Ye Tingyan held her in return, silent for a long, long while before he managed to come back to his senses.

Luowei lay against his shoulder, utterly drained — too exhausted even to say another word.

Her hair had been kept so beautifully, and now it lay loose without any hairpin, tangled together with his — reluctant to part.

In the most disoriented of moments, she had called out “older brother” in his ear.

Whom was she calling?

Not Song Lan, he thought. Song Lan lived in constant suspicion that she had taken a lover out of ambition. He himself had been tormented by that vague suspicion more times than he could count — when she used him, she showed no regard for herself whatsoever, so when she used others, naturally she would show no regard for them either.

That one cry of “older brother” — for her, then, was only a teasing word spoken in the depths of feeling.

But for him, those two words were different.

They rang out in the cold, desolate corridor on a winter’s day, the startled cry of a young girl lifting her skirts in concern. They rang out in the garden where begonia and crepe myrtle blossomed together, her smiling voice calling “A’Tang.” And on the small boat gliding back from across the water of Huiling Lake, she held lotus leaves and lotus pods, waving to him from afar — a call filled with all the tenderness of love.

The very thought that one day, the two words she called out might not be calling for him — he almost wanted to kill someone.

Yet in the very next instant, he heard words he had never anticipated.

“You are his person.”

— Whose person?

— I am yours, Your Highness.

He tried numbly to make sense of those two exchanges, and the arms wrapped around her began to tremble violently.

He did not even have time to consider whether these words were true or false. His eyelashes trembled, and tears fell all over his face.

Luowei felt his tears, and asked quietly: “I was just scolding you, and yet here you are crying — what for?”

She reached out to wipe them away and felt that both his lips and his eyelids were trembling incessantly.

A thousand words choked at his heart and throat, yet he could not utter a single one. Ye Tingyan held her as he sat up, feeling as though he stood at the boundary between dream and reality.

Those words were so beautiful that he dared not think about whether they were true.

Just as a dying man, parched with thirst, would drink even poison if it tasted sweet.

After a long silence, Ye Tingyan murmured, as if sleepwalking: “What did you just… say?”

Luowei’s tears broke into a smile, and she repeated it clearly for him once more.

“Together — let us avenge His Highness.”

She extended her hand and intertwined her fingers with his: “I have been guessing at your heart for so long — tell me if I guessed rightly — the incense you burn is his most beloved fragrance; at the Xiuqing Temple it was also pain for the sake of his family. I have been guessing so long, and only barely managed to force the truth from you — so you…”

Tears flowed over already-dried tear tracks. In that instant, Ye Tingyan felt the edge of her voice take on something close to pleading.

As if it were not only him who needed her as a co-conspirator — she needed his answer far more, to find some solitary comfort on her lonely road ahead.

“You — stop pretending before me. Tell me one true thing.”

“Why — why…”

His thoughts were in such chaos that Ye Tingyan repeated himself several times before he could finally get the words out: “Why did you not tell me sooner?”

Sensing his silent acknowledgment, Luowei exhaled with relief and let out a quiet laugh: “You are so perceptive — how could you have failed to speak that one phrase, ‘treacherous villain’? Even though I had long suspected the truth, how could I dare say it? Pretending before you has been exhausting.”

He asked in a trembling voice: “Are you not afraid that even now I am deceiving you?”

Luowei said: “Is that so? If I have guessed wrong, and I die at your hands — that would be a release of sorts. I am so very tired, so very tired…”

Not entirely untrue. She was thoroughly exhausted right now. The feeling of suddenly finding a fellow traveler was too precious — she truly wanted to let go of everything and sink into a deep sleep, surrounded by the scent of dark sandalwood and jasmine incense.

But it was not yet the moment. Luowei roused herself and pressed a coaxing kiss to his cheek.

She tasted the salt-bitter flavor of tears: “Tonight, after the third watch, my people will feign an attack on the encampment. You go down the mountain to Song Lan’s side — that will clear you of suspicion. Besides that, you were right — if I follow Little Yan northward now, I would face pursuit and assassination the whole way. I cannot leave the capital just yet. You must find me a place that is absolutely, completely safe.”

He did not know what to say. He could only answer: “All right.”

“I am counting on you,” Luowei said, clutching his disheveled lapels, her drowsiness growing heavier. “I…”

She said that one word, then suddenly roused herself and forced her eyes open to look at him once more — and changed what she was about to say: “No — we… I am counting on us. We cannot lose.”

He stroked her face, feeling as though in a single instant he had traveled from somewhere very, very far away to right beside her.

“I—”

He opened his mouth, wanting to say something. But say what? A question — asking, do you truly love an undying spirit in hell with such fierce, undying devotion? A longing — longing for her to repeat those beautiful words again and again, so he could be certain and certain again? Or was it an impatient, overwhelming joy? Do you know he has not died — he once suffered for your betrayal, but that betrayal was a clumsy lie. He was inadvertently hurt by you, and inadvertently hurt you in return. This old account — there is no way to settle it clearly anymore.

Ye Tingyan hesitated for a long while, unsure how to say what he wanted to say.

Or perhaps, unsure how to face her.

And she had already slipped into a drowsy sleep in his silence. Her fingers clutched his robe hem tightly, and she murmured “Your Highness,” and tears slid over cheek-marks laid one upon another.

His heart trembled as he thought: I have missed you so.

— And it turns out you felt the same?

He tightened his grip on her shoulders and was just about to speak when he heard a gust of wind, looked up — and happened to catch sight of the old bronze mirror placed at the head of the bed.

In the bronze mirror was reflected a face utterly unfamiliar to him.

Not the face he remembered as his own.

He stared at that bronze mirror for a long time, studying the reflection in the candlelight over and over — gaunt cheeks, eyes full of feeling, stained with a faint touch of allure, the tinge of desire. That clarity of expression, that warmth like moonlight — he had no idea when it had vanished completely, as though it had never existed at all.

Was this truly his face?

In her eyes, was this how he looked — that beloved moon hanging high in the vault of heaven, which had now suddenly plunged into the bottomless mud? Was it truly possible to emerge from it untarnished?

Ye Tingyan was frightened by himself and fled the room almost in a panic. Before leaving, he forced himself to blank his mind and fasten her garments for her, wipe away the bloodstains on the side of her face, and drape the black cloak he had come in wearing over her body.

She must not have slept this soundly in quite some time, he thought.

As he did all of this, he forced himself to forget the face he had seen in the bronze mirror just moments ago, and surrendered to a serenity he had not known in a very long while.

Even the ache that so often rose in his chest had vanished entirely, leaving only a heart full of love and tender compassion.

A dark temptation flickered through him — what if she was still deceiving you? What if she had seen through your heart and was using this show of vulnerability to manipulate you? What then?

The thought extinguished itself in an instant.

On the day he had been publicly chided by Song Lan as a ruse, Pei Xi had been sick with worry the whole way, and even Zhou Chuyin had shown a trace of alarm — and only once seeing that he had planned it all in advance did either of them settle down. Ever since the Thorn Pruning case that year, aided by the wholehearted devotion of those around him, he still had not dared open his heart, afraid that behind it all, yet another betrayal would suddenly rear up. After all, even those who had once been closest to him could harbor divided loyalties — so what of now?

He leaned against the doorframe and heard Zhou Chuyin say to Pei Xi with a trace of sorrowful compassion: “This is your master’s affliction. Do not blame him.”

Just as on that night when he had personally handed out the saber in the moonlight — if she had harbored a killing intent then; if even now this was still her scheme — what meaning was left in his stubborn, wretched survival, enduring all of this until today?

Ye Tingyan latched the door and walked away, dazed and stumbling, through one gate of the temple after another.

As he walked, memories flashed through his mind and swiftly receded — fast as the painted lanterns on a lantern-lit flower market on Lantern Festival night.

Ye Tingyan recalled the first time he had heard “False Dragon’s Lament” at a market, how the storyteller had chanted the lines Luowei had written herself, repeating again and again, “The lotus has departed the country for a thousand years” — and he had walked along the melancholy lotus corridor over the Huiling Lake, his sleeves soaked through with its fragrance.

She had rescued the daughter of Qiu Fang, who had been implicated in the Jintian case. She had schemed to kill Lu Heng. She had lingered for a long while before the gates of Zhang Pingjing’s residence.

He had led the Zhuque Division, and in Lu Heng’s room had found a fragment of the character “jian.”

“Jian” as in “jian zi ru mian” — a letter as good as meeting in person.

Song Zhiyu, in her final moments, had clutched his sleeve and, on behalf of Luowei — someone she had never gotten along with — offered a single explanation: “She didn’t.”

He had stood in the torrential summer rain outside the Xiuqing Temple and heard her low voice, sounding almost triumphant, almost grief-stricken: “When all is said and done, it was the late Emperor who helped me…”

The saber he had personally presented tumbled between them, landing with a dull thud in the quiet of the night.

In the pitch-dark secret room, light flickered through the slowly closing door for just an instant, letting him glimpse the Great Yin military defense map spread across the wall.

— Was he so certain, in that single flash of illumination, that what was laid bare must be ambition?

And there was more — so much more.

He recalled the story she had told him of the woman general. Her voice had been gentle and resolute — she had said that if it were her, she would not let the fire burn only within her own palace.

Then those flames had condensed into a sword, falling across the painting she made that day.

After he had brought the painting back to his residence, he had not dared look at it closely. Thinking back now — yet who was the pining woman on the tower waiting to return? Why was she polishing a long sword, with a line inscribed beside it: “The white crane has already departed — I beat the railing until I am weary”?

Ye Tingyan raised his face blankly toward the black sky above.

In the vast emptiness, he seemed to see the domed ceiling of the golden hall of Juhualisi Temple in Xuzhou.

At that time, they had been so young — without hurt, without betrayal, without having witnessed the gulfs and sorrows of the human world. They had simply followed their hearts and pledged those simple, heroic dreams.

“I hope to stay with A’Tang older brother, to clarify and unify all under heaven, to transform and guide the people, to make the realm prosperous and peaceful, to make the lands beyond our borders return to us as one, to ensure the people suffer not from hunger, illness, or the ravages of war, and that ministers be spared the disasters of exile, distant banishment, and ill-timed birth.”

He had chimed in beside her: “And one day, may the great way open like the sky above, inward with brilliant ministers, outward with brave generals — restoring the glorious peace of our ancestors.”

“I am willing to sacrifice everything I have for this — even my life, without regret.”

The two of them had bowed with great solemnity, and as they rose, Luowei had whispered to him: “I too am willing to sacrifice everything I have for you…”

He had felt it was inauspicious, had reached out to cover her mouth, and said helplessly: “Forget it, forget it — if that day comes, there is no need for sacrifice. I rather hope you would be a little selfish, and just live happily.”

Luowei had laughed and replied: “But if it were you — it would be the same for me. We owe each other equal measures — let us not keep pushing concessions back and forth.”

Did he still remember the vow he had made then?

Since his return to the capital — the West Garden murder case, the False Dragon’s Lament, the deaths of Ning Le and Yu Qiushi, Luowei drawing him in to become a close court minister, acting before him with less caution than she showed before Song Lan, leaving no shortage of inconsistencies. Yet he had kept his eyes willfully shut, unwilling to admit even to himself: the months in the Ever-Bright Candle Tower with no light to distinguish day from night had become a demon he could not shake loose. If Luowei had not forced him to speak — and forced him to admit it to himself — he was so stubborn, he would never have dared, never have allowed himself to think otherwise.

— It had been Song Lan who destroyed his faith in her. Before they had even met again, he had already condemned her.

Ye Tingyan closed his eyes.

He thought of her face, and suddenly felt a cold shudder run through his entire body — that face had never once become unfamiliar to him.

What had truly changed was himself.

It was he who had steeped himself in the mud of hatred until he was stained all through with filth, becoming suspicious and sick, turning into a madman who could not bear the light of day, unable to trust even those around him — drifting amid so many inconsistencies, and yet unable to see a heart as bright and clear as the moon, belonging to someone he had known long ago.

He walked faster and faster, and at last could not suppress a burst of laughter — growing louder and louder, gasping and breathless. He leaned against a nearby pillar of the corridor and wiped the tears streaming down his face with his sleeve.

In all four years, he felt he had never been as happy as he was at this moment.

Yet this was not the time to be careless. He dried his tears completely, tidied his collar before the small pond in the temple, and just before leaving the temple grounds, turned to look back at the somewhat dilapidated statue of the founding Emperor Gao.

He wanted to step forward and bow, but in the end he did not move.

Ye Tingyan walked to the front of the temple and gave a soft whistle. Yuan Ming led his men out from the woods and bowed to him respectfully.

“Your Highness.”

In the darkness of the night, he looked down at them. These Zhuque Guards, though hand-picked by Song Lan, included quite a few who had old ties to him like Yuan Ming. Former vagrants he had promoted in the Jintian Guard, sons of convicted ministers whom he had pardoned in the Ministry of Justice… had it not been for Yuan Ming carefully arranging people within the Zhuque Division and then bringing them to his attention, he would have almost forgotten that he had once done these things.

To him it had been a passing gesture of little consequence. To those people, it had been something entirely different.

Before Ye He had sacrificed himself to bring him out alive, he too had not dared believe that someone would be willing to give their life for a vague old kindness.

The statue gazed down with compassion, like the merciful gaze of a god or ancestor offering comfort and benediction.

* * *

Luowei slept through the rest of the night, and when she next awoke, she found herself inside a jolting carriage.

Before she could sort out her thoughts about who was driving, she lifted the curtain and looked out — and found that the sky was already fully bright, and she was now back inside the capital city!

The carriage sped along the bank of the Bianhe River. Luowei steadied herself, just opened her mouth to say a single “Excuse me,” when the person sitting beside the driver outside flung the curtain open and came in, teasing her with a jest: “Your Majesty the Empress, I wish you good health.”

She glanced over and saw a face she did not recognize at all, and so she replied cautiously: “May I ask who you are…”

But the person was immediately very familiar, leaning in close, making a string of clicking sounds, switching to a different tone entirely: “Luowei, after so many years apart — how have you become so formal? You are nothing like the bold girl you used to be, the one who sneaked up to cut off my master’s white beard!”

Though she had not heard that voice in a very long time, she recognized it at once, and could not help but cry out in joyful surprise: “Ling Cheng! How can you be here?”

Bai Sensen clapped his hands over his ears, pained: “All right, all right — please stop calling me ‘Ling Cheng.’ Those two characters sound so awkward…”

Luowei ignored him: “Ling Cheng, I sent people to Jingguan City three times, and could not find you at all — and yet you were right here in the capital?”

Bai Sensen looked puzzled: “What were you looking for me for? There are so many palace physicians in the imperial city — has someone fallen ill with something the world cannot cure?”

Luowei replied: “That story is long to tell…”

Before she could finish, there came the sound of a horse neighing. The driver outside called out: “Physician, we have arrived — please alight.”

Luowei asked: “Where is this?”

Bai Sensen replied: “Master Ye’s residence in the capital. He found you a courtyard in advance — how convenient it has turned out to be.”

Luowei was taken aback for a moment, then relaxed with a quiet sigh: “So you were here with him — no wonder I could not find you.”

Then a trace of hesitation crossed her face: “I wonder how things stand at Guyou Mountain — has it all gone smoothly? How did you manage to get me back to the capital, and being here — will I be discovered?”

“So many questions,” Bai Sensen said, pained. “It is fine — come and let me take a look at you.”

He retrieved a small bronze mirror from the carriage. Luowei took it and saw that Bai Sensen had already made simple disguising preparations for her while bringing her away. Given the lack of time — so that no one would recognize her — he had applied all manner of swelling to her face, giving her the appearance of someone who had been stung by a swarm of bees.

Luowei reached up and felt her face, and could not help but feel deeply aggrieved: “You—”

Bai Sensen jumped out of the carriage and made his escape: “Expedient measures — purely expedient measures.”