On the day of the Qingming Festival, the Emperor and Empress led a hundred officials out to the suburbs to perform the sacrificial rites.

The spring rain that had stretched on for three days since the Cold Food Festival had finally ceased. The distant sky shimmered with radiant light, colorful clouds drifted past, auspicious omens that swept away the desolate gloom the recent haze and fog had cast over the city.

In such fine weather, the Emperor and Empress ascended the imperial mausoleum to pour libations and burn incense, while the assembled officials knelt in rows at the foot of the mountain in silent worship.

During the grandest of sacrificial ceremonies, the Emperor was required to lead the court in first paying homage at Shouyang Mountain, then passing through the imperial mausoleum, proceeding to Xiuqing Temple to light the candle tower, and finally touring the Bianhe River at night, with Chu Jun personally presiding over the ancestral rites — worshipping the imperial ancestral temple and the altars of state, making offerings to Heaven, Earth, and all deities.

However, today was merely the ordinary ceremony of the Qingming season, requiring no such elaborate proceedings. Moreover, after the third year of the Tiangshou reign, the Ministry of Rites would tacitly omit the section of the night offerings along the Bianhe River. Emperor Zhao was only nineteen years old, and the dynasty had no Chu Jun.

The ceremonies were broken and incomplete, yet no one dared speak of it.

The sacrifices at the imperial mausoleum consumed a full half-day. By the time the Emperor and Empress returned to the city and ascended Xiuqing Temple, noon had nearly passed, and Xiuqing Temple presented a vegetarian feast to welcome the imperial visit.

Song Lan had never particularly cared for Buddhist customs, but Luowei always followed tradition, insisting that upon entering the temple, men and women dine separately. So Song Lan had no choice but to withdraw to another meditation chamber, surrounded by a cluster of palace attendants and imperial guards.

Two female officials in charge of the imperial meals stood respectfully before the table. They sampled and tasted each dish offered by Xiuqing Temple to test for poison, and only after repeated confirmation that all was safe did they bow and withdraw. Luowei glanced at the plain white congee beside her hand and asked, seemingly without purpose: “Who did he keep in attendance?”

Yan Luo answered: “It is Censor Ye.”

Luowei stirred the congee slowly with the spoon in her hand, and upon hearing this, raised an eyebrow: “He trusts Ye San that much?”

After the morning sacrificial ceremony, the officials were not required to accompany the Emperor further — they had knelt in worship at the gate and dispersed. Without the Emperor’s explicit command, Ye Tingyan would have had absolutely no opportunity to accompany him up the mountain.

Yan Luo replied: “Your Ladyship may reflect on this — when His Majesty first arrived in Beiyou, he had in truth already forgotten that essay ‘On the Grief of Understanding’ entirely. It was Lord Ye who repeatedly offered unexpected strategies and counsel before the Emperor, and thus earned His Majesty’s favor.”

“This servant also inquired carefully and was told that His Majesty had initially formed no particular impression of him, and even harbored some wariness. Yet Lord Ye, with his clever and perceptive mind and his sharp eloquent tongue, managed to shift His Majesty’s attitude entirely. Thereafter, during those thirteen days in Beiyou, His Majesty summoned him daily for conversation, and they shared meals and travels together. If not for this, how could His Majesty have been willing to endure the censure of the Censorate and bring him back to the capital?”

Luowei then said: “In that case, when he recently solved the murder case at the West Garden and cut his own flesh to prove his innocence, it is no wonder — no wonder at all — that he has barely entered the court and can already share the Emperor’s trust and favor with Yu Qiushi. Among those I can use, there is truly no one but him.”

Yan Luo listened to Luowei’s words and let out a soft sound of acknowledgment. Having spoken at length just now, she paused to consider before drawing her conclusion: “Yet this person is so intelligent as to seem almost supernatural, and so eloquent in debate. He has the intention to stand against the Grand Preceptor alongside Your Ladyship — he can be used, but cannot be trusted. Even if Your Ladyship devises a way to bring him to heel, and he takes the initiative to show goodwill, you still cannot give him your heart.”

To give one’s heart — was to lay bare one’s most vulnerable self.

Luowei nudged a solitary piece of green vegetable floating in her bowl and shook her head with a smile: “Such a viper as this — who would dare give him their heart? If I were a few years younger, even just two or three years less than I am now, I fear I would be devoured by him whole, without even a shred left behind.”

Her mind was turbulent, and she managed only to finish the plain white congee before she could not eat another bite.

Xiuqing Temple would not light its incense burners until mid-afternoon. The palace attendants cleared away the remaining dishes and bowls, and Luowei still had time to rest briefly, so she reclined against the bed frame carved with simple wooden lotus motifs.

She had no desire to sleep, yet felt deeply weary. Drifting in a vague haze of tedium, a sudden thought stirred within her, and she asked idly: “When Ye San was in Beiyou, what remarkable strategy did he devise that made Song Lan change his attitude?”

Yan Luo furrowed her brow, trying to recall: “I heard he presented a masterwork by a renowned artist — a painting by a celebrated master of landscape art in Beiyou. Though the literati of the Central Plains might not appreciate it, the painting had circulated widely for a time along the frontier. His Majesty was deeply taken with it upon seeing it; the painting was brought back and now hangs in the Qianfang Hall.”

Luowei said, surprised: “What sort of painting is it?”

Yan Luo said: “This servant recalls the painting was titled something like… ‘The Crimson Heavens, Shattered’?”

All drowsiness vanished in an instant.

Upon hearing these words, Luowei suddenly sat bolt upright. In that single moment, a boundless surge of vexation and hatred welled up all at once — as though she were immersed in boiling oil, her flesh searing in pain while her core ran ice-cold, burning red-hot on the outside yet frozen to the bone within.

Yan Luo was startled: “Your Ladyship!”

Luowei raised her hand and gripped the teacup on the table with all her strength. The fine porcelain was ice-cold against her palm, which brought her back to her senses somewhat. She understood she must not smash it and make noise that would draw attention.

Yet this torrent of hatred had nowhere to be released.

She suppressed it again and again, and finally, pressing a hand to her chest, let out a long, low laugh: “Truly, it is birds of a feather flock together — he actually used this method to strike at the heart. Ha — he actually dared to guess, how did he dare to?”

After several rough, ragged breaths, she swallowed down the surging emotions. Luowei rubbed her eyes, which had been pressed nearly red, and felt moisture between her fingers. She wiped it away one by one, then opened her mouth to explain to Yan Luo.

“Danxiao is the highest reaches of the heavens, where the divine reside in the most exalted place, drawing radiant lightning down into the mortal world — Ling Ye was his courtesy name, meaning the sun, meaning lightning. This painting’s title means… that which was radiant and electrifying has already been shattered.”

Such a painting was created to commemorate Song Lan’s hidden, unspoken achievement.

* * *

After speaking those words, Luowei could no longer sit still. She took advantage of the moment to remove her golden crown and, without even Yan Luo in attendance, went alone to a secluded and deserted spot behind Xiuqing Temple to clear her mind.

Behind the mountain, there were pavilions and old halls, where Buddhist disciples ordinarily came to practice in quiet seclusion. But today Xiuqing Temple had sent everyone away to prepare for the imperial visit.

Luowei walked slowly along the stone-paved path behind the meditation chamber, and before long she came upon a nameless old hall up ahead.

This old hall was empty and bare, without a plaque, yet swept spotlessly clean. As she drew nearer, she saw that a section of the floor had caved in — there was a hidden passage below. After the stone lotus floor tiles had been pried up, they had not been replaced.

She stood there for a moment, recalling some distant stories — tales of the mad Crown Prince of her grandfather’s generation who had staged a coup, and how his followers had once used Xiuqing Temple to execute a scheme of misdirection. Surely this was a trace left behind by those breathtaking events of old.

This place was desolate and abandoned. Who now in the world still remembered it?

Luowei continued past the main hall and walked further, and in the barren rear garden of the great empty hall, she caught sight of an ancient tree — or more precisely, the remains of an ancient tree, for its trunk was withered and black, and not a single tender green leaf was visible upon it in the spring.

Amid the gnarled, skeletal branches stretching toward the sky, there was one branch — she could not tell who had tied it there — from which hung a long ribbon of vivid scarlet. The color of the silk was brilliantly bright, bearing not the slightest trace of wind or sun damage.

A gust of wind came. The ribbon soared high, dancing freely and gracefully beneath the deep blue sky.

“This tree was once a hundred-year-old tree of Xiuqing Temple. Countless lovesick men and grieving women have tied their vows here, and it is said the wishes made here are remarkably efficacious.”

Luowei was still staring at that ancient tree in a daze when a clear and melodious male voice suddenly arose behind her. She recognized who it was and could not help but start.

Before she could even open her mouth, the man stepped to her side and continued: “Only no one knows for which pair of devoted lovers this tree sacrificed itself — on some quiet spring night, it suddenly shed all its leaves, and its life force was severed from that moment on. Once the tree died and the spirit departed, wishes could no longer be granted, and gradually no one came here anymore.”

Perhaps it was because she had just heard about that painting ‘The Crimson Heavens, Shattered,’ but Luowei felt a wave of icy revulsion rise in her heart, and when she spoke, she could not help but add a few notes of mockery: “Lord Ye has long resided in Beiyou — how is it that he knows even the old tales of the capital so well? Oh, this Consort nearly forgot — Lord Ye possesses a pair of perceptive eyes that can see through to the bone and marrow. To say nothing of the widely known stories of old, even the ancient records of history are as clear as day to him.”

Ye Tingyan noticed her unusual tone and looked at her with some surprise. But Luowei had already swiftly concealed her earlier sardonic mood, and turned toward him with a smile, asking: “What a coincidence. Why is My Lord here?”

Ye Tingyan then gave her a perfunctory bow.

Luowei paid it no mind, and Ye Tingyan had not truly intended the bow, so he bent forward slightly, and that was considered the gesture completed: “His Majesty is resting at noon. This servant found himself with some free time and wanted to come to the back mountain to look upon this fabled ancient tree. Little did I expect such a coincidence — that I would encounter Your Ladyship here. Surely this is the merit and blessing earned from this servant’s devout worship before the Buddha just now.”

“Lord Ye is truly a man of deep merit and blessing,” Luowei said playfully. “This Consort had thought we would not meet until the Spring Hunt of the Shangsi Festival tomorrow, yet today My Lord, enjoying the Emperor’s confidence, followed him up the mountain. It is clear that not only the Son of Heaven, but even the gods and Buddhas are watching over My Lord.”

Ye Tingyan replied without any change in expression: “Your Ladyship flatters this servant, who is overcome with shame.”

After this exchange, the surrounding air suddenly fell into a complete silence. Both harbored their own thoughts, and neither broke the deadlock.

In the end, it was Ye Tingyan who first let out a soft sigh: “When Your Ladyship sees this servant, why is there nothing to be said? When we met on the high platform, this servant was incredulous and fled in panic — has Your Ladyship grown angry with this servant?”

His tone was candid and natural, yet the words he uttered were ambiguous and lingering, full of unspoken meaning. It was unclear why he no longer felt shame and vexation.

Luowei managed a smile and said, sparing her words: “How could that be?”

She hesitated for a moment, and when she saw him offer no reply in return, she had been about to open her mouth and ask about the painting, but at the last moment, changed the subject instead: “That legend of the ancient tree — My Lord did not finish telling it just now.”

Even if Ye Tingyan wished to show goodwill, she could not fully trust him — he was far too dangerous. If she let slip even the slightest hint of hatred toward Song Lan and he caught wind of it, one day that could become a blade to hasten her death.

Ye Tingyan could tell she had not wished to speak of this, yet he did not press further, and simply answered: “What this servant wished to say has already been said. Just now, I intended to ask Your Ladyship one more question — if this tree of devotion still granted wishes, what would Your Ladyship wish for?”

Luowei said indifferently: “This Consort and His Majesty are of one heart and one mind. What other wishes could I have? Even if I did, I would not need to entrust them to this dead thing.”

She looked up, and the wind had already stilled. The scarlet ribbon drooped limply downward. Beyond the withered branches lay a sky adorned with colorful clouds.

She did not know why, but after she finished speaking, Ye Tingyan said nothing. A long while passed before she heard him let out a barely audible, faint laugh.

Within that laughter — perhaps a coldness, perhaps a mockery, or perhaps she had misheard it entirely and there was nothing at all.

Then, suddenly, an ice-cold hand gripped her waist and pulled her forcefully toward him.

Luowei was startled. By the time her senses returned, she had already fallen into his embrace.

She was so taken aback she could not speak for a moment. Yet in a mere instant, a faint, crisp scent of orchid sachet on his garments slowly drifted over her, gently enveloping her.

The hand that Luowei had been tightly clutching his scarlet official’s robe gradually loosened its grip — and she inexplicably fell into a daze for a brief moment.

— Within that clean orchid fragrance, she had detected the quiet and still sandalwood scent that a dear one from the past had always loved.

A short while later, she came back to herself and struggled twice. Ye Tingyan did not release his hold; on the contrary, he applied a little more force in an indisputable manner.

Luowei glanced around in all directions and frowned, trying to push him away: “Ye San, you are being insolent!”

Yet Ye Tingyan only looked down at her from above, his jet-black pupils giving nothing away. Upon hearing her words, he remained unmoved, and simply curved the corners of his lips and mocked her in a tone she had never heard from him before: “Insolent? It was Your Ladyship yourself who said that what this servant wants, you can give. How is it that Your Ladyship’s intentions have shifted so quickly?”