What came after — Shuang Jiang remembered it most clearly of all. Her family’s old prince had always loved singing these lines, keeping time in the courtyard every morning, singing along with the dew and the morning breeze, always waking her up.

“Tonight the wind blows again, as it did last night, spring blossoms drifting through old dreams. Looking back on the past, there is nothing more to say; an old friend smiles, leaning against the eastern hall of days gone by.”

The old prince’s voice had been loud and clear; singing these lines, it rang out bright and lilting, cutting through the morning mist, drawing scoldings from the old princess.

“You’re a prince, for goodness’ sake — why do you keep learning these low, common pastimes? What prince sings opera in a household of such standing? If the current Emperor found out, he’d say again that you’re neglecting your proper duties.”

The old prince had a good temper; being scolded like this only made him more cheerful, and he’d pat his belly and laugh. “The nation is at peace and the people content — when the nation is at peace and the people content, what use do I have for proper duties?”

Back then, Great Wei truly had been at peace, with a solid foundation left by its ancestors and a court full of loyal, worthy officials. Shuang Jiang had still been an innocent young princess then, sheltered under her parents’ protection, playing and frolicking, often gossiping with others about the little mistress of the West Palace.

But within just a few years, internal strife broke out at court, rotting from the roots, the realm falling apart, enemy forces pressing at the borders.

Shuang Jiang had crouched by the flower-lattice window, watching her aging father put away his opera fan and don armor already dulled with dust.

When the capital fell, her father knew there was no turning back the tide, but he still led his men to guard the palace gate, wanting to leave a remnant for Great Wei, wanting to give the little mistress of the West Palace a chance to hide.

His armor shattered completely, his face covered in the blood of Wei’s people, he stood beneath those red walls and yellow-tiled eaves just as he had every morning outside her window, and sang in his bright voice: Tonight the wind blows again, as it did last night, spring blossoms drifting through old dreams.

Unfortunately, he never finished the line — Kang Zhenzhong rode past on horseback, blade in hand, light glinting through the palace gate, and only a few dark specks of blood splashed out as the old prince’s head, standing so straight and proper, was severed. His stout body staggered, as though refusing to fall.

Shuang Jiang was carried away with a hand clamped over her mouth; the last thing she could see was her own father’s body, gradually stiffening at the palace gate, shattered by Kang Zhenzhong’s riding crop against the blood-slicked flagstones.

“Looking back on the past, there is nothing more to say.”

Shuang Jiang, pinching her sleeve cuff, sang in imitation of her father’s manner, “an old friend smiles, leaning against the eastern hall of days gone by—”

Her voice was young, but the closing flourish curved just as gracefully as the old prince’s had, drawn out long and lingering, like a fragment of an old dream.

“Good!” Kang Zhenzhong nodded along, clapping for her, and through his drunken, blurry eyes, he saw the young woman before him wearing a smile, yet with two lines of clear tears falling from her eyes.

Why would singing these few lines make anyone cry? Kang Zhenzhong leaned forward in confusion, wanting to ask.

But before he could get the question out, his heart suddenly turned icy cold.

A chill pierced straight through his heart and lungs, startling all the drunkenness out of him. Kang Zhenzhong’s eyes bulged, staring in shock at the young woman before him, whose face now seemed somehow familiar, his gaze slowly dropping to his own chest, pierced through by an awl.

“By my father’s order, I have come to send you off.” Shuang Jiang withdrew her hand, smiling as she wiped the tears from her face. “I’ve come rather late — please don’t hold it against me, my lord.”

Terrified, Kang Zhenzhong dared not breathe, tumbling out of his chair and crawling toward the door with trembling hands.

He didn’t want to die yet — he still had Zhaiyue’s vengeance unfulfilled — how could he go meet her like this? But the person behind him had no intention of letting him go; before he could crawl even two steps, a sudden weight pressed down on his back, and the awl already three inches deep in his chest sank fully to the hilt, the pain tearing through him.

Kang Zhenzhong let out an agonized scream. He tried to cry for help, but this breathless, strangled cry was quickly drowned out by Shuang Jiang’s lilting song.

The autumn night air was cool, and in the quiet side pavilion, the tune of “Old Hall to the East” was sung over and over, the voice desolate and forlorn, carried by the wind toward the direction of the Longevity Banquet.

The banquet itself was in full swing, with music, strings, and singing all in complete abundance; no one paid any mind to this faint disturbance. Only Yin Huayue leaned by the table, listening carefully, tapping out the beat against the table edge.

She had spent a month preparing Shuang Jiang for this — today, this opera was finally sung to its end. Letting out a long sigh, Huayue raised her cup and clinked it against Li Jingyun’s beside her.

Li Jingyun glanced sideways at her, staring at her cup, seeming to recall something, and reached over to switch it for a cup of tea. “Drink this instead.”

Huayue was displeased. “It’s a rare happy occasion today — how can I not drink wine?”

“With your tolerance for alcohol, one sip and you won’t be able to handle it, and this lord won’t be able to handle it either.” He tapped her forehead pointedly. “Behave yourself.”

Taking a sip of the tea, Huayue pouted and set the cup aside, eyeing it with distaste.

This pose was rather charming and coquettish; even she herself was momentarily stunned by her own behavior, then shook her head with a rueful laugh. In the end, she was still a child who had been raised with love and indulgence — no matter how much she’d been through, that streak of getting away with things once someone doted on her would always resurface the moment she was pampered again.

Huayue truly never would have imagined that Li Jingyun could come this far with her. When they first got together, they had actually resented each other — but now, this lord had come to dote on her and indulge her. Life had become so comfortable that she sometimes wanted to go find trouble with Shen Zhiluo, to ask him just what kind of fortune-telling he’d done that suggested there would be no good ending — weren’t the two of them doing perfectly fine?

Once she’d settled all her scores with her enemies, she would settle down to live out her days with him in peace, have a child in a couple of years to raise and enjoy — however things turned out, she certainly wouldn’t end up living out her life alone and destitute.

Satisfied, she pursed her lips and leaned against his shoulder.

“What’s this?” Li Jingyun gave a snorting laugh. “Drunk on tea?”

She pinched him, laughing in exasperation. “Who gets drunk on this?”

“Then perhaps you’re looking to milk sympathy,” he teased, but he still leaned in a bit, letting her rest more comfortably against him. “If you’re tired, just say so — this lord will take you and slip away by the side path.”

Huayue: “…”

Could one even slip away from this Longevity Banquet? Her neck felt as stiff as if it were under an executioner’s block.

Shaking her head with a rueful sigh, Huayue kept drinking her tea.

Before long, someone came up and quietly reported to Li Jingyun. “My lord, there’s trouble at the side pavilion. Lord Zhang has no idea what to do and would like to request you come take a look.”

After Xue Ji’s death, Zhang Jingyi had become the commander of the Imperial Guards, but the man was dull-witted and lacked much experience — whenever something happened, all he knew to do was send for Li Jingyun. Li Jingyun had no idea what was going on over there, and he stood up to go take a look.

“Hey.” Huayue suddenly clutched her stomach, her face pale as she grabbed his sleeve.

“What is it?” Li Jingyun turned back.

“My stomach hurts.” Her brows knit together tightly, and cold sweat immediately broke out on her forehead, the color draining from her lips, her whole body trembling.

Li Jingyun was startled. He helped her sit up and told the palace servants to fetch Wen Guzhi, then turned to the man who had come to report. “Let him handle it however he sees fit — I can’t manage the Imperial Guards’ affairs from here. If it truly can’t be helped, go find His Highness first.”

He had originally only been ordered to oversee the Imperial Forest Army; he only occasionally helped Zhang Jingyi out of regard for the Crown Prince’s standing — but with his own wife in trouble, naturally his wife came before an outsider.

Huayue felt greatly gratified and, holding onto his hand, whimpered even more pitifully.

The messenger withdrew awkwardly. Li Jingyun rubbed her stomach with one hand, asking suspiciously, “Really hurting?”

“Really.” She grimaced in pain, leaning against his chest. “Ow, it hurts so much.”

His dark pupils narrowed slightly, and he leaned in close to her ear, murmuring, “Wen Guzhi will be here soon. If you’re really in pain, this lord will ask for leave. But if you’re faking it to scare people, you’re done for tonight.”

A chill ran down her spine. Huayue drew a sharp breath, her eyes darting about.

Wen Guzhi arrived quickly, setting down his medicine box to take her pulse. Huayue opened her mouth to speak, but Li Jingyun reached over and covered both her mouth and eyes at once, saying coldly, “Not a word out of you until he’s finished the diagnosis.”

That was it — everything went dark for Huayue.

Wen Guzhi took her pulse for a good while through a handkerchief, glancing between her and the Third Young Master, then asked hesitantly, “Did she drink at the banquet?”

“No.” Li Jingyun snorted. “This lord kept her from it. She didn’t eat anything out of the ordinary either — don’t make excuses for her. Tell me honestly, what on this table could possibly make her stomach hurt this badly?”

Wen Guzhi looked at him with a complicated expression, slowly raising his index finger and pressing it against Li Jingyun’s chest.

Li Jingyun: “?”

“Sister-in-law is a little over two months along,” he said. “This is something only you could have caused.”

The bustling Longevity Banquet, with its orchestral music and singing, suddenly seemed to go silent, the surrounding sounds drifting far away. Li Jingyun stared blankly at Wen Guzhi, his mind completely blank.

Huayue, too, was stunned. She pulled the hand away from her face and stared wide-eyed at Wen Guzhi. “Two months along?”

Wen Guzhi nodded, and meeting her doubtful gaze, he couldn’t help rolling his eyes. “The two of you truly hadn’t noticed yourselves?”

How could she have noticed? She’d been busy lately, and Li Jingyun even busier than her. Though the two of them often engaged in that shameless activity, neither of them had expected it to happen so quickly.

And she had just been planning to wait a couple more years.

“Sister-in-law, is it a dragging, heavy pain, or what kind of sensation?” Wen Guzhi asked seriously. “If it’s a dragging pain, you need to be careful — the pregnancy still isn’t stable, and one moment of carelessness could lose it.”

She hadn’t actually been in real pain — she’d only pretended so Li Jingyun wouldn’t get himself tangled up in the mess. Huayue opened her mouth to explain, but before she could speak, her hand was already caught.

This lord’s palm, which had been burning hot just moments ago, now felt somehow cold as he took her hand.

“Then what do we do?” he asked.

Wen Guzhi felt genuinely moved by this — his brothers had been waiting for years, dreaming of hearing the Third Young Master ask them this very question, hoping to be the ones he’d let worry over him for once. Yet no one had ever gotten the chance. Unexpectedly, today, in this setting, he finally heard it.

“Take the madam back to rest, brew some restorative medicine, take walks morning and evening, and don’t do anything else.” He wrote out a prescription and handed it over.

Li Jingyun, without another word, was about to go ask for leave, but there were still people up front conversing with the Emperor. Huayue quickly grabbed him. “It’s fine — I feel better now. We can leave after the banquet is over.”

If they left now, who would go meet up with Shuang Jiang?

Li Jingyun glared at her, but then, worried he might frighten her, softened his expression, and said with awkward reluctance, “This lord wants to go back — is that all right or not?”

“Then you go back,” Huayue said with a smile. “I’ll just sit here.”

“…” Grand Protector Li, who hadn’t cursed in a long time, finally couldn’t hold back a low curse.

He turned and, lifting his robe, sat back down beside her, stiff and unwilling.

Wen Guzhi comforted him. “The Third Young Master needn’t be too nervous either — sister-in-law knows her own condition best. If she says it’s fine, then it’s fine.”

“This lord isn’t nervous. It’s just a pregnancy — who hasn’t had one before — I mean, who hasn’t seen one before.” He grimaced, fanning himself and turning his head away.

Huayue covered her stomach and laughed, glancing at him sideways, and couldn’t resist reaching out to hook her fingers around the hand resting beside him.

His palm closed around hers, gripping her tightly.

The music and singing up front continued their liveliness, but Huayue no longer paid attention to it, only staring at his profile with a smile, her heart filled with an unprecedented sense of fullness and contentment.

“Your Highness.”

Zhou Heshuo was in the midst of conversation with Consort Yao when someone suddenly came to report. “Something’s happened at the Longevity Banquet. Lord Kang has died in the side pavilion set aside for resting. The Imperial Guards haven’t caught the culprit and are searching everyone one by one.”

At this news, Zhou Heshuo’s expression changed. To give the Imperial Guards a chance to redeem themselves, it was Zhang Jingyi who had been assigned to lead the patrol at tonight’s banquet. With someone suddenly dead, would Zhang Jingyi even survive this?

“Go — have someone suppress the news for now,” he said in a low voice. “Father must not be allowed to find out about this.”

The servant went off to carry out the order, but before long came hurrying back, trembling. “His Majesty has summoned Lord Kang for questioning.”

“How could that be?” Zhou Heshuo was greatly alarmed. “Wasn’t he just questioned?”

“Some official mentioned matters of the Grand Secretariat’s compilation of records. His Majesty said he hadn’t heard the report yet and asked for Lord Kang to come back and say a few more words.”

Something was wrong. Zhou Heshuo shook his head. “There couldn’t possibly be such a coincidence.”

It was obviously deliberate — someone had killed Kang Zhenzhong on purpose. He had known all along that Kang Zhenzhong was a thorn in the side of the former Wei remnants, and he had always kept him under guard. It was only recently, being so busy, that the number of guards protecting him had been reduced, and that was when the incident occurred.

Nowhere else, but right under the Emperor’s very nose — this was clearly aimed at him.

Zhou Heshuo bowed to Consort Yao and headed out, personally leading troops to conduct a search, hoping to suppress the news and catch the culprit before the banquet ended, so as to redeem the fault with merit.

Consort Yao watched him hurry off and frowned slightly, her alluring figure reclining on the chaise, letting out a haughty little scoff.

The men of the Zhou imperial family, even the one who had come from her own womb, were all fickle and ungrateful.

Reaching out to add more incense, she yawned and went back to sleep.

Shuang Jiang had left the moment the deed was done, meeting up with someone at the side gate as Huayue had arranged, planning to go together to the servants’ quarters at the left side of the palace gate. But when she got there, she found people had already come, rounding up all the servants who hadn’t been in their quarters at the time.

Her palms sweating, Shuang Jiang stood among the crowd, not daring to even breathe heavily.

There was blood on the soles of her shoes; if she were caught, it would be undeniable evidence, and it would implicate both Huayue and the Marquis’s residence too. But there was nowhere left to run now, with people everywhere. What was she to do?

The palace attendant checking clothing had already reached her. Shuang Jiang lowered her head, her vision going white with panic.

“Where’s the maid from the Marquis’s residence?” someone suddenly called out from a distance.

Shuang Jiang startled, quickly raising her head, and saw Wen Guzhi approaching with his medicine box slung over his shoulder, frowning. “Come with me.”

“My lord?” A few minor officials exchanged glances. “We’re conducting a search here.”

“Searching for what?” Wen Guzhi asked.

Zhou Heshuo had given orders to suppress the news; none of these minor officials dared reveal anything, stammering that it was the Crown Prince’s orders. Wen Guzhi flipped his hand and produced the Crown Prince’s token, waving it before their eyes. “This too is the Crown Prince’s order — the madam of the Marquis’s residence isn’t feeling well, and her maid is needed at once to help attend to her, or no one here will be able to bear the consequences if something happens.”

With that, he pulled Shuang Jiang away.

As if granted amnesty, Shuang Jiang followed him out and bowed in thanks. “My thanks, my lord.”

“Thanks for what? This truly is your madam’s own instruction,” Wen Guzhi said as he walked. “I don’t know what happened either — the Imperial Guards suddenly surrounded everyone and wouldn’t let anyone leave. Sister-in-law said her stomach was bothering her, the Third Young Master went to find the Crown Prince, and that’s how you and sister-in-law were allowed to head back to the residence first.”

Huayue really did think quickly. Shuang Jiang wiped the cold sweat from her forehead and let out a long breath.

Zhou Heshuo had moved quickly to suppress the news, but it was no use against the Emperor’s repeated summons for Kang Zhenzhong. By the time the banquet ended, several key ministers stood in the imperial study as the Emperor slammed his teacup down before the Crown Prince.

His face pale, Zhou Heshuo knelt down amid the shattered teacup fragments. “Father, please calm your anger!”

Having heard so many people rush to praise the Crown Prince and his achievements, the Emperor had already felt some displeasure, like a man sensing someone else sleeping soundly on his own bed — and now, with such a major incident occurring, he only found out at the very end of the banquet, after his rage had already boiled over.

The Emperor felt deeply that he had spoiled this Crown Prince too much, letting him grow arrogant and dismissive of others.

“The Imperial Guards’ dereliction of duty isn’t a matter of one or two days. I wanted to give you a chance, but it seems you’re not suited for this. Hand over the token of the Imperial Guards.” the Emperor said sternly.

Zhou Heshuo was so shocked his face lost all color, but with the Emperor in such a fury, he dared not act contrary, and quickly had someone bring up the military tally.

The Emperor tossed it straight to Li Jingyun.

“Your Majesty, this—” Li Jingyun knelt down, his face full of unease.

The ministers standing nearby understood at once: giving it to Li Jingyun was still, in effect, preserving the Crown Prince’s dignity, since the two of them were, after all, close friends — certainly better than handing it to some other prince.

Zhou Heshuo felt as though his heart were being cut with a knife, but he understood the implication and lowered his head, saying nothing further. Li Jingyun glanced around and, with some reluctance, offered his thanks for the Emperor’s grace.

Leaving the imperial study, Zhou Heshuo didn’t reproach him for anything, but his mood was genuinely poor, and he left leaning on a palace servant’s arm.

However fierce the struggle for power and profit at court, military authority still mattered more than any lucrative post. The Princess Imperial had earlier lost control of the Bureau of Affairs, and now the Crown Prince had lost the Imperial Guards as well — the two most dominant factions at court were finally showing signs of decline.

At the same time, Li Jingyun, surpassing even his predecessor, now held military authority over the capital, bringing glory by association to those around him — even Su Miao found people sending gifts, hoping she might put in a good word, wondering whether Grand Protector Li might want a concubine.

Su Miao, holding a stack of small portrait sketches, flipped through them one by one with amusement. “What kind of people are these? And they still want to get into my cousin’s courtyard?”

Shen Zhiluo glanced at her sideways. “Your cousin is quite the heavenly figure — are mere mortals not even worthy of him?”

“That’s not what I mean.” Su Miao laughed, leaning over. “Look at this — this girl is heavier than you and me put together. Is she trying to get into his chambers just to crush my cousin to death?”

The little portrait did look rather plump. Shen Zhiluo waved for her to put it away. “Your young sister-in-law is pregnant now — your cousin might very well want to take a concubine.”

Ordinarily, when the principal wife of a household became pregnant, the men of the family would take a concubine to keep them company for a while, but Su Miao found this practice utterly shameless. She scrunched up her mouth so hard it nearly touched the rafters. “The mourning period for the mistress hasn’t even ended yet. He can’t, even if he wanted to.”

After thinking about it, she asked, “If I got pregnant, would you take a concubine too?”

He glanced at her but didn’t answer.

Since he clearly thought of her that way, then that must be his true intention, Su Miao thought, growing dejected, and touched her own stomach.

It seemed she didn’t need to worry about that just yet — after all this time, there had been no sign of anything happening.

Shen Zhiluo hadn’t been keen on being close to her lately either. During the day he held secret discussions with people; at night he rested in his study. Several times she’d shamelessly hugged her blanket over to find him for the night, but he’d barely paid her any attention. Once, unable to hold back, she’d made a scene, asking whether he had someone else outside — to which he’d responded, unbothered, “Go find out. If you catch me, you can write up the divorce papers yourself.”

Su Miao was practically fuming, but there wasn’t much she could do about it.

Truly bored, she abandoned Shen Zhiluo and went out to Qifeng Tower.

Court affairs had been quite turbulent lately. Li Jingyun was at Qifeng Tower discussing matters with Liu Chenghe and the others when he saw her come in and raised an eyebrow. “What’s with that resentful-wife look on your face?”

Sitting down before him dejectedly, Su Miao asked, “Does Shen Zhiluo have something going on lately? He just won’t pay any attention to me.”

“You’ve come at just the right time — I was about to talk to you about that,” Li Jingyun said. “While it’s still early, why don’t you write him a divorce letter?”

Su Miao immediately jumped up, standing on a stool in a fierce pose like a tiger descending a mountain. “Does he really have someone else outside?”

What nonsense was this? Li Jingyun looked at her like she was a fool, and Liu Chenghe beside her quietly explained, “That good husband of yours has been reaching out to plenty of former Wei loyalists — he’s competing with the Crown Prince on behalf of the Fifth Prince over next spring’s provincial tour. The fire’s burning hot, and your cousin is worried it might burn you too, so he wants you to get clear of it first.”

Calming down, Su Miao asked, puzzled, “What does the Fifth Prince have to do with any of this? Shen Zhiluo hardly ever even meets with him.”

“It just so happens the Fifth Prince holds the title of first-rank prince — he’s counted as the most promising of the princes aside from the Crown Prince,” Li Jingyun said. “They just want a puppet, and the Fifth Prince happens to be young and hasn’t yet learned all these scheming tricks.”

Recalling Zhou Hemin, whom she’d seen at the banquet that day, Su Miao wanted to say he hadn’t seemed like a fool at all, but before she could get the words out, Li Jingyun continued, “In any case, that husband of yours wants to drag my Marquis’s residence into this muddy water too, and that’s not going to happen. Just write him a divorce letter.”

“Makes sense.” Su Miao nodded. “No matter what, we can’t implicate the Marquis’s residence.”

Liu Chenghe, gratified, gestured toward her and said to Li Jingyun, “See, my lord, and here you were worried? Look how much the young miss keeps the bigger picture in mind.”

“I’m not finished.” Su Miao clapped her hands. “Since we can’t implicate you, why don’t I stir up a big scene instead — cousin, you make it even bigger — let the whole capital know I’m an ungrateful wretch who’s betrayed the Marquis’s residence, cut off from it entirely, with no more connection to it whatsoever.”

Caught off balance, Liu Chenghe stumbled.

Li Jingyun had more or less anticipated this and merely gave a snorting laugh. “You don’t value your life anymore? This marriage of yours was arranged by the Crown Prince himself — you’re there specifically to maintain ties between the Crown Prince’s household and the Marquis’s residence.”

“It won’t come to costing my life,” Su Miao said, narrowing her eyes with a smile. “He’ll protect me.”

Shen Zhiluo? Li Jingyun looked at his foolish cousin with a complicated expression. Half the capital knew Shen Zhiluo didn’t treat his new bride well, and yet she alone remained this single-minded about it.