The moment the door behind him closed, Ye Tingyan slid down the ice-cold wall and sank to the floor.

Not a single lamp had been lit in the dim secret chamber. It was as silent as a burial vault.

It was too dark. All around him was a blackness so complete it was nearly blindness. Though he had grown well acquainted with closing his eyes against darkness, returning to this kind of situation still made him tremble uncontrollably.

Certain memories he had believed he had entirely forgotten surged back over him. Ye Tingyan breathed in rough gasps; cold sweat was sliding drop by drop down his temples.

He had thought he had grown accustomed to it.

Yet the darkness of closed eyes and the darkness of open eyes were still, after all, so different.

This place was dangerous — only a single wall separated him from Song Lan. If he continued like this he feared his heart condition would flare up again. He could not afford to lose consciousness. So he felt his way along the ice-cold wall at his back — even the faintest glimmer of light would be enough to keep him from panicking this way.

He was very fortunate. He found a row of tiny air holes, no larger than the eye of a needle.

The light filtering through those air holes was as thin as spider silk, yet it allowed him to exhale a great breath of relief.

Ye Tingyan slumped against the wall, drained of strength, took out the handkerchief from his sleeve, and slowly wiped the cold sweat from his brow.

Now, thinking back to it, when he had been placed in circumstances like this in those years, he had nearly been driven to madness — had become someone barely recognizable as himself. Everything he had learned from childhood — every principle of propriety, righteousness, integrity, and honor; the Six Precepts for a Ruler; the way of kings; the way of Confucius; the way of Heaven — none of it could withstand the hatred that had taken root in his heart in the depths of his despair.

To keep himself lucid, he had repeated it again and again in his mind: I will kill all of you — I will certainly kill all of you.

On the flight after being rescued at the cost of lives, he had injured his eyes; his vision was blurred. His right hand was nearly useless. He had been poisoned by the “Withering Orchid,” the most strange and lethal poison in the realm; his heart condition was deep and severe, and living felt worse than death.

When Pei Xi found him, his mind was gone — he could not even lift an old sword, and no one’s words could reach him.

Had Bai Sensen not arrived in time, he might have survived Song Lan’s prison, only to die on the road heading southwest.

Zhou and Bai had known him for many years and understood his temperament best. Pei Xi was direct and fierce by nature, hating evil as fiercely as he hated enemies. Taking his word “hatred” as genuine, and influenced by him over these years, Pei Xi had only to see Luowei to feel discomfort. Only through recent dealings had there been some small shift in his feelings — and even then Pei Xi stubbornly refused to admit it.

In truth, even Ye Tingyan himself did not know whether his hatred was real or false, or how much of it was genuine.

He had once believed himself to be the person in all the world who knew Luowei best. Even after falling into the river, he had remained convinced that she had had no part in the matter. Later, when Song Lan laid the evidence before him piece by piece and compelled him to believe, when he had reached his wit’s end and felt he could no longer endure — it was clinging to this hatred, which from first to last had never found firm ground to stand upon, that had kept him alive until today.

Now he crouched in this dark chamber and abruptly realized that to call it hatred was less accurate than to call it longing — he desperately, truly wanted to know: in those events of years past, had she known anything beforehand? Even if she had known, and had had him killed for the sake of power — had she hesitated at all? And even if she had not hesitated — in the years since, had she regretted it?

So many questions. Not one of them could he ask aloud.

For one thing, the moment had not yet come. For another, deep within himself, he also feared the answers.

If the answers were entirely unlike what he had imagined, he did not know whether he would once again become that version of himself he could no longer recognize.

Thinking this, a chill ran suddenly down Ye Tingyan’s spine.

Then, slowly, he lowered the handkerchief in his hand and gave a wretched, self-mocking laugh.

Unrecognizable as “himself”…

How could such an absurd thought still arise — he had long since been utterly transformed, unrecognizable even to himself.

The only thing unchanged was that the hatred remained elusive.

Every time the condition flared, he would dip his brush in blood in his study and write in sweeping strokes, feeling that he hated Song Lan to the bone, hated her utterly — but when he returned to Biandu and saw her for the first time in the shadow of the begonia tree, he knew that perhaps one day everything might begin again, but she alone was the one he could never defeat.

He could not help drawing close to her. At first it was only to watch coldly and see whether she had obtained everything she had once wanted. He had even told himself that if Luowei had truly done it, if she had felt not a trace of guilt toward him, then on the day all was settled, he would certainly kill her.

Even if it meant their mutual destruction, he would not care.

Yet all it took was one careless glance from her, a few crumbs of warmth offered on occasion, a few ambiguous hints of possibility — and he immediately cast aside his armor and threw his former hatred to the back of his mind.

Even if in her eyes he was a different person entirely. Even if seeing her this way, he still could not refuse her.

His love for her — half real, half feigned — was like spring flowers blooming past their peak, rotting beyond all salvage. He pretended not to smell the rank and fetid air, and insisted, eyes shut, ears stopped, on carrying this performance through to the end.

It seemed that not long ago, Pei Xi had remarked to him that since returning to Biandu he had seen clearly: Ye Tingyan had never been willing to assume the worst of the Empress. The moment she showed the slightest softness beneath her mask, he was ready to forget everything that had come before.

Yes — take this time, for instance: Luowei had insisted on keeping Qiu Xueyu alive, and he had told her “Your Highness does have feeling after all,” his heart brimming with a warm, soaring gladness. Even if that feeling was not directed at him — so long as she had it, it meant that everything he had once understood of her had not been illusion.

Was that self-abasement?

As he pleased.

Thinking this, the few threads of light filtering through those air holes seemed to grow somewhat brighter. Ye Tingyan pressed close to them and curved his lips upward slightly.

If only he could have seen such light back in those years — he would not have been driven to the very edge of despair, wounding others and himself alike.

He was still thinking this when he suddenly heard the sound of voices close at hand — he had been pressed tightly against the wall and could now make out the conversation between Luowei and Song Lan on the other side.

The two of them were in the outer chamber; he was in the secret chamber within the inner room. They were not close, and so he could not hear clearly.

Ye Tingyan took a slow breath and forced himself to calm down swiftly. Then he pressed himself attentively against the wall and listened.

Once his mind grew still, the sounds entering his ears became much clearer.

After Song Lan parted the bed curtains and said those words — “a military report from Youzhou” — he went silent. Luowei considerately did not press him further and walked on her own to the hall doorway, placing her palm beneath Attendant Li’s nose.

When she and Ye Tingyan had interlaced their fingers earlier, her palm had picked up some of the antidote. Attendant Li roused fairly quickly and came into the hall apologetically to arrange her hair.

Song Lan sat before the bed and watched her quietly, until she had pinned up a simple and dignified bun, dismissed Attendant Li with a wave, and only then did he sigh and call: “Elder sister…”

Luowei replied: “What has happened in the north that brings you here in the dead of night?”

Song Lan clasped her hand, stroking the tips of her fingers, his tone unreadable: “General Yan’s younger brother dispatched a military report from Beiyou by eight-hundred-li express messenger to the inner palace. I was worried that if you heard of it tomorrow without knowing the contents, you would be afraid. So I came to tell you before morning court.”

He brushed the hair from before her eyes to behind her ears and continued: “Four days ago, the northern tribes launched a night raid on the garrison that Yan family troops stationed at the city of Gela’er, nearly breaking through the city walls. The young general led the troops in resisting the attack and routed the enemy utterly, taking the head of Wang Fengshi — the rebel commander of Gela’er — and intends to return to the capital to report.”

Luowei said in alarm: “Wang Fengshi betrayed the nation?”

Song Lan watched her and said slowly: “Yes — that is what the military report states.”

He had a pair of large, round almond-shaped eyes, and when he was smaller, simply blinking them had been enough to make one’s heart soften without reason. Luowei had sighed over it countless times in the past, wondering how the palace attendants who looked after him could have borne to mistreat such a lovely child.

He was older now and still had a baby face. Even though she knew perfectly well the expression on his face at this moment was one of suspicion, she could not help but reflect that if she did not know him as well as she did, she could never have discerned anything from that face.

Since his enthronement, Song Lan’s reputation had been reasonably good — in the eyes of court officials, he had not yet assumed personal rule, yet managed to keep Yu Qiushi and Luowei in opposition without allowing factional strife to erupt, and had never caused any great disorder in political affairs. In the eyes of the common people, he had shown his late brother every funeral honor, deeply cherished the Empress, and was at least a ruler of some sentiment and principle.

Moreover, there circulated among the people a story about him: the Young Zhaoling Emperor had passed through the imperial gardens and seen a palace attendant kill a cicada caught in a sticky trap, and had sighed — “it only wishes to live” — and commanded that palace attendants should no longer trap cicadas in summer, and that if the noise grew truly unbearable, they should catch them and release them into the mountains and wilds.

This was a fine reputation Luowei had manufactured for him.

So when the “False Dragon’s Chant” appeared and the Jintian Guards confiscated the copper bells from the marketplaces, it had given people so much to talk about for so long — the first crack in the reputation of a seemingly flawless young Emperor was not in itself greatly damaging, yet his efforts to conceal it had only drawn more attention. Naturally it was enough to arouse everyone’s interest.

Luowei set aside her thoughts and followed up on what he had said: “Young General Yan should indeed return to the capital to report — Wang Fengshi was the garrison commander Zi Lan had sent to share the burden of the Yan family. If this matter cannot be explained clearly, would it not appear that the Yan family is intolerant of others?”

Song Lan said quickly: “If the Yan family is intolerant of others, elder sister, what then?”

Luowei answered with equal promptness and composure: “You are the ruler, the Yan family are subjects. If they cannot tolerate those appointed by the ruler, the laws of Great Yan have their own provisions for dealing with it. What is there for me to do?”

Song Lan watched her; she did not look away. In the end it was Song Lan who drew back his gaze first and said with a smile: “The Yan family guards our borders. At the time of my enthronement, they even led their forces to face the Imperial Guard in a standoff — truly they have rendered me great service. I imagine this is nothing more than a misunderstanding. Young General Yan’s willingness to enter the capital shows a clear conscience.”

Luowei lowered her eyes: “Indeed — when he returns, you two can talk things through at length.”

Song Lan cleared his throat and changed the subject: “How is your injury?”

Luowei said: “It is not severe. Zi Lan need not worry — a few more days of rest and it will be fully healed.”

She turned to look at the latticed window; outside it was still a stretch of dark silence, with only the faint flicker of lantern light: “What hour is it now?”

Song Lan said: “The hour of the Rat has passed; in two more hours it will be morning court. Tonight I happened to be reading through memorials in Qianfang Hall and stayed up late, which is how I happened not to miss the young general’s military report.”

“A mere return to the capital to report — and little Yan had to send it by eight-hundred-li express, disturbing your rest,” Luowei said, reaching over to straighten his collar with a mild reproach. “By calculation, from Beiyou to Biandu is a three-day ride at full speed — so tomorrow or the day after, he will likely arrive. Even if Wang Fengshi had committed offenses and he had merit in defending the city, he should still be charged with disrupting the imperial peace.”

Song Lan grabbed her hand and turned to press a kiss to it. Luowei instinctively pulled it back, and so his lips found nothing: “Elder sister…”

Luowei said with slight awkwardness: “You have not rested well today — you should go and sleep again.”

Song Lan bit his lip with a smile: “What — elder sister will not shelter me tonight?”

Her heart gave a sharp lurch and her fingers trembled slightly, yet her mouth said: “My shoulder wound has not yet healed; I fear…”

“Elder sister need not worry about anything — I only thought that I sleep better at your side.” Song Lan rose from the bed and moved toward the outer hall. Court affairs had grown tangled of late and he had never intended to stay the night. “Never mind; rest well. I…”

At this point he suddenly remembered the palace attendant outside Luowei’s hall who had been impossible to rouse when he arrived. The words on the tip of his tongue changed: “My heart is unsettled. I wish to pay my respects in elder sister’s inner chamber. I still remember you saying that kneeling before the portraits of all three schools brings peace of mind in troubled times — I wonder if elder sister can spare it?”