I was born into the Langya Wang Family.

The Langya Wang Family, throughout the three hundred years since our dynasty was founded, had always stood as the leader of the aristocratic clans, the most prestigious and celebrated among the great noble houses. We had forged marital alliances with the imperial family generation after generation, wielding commanding authority in the court. The Wang Family had, in every generation, produced eminent scholars and men of great character, leaving behind a celebrated reputation for learning and talent that was deeply revered by the literati of the realm. As the foremost arbiters of culture and refinement, the Wangs were considered the preeminent family of the age.

Below the Wangs, the Xie, Wen, Wei, and Gu families — four great noble clans — stood as the pillars of the establishment alongside us, continually expanding the influence of the aristocratic and consort-kin factions at court and beyond. At the height of their power, they very nearly rivaled the imperial house itself. The prestige of the great noble families endured all the way into the reign of the late Emperor.

At the time of the late Emperor’s accession, three princes engaged in a struggle for the throne, colluding with foreign enemies and launching a rebellion.

That war lasted a full seven years. Nearly half of the elite sons of the noble families participated in the conflict.

In those prosperous and peaceful times, no one had imagined the war would drag on so long.

The nobly born young men, spirited and mounted on fine horses, dreamed only of galloping across the battlefield and achieving imperishable glory.

Yet year after year of warfare left the farmlands of the common people lying fallow, estates fallen to ruin, the people uprooted and wandering — and on top of all this came a drought the like of which had not been seen in many years. Seven years of war and upheaval killed tens of thousands of the common people through starvation and violence.

Many of those spirited young men from noble families left their hot blood and their young lives forever on the field of battle.

After this catastrophe, the great aristocratic clans were gravely weakened. Vast estates were ruined and abandoned; the noble families, who had never engaged in farming and had always depended upon the rent and produce of their lands, found that many of them, stripped of their financial foundations, could no longer sustain their sprawling households. Centuries of pedigree could collapse in a single night.

It happened that in the turmoil, men of common birth who had risen through military service had rapidly expanded their power and taken hold of vast military authority — overturning the policy of “privileging the civil over the military” that had prevailed in our dynasty for centuries. The humble military officers who had once been looked upon with condescension gradually rose to the pinnacle of power.

When the reigning Emperor ascended to the throne, the northern Turks and the neighboring nations on the southern frontier were constantly creating disturbances, border troubles unrelenting.

After years of drought, the imperial treasury was depleted, disease ran rampant, and desperation drove people to lawlessness — until in the sixth year of Jianan, an uprising of a hundred thousand disaster victims finally erupted.

Local officials took advantage of the chaos to line their own pockets, engaging in widespread corruption. Military commanders seized the opportunity of ongoing campaigns to build up their own strength and hold their troops as personal power. The military faction of common-born men gradually gained the upper hand, forcing the court to yield step by step.

That age of brilliant prosperity was at last gone forever.

After decades of struggle, the great noble families had one by one suffered setbacks, their power steadily diminishing.

The only ones still capable of standing firm at the crest of the storm and holding their ground were the Wang and Xie families alone.

Above all, the Wang Family had deep roots and wide networks of allegiance, and more than that — the Prince of Qingyang held command of two hundred thousand troops stationed in the south.

So long as the foundation of the state endured, there was no one who could shake my family — not even the Emperor himself.

My father served as a senior minister across two reigns: he held the office of Right Chancellor and concurrently Grand Marshal, and was enfeoffed as Duke Jingguo.

My paternal uncle commanded the imperial palace guards and held the office of Minister of War.

Throughout the court and across every prefecture and commandery of the realm, my father’s proteges were everywhere.

The Wang Family had never been prolific; by the time of my grandfather’s generation, the lineage had already grown slender. Now, the main branch consisted of only my brother and me. Yet the collateral branches of the clan had long since spread and flourished — throughout Langya, the old ancestral seat, and into the great households and key positions of the capital. The Wang Family’s deeply entangled network of influence had taken root deep in the very foundations of the entire dynasty.

My mother was the reigning Emperor’s only sister, Grand Princess Jinmin, beloved above all others by the Empress Dowager.

My paternal aunt was the Empress of the central palace, mother of the realm, who had personally raised my cousin to the position of Crown Prince.

My name is Wang Xuan. I was enfeoffed as Commandery Princess Shangyang from the moment of my birth.

Yet my family preferred to call me by my childhood name — A’Wu.

When I was small, I could never quite tell whether the imperial palace or the Jingguo Ducal Manor was my true home.

I spent more than half of my childhood inside the palace, and to this day my bedchamber still remains in Fengchi Palace.

My mother was the Empress Dowager’s most cherished daughter, and I was my mother’s only daughter. My aunt once said in jest: “The Grand Princess is the most beautiful flower in the celestial dynasty, while the little Commandery Princess is the most crystalline dewdrop upon the flower’s heart.” — Neither my aunt nor I could have imagined, in those days, that though a dewdrop may be delicate and beautiful, it cannot withstand the scorching of sunlight. The most beautiful things are always the most fragile.

My aunt had no daughter of her own, and so she often kept me by her side, personally instructing me in court etiquette, letting me study alongside the princes, and even indulging me when I was tired from play by allowing me to sleep upon the imperial phoenix couch in Zhaoyang Hall.

I fell in love with my aunt’s phoenix couch and pestered my mother until she had one made for me just like it.

My aunt and mother exchanged a smile, but my brother stood to one side with a wicked grin and said: “Silly A’Wu — only an Empress may sleep upon a phoenix couch. Don’t tell me you want to marry our Crown Prince elder brother?”

My mother laughed in shock; my aunt sighed: “What a pity A’Wu is so young.”

That year I was only seven years old, and I didn’t really understand what marrying meant — I only knew I had never liked the overbearing Crown Prince.

Two years later, the Crown Prince held his wedding. I was only nine and had not yet reached marriageable age, so the Crown Princess was chosen from the Xie family instead.

Crown Princess Xie Wanrong was unmatched in the capital for her talent, beauty, and refinement. I was very fond of her, and even the Emperor praised her for possessing the bearing of a future mother of the realm.

But my aunt did not care for her — and the Crown Prince treated her with cold indifference as well.

For Wanrong’s elder sister was the inner niece of Noble Consort Xie, whom the Emperor so dearly favored.

Noble Consort Xie had been a thorn in my aunt’s eye for many years.

Although the Xie family had repeatedly been marginalized until they fell into decline, my aunt remained uneasy about Noble Consort Xie’s son — the Third Prince, Zidan.

Throughout the capital, the most celebrated of handsome young men was, without question, the Third Prince — and my brother came second.

My brother and I had entered the palace from childhood to serve as study companions for the princes. The Crown Prince was unruly, the Second Prince was frail and sickly, and only the Third Prince had grown up alongside us, spending his days reading and playing in our company, the three of us inseparable and intimate.

In those days, emboldened by the Empress Dowager’s indulgence, we ran utterly wild and did as we pleased.

No matter what trouble we caused, we had only to flee to Wanshou Palace and throw ourselves into our grandmother’s arms, and any punishment would be kept at a safe distance — just as a great canopy held steadily above our heads, sheltering us forever from any storm. Even the Emperor was helpless against her.

In everyday life, it was always my brother who came up with the worst schemes, while I reaped all the benefits, and the Third Prince served as a permanent human shield standing in front of me.

This warm and gentle young man had inherited the imperial family’s noble and refined appearance, yet his nature was tranquil and serene — much like his fragile, emotionally sensitive mother. He seemed to have been born incapable of anger over anything. Whatever happened, he would only smile with that faint, gentle expression, quietly regarding you.

Those carefree, worry-free years slipped by in the blink of an eye…

The three of us gradually grew up. By the time we reached the tender years of adolescence, we had already begun to show the early grace of young men and women coming into their own.

Whenever we appeared together, we never failed to draw gasps of admiration from those around us.

Wherever my brother and Zidan passed, there were always little palace maids hiding behind the corridors and curtains, peeking out at them.

At palace banquets, the ladies all considered it an honor to catch even a glance from my brother. As for Zidan — though he was imperial-born and his bearing and looks surpassed even my brother’s, he was not quite so popular with the young women… because I was always at his side.

The first time we stood side by side and offered a toast at a birthday banquet for the Emperor, the Emperor — somewhat flushed with wine — dropped the cup from his hand and said to Noble Consort Xie beside him: “My beloved consort, look — the celestial youth have descended from the nine heavens to celebrate this old man’s birthday!”

Noble Consort Xie was very fond of me.

But my aunt did not care for Zidan.

After that birthday banquet, my aunt told me that I was growing up, and that men and women should keep their proper distance — I could no longer spend so much time in the company of the princes.

I paid no mind to it and, relying on the indulgence of the Empress Dowager and my mother, continued to slip away behind my aunt’s back to visit Zidan in secret.

In the sixth year of Yongxi, in the middle of autumn, the Empress Dowager Xiaoxian Jingren passed away.

It was the first time I had experienced death. No matter how my mother wept and tried to explain and comfort me, I refused to accept it.

Even after the mourning period ended, I continued going to Wanshou Palace every day just as I had when the Empress Dowager was alive, holding the civet cat she had loved most, sitting alone in the hall, waiting for my grandmother to walk out from the inner chambers and call my name with a smile — “Little A’Wu”…

One evening, after being scolded by my aunt, I ran to Wanshou Palace in a fit of temper, sent all the palace maids away, and sat alone in a daze.

I sat beside the wisteria vine my grandmother had planted with her own hands, looking up at the withered leaves drifting down one by one in the autumn wind. Life was so easily extinguished — in a moment, gone before one’s very eyes.

The early autumn chill passed through my thin gauze garment and seeped into my heart. I felt cold — cold to the tips of my fingers, cold and utterly without anchor.

Then a warmth settled on my shoulders — a pair of warm hands gently wrapped around me.

A familiar presence enveloped me, and in an instant, the faint fragrance of magnolia filled my entire world.

Zidan looked down at me, his gaze deep and limpid, holding an expression I had never seen before — distant and entrancing.

His face, his eyes, his expression, the intimate yet unfamiliar masculine scent that drifted from his collar — it all left me at a loss, my heart wavering between vague confusion and fluttering anxiety and something sweet.

A fallen leaf drifted down, blown by the wind, and landed against my cheek.

He reached up and brushed it away, but his slender fingers lingered on the space between my brows, and a strange, delicate trembling passed from that point deep into my body.

“A’Wu looks beautiful when she furrows her brows — but it makes my heart ache,” he said, his voice low and soft and tinged with sorrow, and my cheeks were instantly burning crimson.

Watching me flush and lower my head, he smiled, and slowly tightened his arms, holding me closer.

This was the first time he had called me beautiful. After all these years of watching me grow up, he had said I was well-behaved, and silly, and mischievous — but never beautiful. He and my brother had taken my hand countless times, tugged at my braids countless times — but never held me like this.

His embrace was warm and comforting, and I never wanted to leave it.

That day, he told me that birth, aging, illness, and death were all fixed in the order of human life — regardless of wealth or poverty, high or low. What was the suffering in being born? What was the suffering in dying?

As he said this, his gaze was gentle and warm, a faint melancholy resting upon his brow and eyes, his expression suffused with a deep compassion.

It was as though a spring of water flowed over my heart, making it go very, very soft.

After that, I was no longer afraid of death.

My grandmother’s passing did not keep me in grief for very long — young hearts mend quickly, and even the deepest wounds heal in time.

Besides — I had acquired a new secret.

Within me, a subtle change was quietly taking place.

Not long afterward, my brother formally entered the court at the age of twenty, and was sent by our father to train under our paternal uncle. Our uncle had been appointed imperial envoy to manage the river works in Huaizhou, and so he brought my brother along to take up his post there.

With my brother gone, both inside the palace and out, it suddenly felt as though only Zidan and I remained in the world.

In the warm spring of the third month, when the willows along the palace walls had turned green, a slender girl in a thin spring robe, her sleeves light as gauze, called out again and again to the graceful young man before her —

Zidan, I want to watch you paint. Zidan, let’s go riding. Zidan, let’s play chess. Zidan, I’ll play you a new melody. Zidan, Zidan, Zidan…

Every time, he would smile and, with endless patience, keep me company, indulging my every wish.

When I had really worn him out and left him with no other recourse, he would sigh with an exaggerated gravity — “You’re so troublesome. How are you going to be my princess consort someday?”

Whenever he said this, I would always go scarlet with embarrassment, and like a cat whose tail had been stepped on, I would instantly spin around and flee.

Behind me, Zidan’s low laughter would drift after me, and long after I’d gone, that laughter still lingered in my heart.

Other girls were reluctant to come of age and leave their families — they dreaded the coming-of-age ceremony. Once a girl had completed the rite, suitors would soon come knocking, and her parents would marry her off to some stranger she had never met, with whom she would spend the rest of her life, growing old at his side. The mere thought of it, to them, was terrifying.

But I was fortunate — I had Zidan.

Among those of the Crown Prince and Second Prince’s rank who had already been matched with consorts, there was no one in the entire capital of suitable status and age to be paired with me except Zidan.

I was completely unconcerned. Even if my aunt disliked Zidan as she did, she would dislike any idle, dissolute young nobleman even more.

My mother had tacitly accepted the feelings in my heart, and would occasionally go and sit with Noble Consort Xie in her palace for a visit.

Shortly after my thirteenth birthday, the noble families seeking to propose a match for me were nearly trampling each other at the gates of Jingguo Ducal Manor.

My father politely declined them all, citing that I had not yet come of age.

In those days, I always felt that time passed too slowly — I could never quite reach my fifteenth year, and until I had completed the coming-of-age ceremony, I could not formally receive any proposals.

Zidan was already nineteen. He could very soon have a princess consort installed. If it weren’t for the fact that I was still too young, Noble Consort Xie would already have petitioned the Emperor to issue an imperial decree of marriage for us. I worried that he would not wait for me to grow up — that one day the Emperor would simply bestow a marriage on him and he would end up wed to someone else.

Once, in a fit of temper, I scolded him: “Why are you so old? By the time I’m grown, you’ll already be an old man!”

When I turned fifteen, Zidan would be twenty-one — and though he had only just passed the age of formal adulthood, in my eyes he already seemed quite elderly.

Zidan was dumbfounded and couldn’t speak for a long while, staring at me with an expression halfway between laughter and tears.

Yet before my fifteenth birthday and coming-of-age ceremony could arrive, Noble Consort Xie passed away.

Noble Consort Xie was only thirty-seven — a woman as beautiful as a figure painted in pale ink, as though time itself had been reluctant to leave any mark upon her.

No matter how overbearing my aunt was, she had never contended with her, never grown arrogant in the Emperor’s favor. She simply bore everything alone, in silence.

I found myself believing once more that the most beautiful things are never easily preserved.

Because of a wind-chill that had worsened into a full illness, Noble Consort Xie did not live to see the arrival of the plums that were specially shipped from a thousand miles away every spring on her behalf. She passed away quietly, too soon.

She had always been frail and sickly, yet she never complained or lamented. Even confined to her sickbed, she kept her makeup neat and composed — until the very moment of her death, she showed not the slightest trace of haggardness or dishevelment. She simply drifted away, wearing that faint, serene smile.

On a rainy night, the mourning bells rang long and mournfully, and all six palaces observed the rites of grief.

That night, Zidan kept vigil alone before the spirit altar, weeping in silence. His tears slid along the contours of his face and disappeared into his neck, soaking the collar of his robe.

I stood behind him for a long while, and he did not notice me at all — not until I held a silk handkerchief out before him.

He looked up. A drop of his tear fell onto the handkerchief.

Delicate ice-silk, the most precious kind, was most afraid of water. Once it absorbed moisture, it would wrinkle and could never be smoothed flat again.

I used the handkerchief to wipe his tears, but he drew me into his arms and told me not to cry.

It turned out that my own tears were flowing far more freely than his.

That handkerchief was thereafter locked away by me at the bottom of a keepsake box. The faint, slight wrinkle still visible upon it was made by Zidan’s tear.

With the loss of his mother, there was no one left in this vast palace for him to lean on.

Young as I was, I already understood how important a prince’s maternal clan was to him.

The Xie family had already fallen from power. What Zidan had always relied upon was nothing more than the Emperor’s decades of undiminished favor toward Noble Consort Xie. And yet it was precisely this favor that had earned him my aunt’s resentment and jealousy… The Emperor could afford to neglect the central palace for the sake of a beloved consort — that was a matter of the imperial household. But he could not afford to antagonize the powerful consort-kin clans for the sake of a single prince — that was a matter of state.

At the time, I still believed that as long as Zidan married me, he would have the protection of the Wang Family, and would be able to live safely within the palace without fear.

Yet I had never imagined how ruthless my aunt would prove to be.

By ancestral precedent, children were to observe mourning for three years after the death of a parent.

But the imperial family had never strictly adhered to this practice. It was customary to observe mourning within the palace for only three months, then appoint a trusted servant to go to the imperial mausoleum in one’s place. After one full year, one was free to marry.

However, following Noble Consort Xie’s passing, an imperial decree was issued in the Empress’s name, declaring that the Third Prince’s filial devotion was exemplary, that he had volunteered to go to the imperial mausoleum in person to observe three full years of mourning for his mother.

No matter how I knelt outside the doors of Zhaoyang Hall weeping and pleading, my aunt refused to see me. My mother, at her wit’s end, secretly arranged — without my father’s knowledge — for the two of us to go before the Emperor and beg him to issue an edict keeping Zidan in the capital.

Noble Consort Xie’s departure had aged the Emperor by what seemed like ten years overnight.

Ordinarily, only in Zidan’s company did he seem like a loving father rather than a grave and austere sovereign.

And yet even now, he would not issue a decree to keep his beloved son at his side.

He said that the imperial mausoleum was a safe place, and that there was nothing wrong with it.

Looking upon my tear-filled eyes, the Emperor let out a deep sigh. “Such a good girl — what a pity she carries the surname Wang…”

On the day Zidan departed the capital, I did not go to see him off. I was afraid that if he saw me weeping, it would only make him sadder.

I wanted Zidan to leave with a smile, as he always had — the proudest and most noble of princes, one who would not let anyone witness his sorrow or his tears.

Zidan’s carriage procession reached the Taihua Gate, where my personal attendant Jin’er had waited there since early in the day.

Jin’er brought with her a small, worn wooden box — inside it was something that would stand in for me and remain at his side.

At that moment, I stood quietly upon the city wall, watching from afar as he drew his horse to a halt, leaned down, and received the box.

He looked at it only once — then turned his face away, hiding his expression from sight.

Jin’er bowed deeply before him, then rose and stepped aside to clear the road.

He did not look back. He raised his whip, urged his horse forward, and disappeared in a cloud of dust.