Her childhood memories weren’t especially clear, but Huayue inexplicably remembered the droplets flung up from Yin Ninghuai’s horse’s hooves as he rode away, glittering, scattering in every direction, leaving without a shred of mercy.

And yet, after she’d waited on the spot for about the time it took half a stick of incense to burn, he would come back, snorting in irritation as he hauled her back onto the horse, muttering through gritted teeth:

“Where did this thing even come from?”

Huayue, quite hot-tempered herself back then, would grab his shoulder and retort, “It’s not like you gave birth to me—it’s none of your business!”

“As if I could not make it my business.” The young man, seated on the horse, spoke without turning back. “After all these years, I’ve never even heard you call me Imperial Brother once. If I really let you die out there, I’d be the one losing out.”

At the time, she’d thought it was just childish grumbling. But looking back on it now, Yin Ninghuai truly had lost out—the nation had fallen, his home destroyed, he’d died at Guanshan, and he still never got to hear her call him Imperial Brother, not even once.

Her throat tightened. Huayue waved Shuang Jiang off and turned back to the main room. The person on the couch still had his eyes closed, apparently sleeping soundly.

She slowed her steps and quietly sat back down in her chair.

The room was silent, nothing but the sound of breathing. Sitting there, Huayue’s eyes gradually reddened, and she hurriedly picked up the half-finished tiger-head shoe she’d been embroidering to continue stitching.

Li Jingyun lifted his eyelids and saw her sitting turned to the side, her shoulders slight, fingers flying, silk thread rising and falling across the shoe’s surface, looking quite graceful. Except—something was falling from her face, drop after drop, glinting, landing on the needle tip in her hand, scattering in every direction.

“…”

Closing his eyes again, Li Jingyun turned over, his back to her, and went on sleeping.

He had already tasted the consequences of spoiling someone. There was no reason to indulge her or give in to her again. Let her cry if she wanted—either way, he would no longer let it move him.

On the day of the Double Ninth Festival, the weather turned cool and overcast, autumn winds occasionally howling outside—not a good day for going out.

Li Jingyun sat in the estate, leisurely brewing and savoring tea.

“My lord.” Huayue came over smiling and bowed. “Per the physician’s instructions, this concubine must take a walk outside every day.”

Glancing at her, Li Jingyun lowered his eyes. “Fine, I’ll accompany you.”

“No need, no need.” She waved her hands hastily. “You’ve been so busy these past days—you should rest while you have the chance. This concubine will just take Shuang Jiang and go.”

She wasn’t sure how it had happened, but somehow he’d crammed all his pressing business into just a few days and then given himself five days of leave, staying by her side day after day since. Huayue was anxious to get out and contact Shen Zhiluo, but she couldn’t find the chance.

How the tables had turned—before, it was always her keeping watch to stop him from leaving the estate; now the situation had reversed entirely.

With a long sigh, she bent her knees toward him. “This concubine will go and come right back.”

“Wait a moment.” Li Jingyun beckoned her closer.

Puzzled, Huayue eyed him and cautiously took two steps toward him.

“Did you send a letter out of the estate a few days ago?” he asked.

Huayue froze, then lowered her head to answer, “No.”

“How strange, then.” He looked at the reddening tips of her ears and gave a mocking laugh. “I’ve intercepted several letters recently, all handed off by Shuang Jiang, all written in code, illegible to me.”

Her heart sank halfway. Huayue forced a smile. “Perhaps those were her family letters. This concubine wasn’t aware.”

“Is that so.” Li Jingyun nodded and asked no further, simply savoring the tea’s aroma leisurely.

Standing before him, Huayue felt cold sweat threatening to break out. She’d been wondering earlier why the letters she’d sent had never received any reply—turns out they’d all ended up in his hands. She had no idea whether he could decode them, but even if he couldn’t, he’d surely grown suspicious of her by now.

“Ah—” Her eyes darted, and she clutched her stomach, scrunching her face in feigned pain.

Glancing at her, Li Jingyun waved Shuang Jiang over. “Go invite Miss Li here to examine your mistress.”

“Reporting to you, my lord, Miss Li returned to the palace today,” Shuang Jiang said, glancing at Huayue and wringing her hands. “She left in a hurry and even forgot to leave a prescription. My mistress is in the middle of switching medications, and we don’t know what to do about it today.”

She thought for a moment, then suddenly clapped her hands. “The physicians at Xuanhu Hall are quite capable too, though a bit temperamental—they only see patients at their own clinic, don’t make house calls. Since there’s nothing else to do today, why not let this servant take my mistress there to have a look?”

Li Jingyun looked at the two of them calmly, waiting until they finished speaking before responding with perfect composure, “No.”

Huayue’s raised smile immediately collapsed. She studied him for a moment and finally understood—he had grown wary, and no matter what, he wasn’t going to let her leave the estate today.

With a long sigh, she sat back down beside him, casting a despairing glance out the window.

While she sulked, Li Jingyun seemed to grow all the more cheerful—one moment eating pastries, the next practicing sword forms out in the courtyard, his hearty laughter carrying across half the courtyard.

Watching his back with melancholy, Huayue sniffled.

After an hour of sword practice, Li Jingyun was finally tired, walking over drenched in sweat. He glanced sideways at her, then reached past her to remove the clothing draped over his cloak. “Rest up properly. I’m going to the bathhouse to wash up—my body’s uncomfortable, sticky with sweat.”

“Yes,” Huayue answered listlessly.

The door opened and closed again. Huayue was silent for a moment, then suddenly startled into alertness and turned to ask Shuang Jiang, “He’s gone to bathe?”

Shuang Jiang nodded, peeking through the crack of the door. “He’s already left the courtyard.”

Talk about a road opening up when all seemed lost. Huayue was overjoyed, hurriedly changing into practical clothing and heading out with Shuang Jiang.

She’d thought she wouldn’t be able to get into the palace today, never expecting that even someone as clever as the Third Young Master would have this one careless slip. Setting everything else aside, she hurried out through the west side gate of the estate, met up with Shen Zhiluo’s people at a designated spot, and waited to board a carriage into the palace.

Li Jingyun returned from his bath, freshly changed, and pushed open the door, unsurprised to find a suit of armor seated by the table.

He raised an eyebrow and walked over leisurely to take a look, finding the helmet hollow inside, stuffed with silk skirts, with a smiling face painted on it in eyebrow pencil and rouge, grinning at him from ear to ear.

“Such a tired old trick.” Disdainfully, he sat down beside the armor and poured himself a cup of tea.

The fragrant tea, a light amber color, caught the light as it fell into the cup, reflecting beautifully against the creamy white porcelain.

He gazed at it quietly, a hint of displeasure between his brows, yet the corner of his mouth still curved upward slightly.

Ancestral sacrifice was an important ceremony in Great Liang; even for a covert, private ritual, Shen Zhiluo had prepared sufficient incense, candles, joss paper, and ritual vessels for Zhou Heshuo. Following custom, the rites would be performed after nightfall, with only two servants from the Anhe Palace in attendance.

Zhou Heshuo had arranged in advance to ensure the Imperial Guards on patrol that night wouldn’t disturb the Anhe Palace. He knelt in the courtyard, watching the joss paper burning before him, feeling no real sense of reverence in his heart.

After all, the men who’d died by his blade had been his enemies, defeated by his own skill—if they weren’t satisfied, that was hardly a crime on his part. The world was full of such kill-or-be-killed affairs; why should he repent?

And yet, the flame on the joss paper before him kept going out. The courtyard had no wind, and though the servant came up to relight it twice, the fire would only burn for an instant before dying down again.

A chill ran down his spine. Zhou Heshuo finally knelt up straight, his eyes scanning the night sky around him, and pressed his palms together in a bow. “It’s been so many years now. Holding a grudge against me does no good. Disperse.”

“Your Highness.” Shen Zhiluo reminded him in a low voice. “You must recite the sutra for the deceased.”

The scripture lay right before him. Zhou Heshuo glanced at it, quite helpless, closed his eyes, and began to recite.

The joss paper in the brazier caught flame, but wind began to stir in the courtyard as well. Zhou Heshuo tensed all over, reciting rapidly, his clasped fingertips growing cold.

He wasn’t a timid man—back on Guanshan he’d seen plenty of bloodshed, and he’d personally sent Yin Ninghuai down to the underworld himself. A more timid man might have suffered years of nightmares over it. But Zhou Heshuo had never once been frightened by his dreams; even when he dreamed of Yin Ninghuai again, he could smile and invite him to sit down for a drink.

Yin Ninghuai had been a prince of excellent reputation. In his early years, in Great Liang, there had been no shortage of officials praising him, some even comparing Zhou Heshuo to him. Back then, Great Liang had been a small nation content to hold its corner of the world—naturally he couldn’t compare to that great nation’s eldest prince, and he’d been mocked with such comparisons more than once.

So later, when they met at Guanshan, Zhou Heshuo had shown him no mercy—not only killing Yin Ninghuai, but also turning Shen Zhiluo against him, pinning him with charges of treason so he’d be cursed by later generations.

This was the most satisfying outcome—from then on, whenever people spoke of princes, they’d only say the Crown Prince of Great Liang was the finest of past and present; who would still remember the traitor of Great Wei?

But now, truly closing his eyes amid this eerie, gusting wind, Zhou Heshuo still felt uneasy.

In a trance, he thought he heard Yin Ninghuai’s voice again, neither servile nor arrogant, standing beside him with an air of pure, cold dignity, asking: “If this time you take the capital, Your Highness, will you spare the people within the city?”

His eyelashes trembled, and Zhou Heshuo’s eyes flew open.

Someone truly stood beside him—an air of cold detachment, expression indifferent, dressed in a blue-white robe with a nameplate hanging at the waist.

“Since you agreed to it then, Your Highness, why did you breach the city and slaughter its people afterward?” this person asked him softly. “How many wronged souls have these few sticks of incense atoned for?”

Cold sweat broke out on his forehead. Zhou Heshuo staggered backward, and upon looking more closely, realized it wasn’t Yin Ninghuai at all—it was a somewhat familiar-looking woman, dressed in men’s clothing, standing before him with her hands clasped behind her back.

“Who—who are you? Why have you come to frighten me?” he demanded angrily.

Huayue gave him a smile, features fine and clear, nothing like the demure young lady she’d appeared to be before. She stepped forward, cupping her hands. “I happened to be passing by and wished to ask something of Your Highness.”

Still shaken, clutching his chest, Zhou Heshuo waved his hand and turned to Shen Zhiluo. “What is going on here?”

Shen Zhiluo gripped his compass, brow furrowed tightly. “This servant did mention before that Your Highness must not pause while reciting the sutra for the deceased, or great misfortune would follow.”

“What kind of explanation is that? I—I couldn’t have anticipated someone suddenly appearing like this.” Zhou Heshuo looked from him to the woman in white, wanting to complain, but his mind suddenly cleared for an instant.

Something was wrong. Anhe Palace, even if it counted as half a cold palace, was still within the imperial grounds—not somewhere just anyone could enter.

Unless Shen Zhiluo had brought her in himself.

Realizing something was terribly wrong, Zhou Heshuo turned to rise and cry out, but before he could make a sound, the two servants who had been standing there all along suddenly lunged forward—one pinning him down, the other clamping a hand over his mouth.