcelain bowl of warm soup. Setting it before him, she knelt gracefully by his side.
"Then you must eat," she said simply. "The emperor cannot carry an empty stomach into the storm."
Zaifeng chuckled faintly, a sound so rare these days that it felt almost foreign to him. He picked up the spoon, allowing her quiet insistence to guide him into taking a few slow bites. The warmth spread through him, not just from the soup, but from her presence—a fleeting moment of normalcy in a world spiraling with uncertainty.
"Youlan," he said after a pause, setting the spoon down carefully, "do you fear what comes next?"
She raised her head slightly, her dark eyes meeting his. "Every woman fears for her husband when he walks the edge of a blade. But I know you, Zaifeng. You do not walk blindly, and you do not stumble."
Her words were spoken softly, but they carried an unyielding strength.
"I stood before men I've known all my life today," Zaifeng continued, his voice quieter now. "Princes, cousins, elders. And I saw the doubt in their eyes, even as they handed me the Dragon Seal."
"They doubt because they are afraid," Youlan said. "Afraid of change, afraid of uncertainty, and afraid of their own inadequacies. But you—you are afraid of failure, and that makes you stronger than them."
Zaifeng closed his eyes briefly, absorbing her words like balm over a wound he hadn't realized was raw. When he opened them again, the steel had returned to his gaze.
"Youlan, this throne will test us both," he said. "It will test our marriage, our family, and everything we hold dear."
She reached out and took his hand in both of hers, her delicate fingers wrapping gently around his calloused palm.
"Then we will endure, Zaifeng. Together."
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The silence was not oppressive—it was peaceful. Outside the windows, the distant lantern glow of Yuan Shikai's troops flickered faintly against the dark silhouette of the palace walls.
Youlan rose slowly, her poise unwavering as she adjusted her robe.
"Rest, Zaifeng," she said gently. "The empire will not crumble in a single night, but your strength must not falter when dawn comes."
She turned and began to walk away, but Zaifeng's voice stopped her.
"Youlan."
She turned, her head tilting slightly in curiosity.
"Thank you."
A faint smile touched her lips. "Goodnight, my emperor."
The silk curtains swayed faintly behind her as she disappeared into the shadows of the adjoining chambers.
Zaifeng sat there for a moment longer, staring at the faint flicker of the lanterns, before finally leaning back in his chair, overlooking the palace courtyards.
Yuan Shikai entered silently.
"It is done, Your Majesty," Yuan said softly, bowing deeply. "The throne is yours. The empire is watching. The world is watching."
Zaifeng's reflection stared back at him from the glass, the faint outlines of dragon motifs shimmering in the lantern light.
"This is only the beginning, Yuan," Zaifeng said quietly. "Tomorrow, we will begin to repair what centuries of decay have broken. Tomorrow, the empire rises anew."
Yuan Shikai straightened, his face hard and solemn. "And I will stand by your side, Your Majesty."