The auspicious day was chosen for the ceremony to install the Worthy King’s Princess Consort.

The grandeur of the great wedding was unprecedented — the capital city emptied as its ten thousand residents poured into the streets to witness the splendor of the imperial family. The Worthy King’s residence blazed with jubilant crimson and brilliant gold, every blade of grass and leaf seemingly dyed in the deep hues of festivity. In the wedding hall above, Xiao Qi presided over the ceremony while a hundred officials attended to offer their congratulations. The sight of so much crimson stung my eyes with a faint, grating pain. From my vantage point in the distance, I could not make out the expression on any face. Or perhaps, I simply did not wish to see.

After Zidan’s wedding, many trivial matters settled like dust coming to rest, and the palace seemed to recover a brief period of calm. As the weather turned cold, my health continued its pattern of intermittent illness and recovery. I spent my days in quiet convalescence, growing increasingly reluctant to stir, only occasionally entering the palace to visit my aunt and Jinmin.

Jinmin was four years old now. His condition had shown not the slightest improvement — he drifted through his days in a stupor, as vacant as a cloth puppet.

On this day, the weather was clear and fine. Accompanied only by my personal maidservants, I took Jinmin by the hand and strolled leisurely through the imperial gardens, letting the pale sunlight fall softly over us.

“Heaven’s mandate is exhausted — two emperors shall reign before the fall.” That verse circulating through the common markets and alleys was not without deeper meaning. So many eyes watched from the court, so many ears listened — sooner or later, someone would uncover the secret of the young Emperor’s mental incapacity. He could not hide behind the lowered curtain forever, playing the role of a silent, motionless puppet. As Xiao Qi drew ever closer to the imperial throne, the value of Jinmin’s existence grew ever smaller. The time for his exit had come.

That rhyme was an unmistakably clear hint.

Seizing the throne from a mentally incapacitated young Emperor would be easy enough, but it would not be legitimate — on the surface, there would still be a missing veneer of propriety, of things flowing naturally to their proper course. It was like that chess game between my brother and me: pressing too hard at every turn was the inferior move. At this critical juncture, one had to appear to retreat in order to advance. The art of wielding power and the way of kings and hegemon had always been inseparable. Jinmin was merely the puppet of necessity from those earlier years. Now that Zidan had been stripped of all his influence, he had become the ideal chess piece. Depose Jinmin, install Zidan, and Xiao Qi would still hold supreme power in his grasp… every step he took toward the throne meant another purge or upheaval.

And yet Jinmin was truly a pitiable child. Perhaps leaving this palace would be a blessing for him.

I held the child and sat silently in the garden, lost in thought. The early winter sunlight fell over us both, and in that moment there was peace and tranquility — as though we had withdrawn far from the suffering and strife of an imperial family, like an ordinary mother and son from some unremarkable household.

Warmth suddenly fell upon my shoulder — a feathered gauze cloak was draped over me. Xiao Qi stood behind me, having appeared at some unknown moment, his thick brows faintly furrowed as he gazed deeply at me.

The winter sun slanted down, casting a faint halo over his cold, sharply chiseled profile. On his deep-black brocade robe, golden-threaded dragons embroidered in writhing, vigorous form seemed on the verge of coming to life.

He gently patted the top of Jinmin’s head and said calmly, “Before too long, this child too must leave.”

“The matter of deposing and enthroning — it is of great consequence. Have you truly decided?” I raised my eyes to look at him, but he remained silent for a long while without answering.

The sun sank in the west. The evening breeze carried a faint chill, lifting the wide sleeves of his robe so they billowed and fluttered.

He smiled suddenly. “Do you remember what I said all those years ago — that I would accompany you to see the misty, rain-veiled apricot blossoms of Jiangnan?”

How could I ever forget? Outside the walls of Ningshuo City, he had said he would accompany me to see the sea and sky melding in one color, the great desert winds, the apricot blossoms in spring rain… Every year in mid-spring, watching the apricot blossoms bloom and fall within the palace walls, fall and bloom again, I would think of the words he had spoken that day.

I gazed into his eyes — boundless melancholy, yet sweetness too. “I thought you had long forgotten.”

“When this winter passes, we will go to Jiangnan.” Xiao Qi turned to look steadily at me, a faint ghost of a smile at the corners of his thin lips.

My heart gave a sudden lurch. I stared at him blankly, half-convinced I had misheard. “Go to Jiangnan?”

He smiled faintly. “When the time comes, I will return governance to Zidan, set aside the shackles of external things, and leave the capital with you. Just the two of us, wandering Jiangnan together — from then on, free and unbound upon the four seas. Would that please you?”

I froze, unable to tell whether he was speaking in jest or testing me. I simply had not expected him to say such a thing.

Xiao Qi looked at me deeply. His bright, penetrating gaze seemed not to miss a single change in my expression. The fathomless smile still lingered at the corners of his lips. “What is it — you do not like the idea?”

Pressed by his gaze until I could barely breathe, I met his eyes after a long silence. “To cast aside your ambitions to command the world, seeking only a life of unfettered ease — that would not be you, Xiao Qi.”

Xiao Qi bore down on me with his gaze, his eyes deep and fathomless, the smile in them only growing richer. “Then what would be me?”

To cast aside the bonds of this world, to flee together into the rivers and lakes, to envy only the mandarin ducks and not the immortals — that had once been my dream too. Had the person I encountered not been Xiao Qi, perhaps that dream might have come true. Yet when I met him, and he met me, the path we had walked together could no longer be retraced, nor would I condescend to retrace it. Together we had hacked through thicket after thicket of thorns, paying too great a price, leaving each other covered in bloodstained scars. Nothing could stop us from ascending to that supreme summit any longer.

“Have you thought it through?” He pressed close to me, an overwhelming masculine presence enveloping me, his tone brooking no refusal. “A’Wu, I want to hear your true words. Once you have made up your mind, you cannot waver or hesitate again.”

I looked up at him, my heart filled with perfect clarity, and said slowly, word by word: “I want to watch you achieve your great dominion and reign over all beneath heaven.”

The deposition and enthronement of a sovereign was a matter of enormous consequence — naturally it was no ordinary undertaking. Between this deposing and this installing, not the slightest disruption could be permitted.

Jinmin was young, sickly, and frail — barely capable of safeguarding the stability of the realm. Using this as justification to depose him, no one would dare voice a dissenting word. The Regent’s intention to depose the Emperor and install another spread swiftly through the court and beyond. The Worthy King Zidan transformed overnight from a secluded, idle personage into the Crown Prince upon whom all eyes were fixed. Amid the swirling fog of uncertainty, no one could divine Xiao Qi’s true calculations, nor see clearly what future changes awaited.

Yet the delicate balance of power in the court had already begun to shift. Every chess piece, under Xiao Qi’s manipulation, was quietly moving, imperceptibly tilting.

The trajectory of fate was being altered without anyone noticing. A great upheaval that would overturn heaven and earth was unfolding, slowly and silently.

This winter felt exceptionally long.

As the year drew near its end, two great southern aristocratic clans — the Shen Family and the Wu Family — both arrived at the capital to pay their respects at court.

The Shen and Wu families were both illustrious clans of Jiangnan, with hereditary noble titles and reputations that reached far. Their prestige in Jiangnan was in no way inferior to that of the Wang Family. Now that the great forces within the court were shifting in unpredictable ways, even these two mighty clans from far-off Jiangnan could no longer restrain themselves. Though ostensibly coming to pay court, they had in truth made this journey specifically to negotiate a marriage alliance. That the Regent took no concubines was by now common knowledge throughout the realm. Moreover, Xiao Qi had risen from humble origins and had no clan brothers or kinsmen — the family closest to him now was the Wang Family.

In the Suyu Villa, my brother held a freshly peeled segment of a new orange in his mouth — fed to him by the attendant maid at his side — wearing only a smile, saying nothing, the very picture of idle contentment.

I rubbed my forehead and looked at my brother with a helpless, wry smile. “You are certainly relaxed. The daughters of two great clans are competing to marry you. What do you intend to do?”

“Either marry them all, or marry none of them!” My brother laughed playfully. Eight beauties surrounded him, a riot of warblers and swallows, the scene altogether enchanting.

“What a pity there is only one Prince Jiangxia — we cannot split him in two. If we could, we would have long since cut him into eight pieces already.” The speaker was my brother’s most favored concubine Zhuyan, her voice carrying the soft, lilting cadences of the Wu region, sweet and coquettishly aggrieved.

My brother nearly choked on the orange segment in his mouth. He glared at her, caught between laughter and exasperation. I turned and smiled. “Why not have your Prince Jiangxia marry into one of their households as a live-in husband? It would save all this trouble of dividing and splitting.” Zhuyan covered her mouth and laughed lightly. “If that were truly the case, I would beg the Princess Consort to show mercy and send me along as part of the dowry, to keep the Prince company.” Another beautiful attendant laughed and said, “To marry in and marry out — wouldn’t that just be letting people take far too much advantage?”

The concubines and attendants dissolved into a laughing, chattering commotion. But my heart gave a sudden, unexpected jolt.

I had nearly forgotten — my uncle had two daughters. They had followed their aunt back to the ancestral home in Langya years ago, and we had not seen each other in many years. By now, I calculated, they would be fifteen or sixteen years old.

The devastation of the recent war had just ended. Jiangnan hearts were restless and unsettled. The entire court, high and low, was anticipating the joy of this marriage alliance, hoping it would dispel the shadow left behind by the killing.

My brother dismissed all the concubines, leaving only the two of us, siblings alone. I asked him seriously whether he truly wished to form a marriage alliance with the great Jiangnan clans.

He only laughed carelessly. “When the daughters of fine families travel a thousand li to come and wed, I can hardly shut the door on them.”

I looked steadily at him. “Brother, among so many women, is there even one who, in your heart, surpasses all others — one whom you consider the finest in the world, and her alone?”

My brother shook his head without a moment’s hesitation, smiling. “Every woman is wonderful. My feelings for each of them are sincere, and they are the same — I cannot say which is the finest.”

“What of your sister-in-law?” I watched him quietly. “Even her — you never gave her your true heart?” My brother fell suddenly silent, the smile on his face fading entirely. I had never deliberately questioned him about that chapter of his past, fearing it would cause him pain. But now I no longer wished to see him wallowing in old memories, sealing his heart shut for good.

“The departed are gone. Speaking of it now, I imagine she would not blame me any longer.” My brother sighed and slowly began to speak. “You are not wrong. I did wrong by her — from beginning to end, I never gave her my true heart.”

I was stunned, but I heard my brother gradually recount that long-sealed past. “In those days, my marriage to Huanbi originated from a wager. When I first saw Huanbi, I did not find her particularly beautiful. It was precisely because she was cold and proud, holding me in contempt, that my competitive spirit was provoked. I was young and reckless then, and I made a wager with Zilong — the late Emperor — swearing I would win Huanbi’s heart. The late Emperor already knew that Huanbi was to be installed as Zilu’s principal wife, while I remained completely in the dark. He made a great fool of me. It so happened that at that very time, Father was considering my marriage. When he learned I had set my sights on Huanbi, I thought he would give me a fierce scolding. Instead, not only did he nod his approval, he actually decided to betroth Huanbi to me as my wife. Caught between laughter and dismay, I dared not go against Father’s wishes — and besides, I still harbored that desire to conquer and win Huanbi over. So I agreed at once. It was not until afterward that I learned she and Zilu had been betrothed since childhood and had always been devoted to each other — but by then it was already too late. The imperial edict bestowing the marriage had already been issued. There was no turning back.”

A careless remark, a single wager — it had destroyed two beautiful unions and left my sister-in-law and Zilu nursing bitter regrets for the rest of their lives. I listened in a daze, my heart flooded with sorrow.

My brother’s expression was deeply pained. “From that point on, the great mistake was made. Zilu and I became bitter enemies. I was too ashamed to face him, too ashamed to face Huanbi. In a fit of anger, I traveled far away to Jiangnan — and then, unexpectedly…”

At last I understood. It was why all these years my brother had refused to take a wife, preferring to linger among flowers rather than open his heart to any woman. He was afraid of hurting someone again, afraid of someone becoming a second Huanbi.

“Our marriages are not ours to choose as we wish. Rather than trap ourselves in a silken cocoon, it is better to seize joy while we can.” My brother’s thin lips curved into his familiar languid smile, yet his words carried a faint undercurrent of melancholy.

Without intending to, I thought of the devoted young woman who had stood in the chill dew through the midnight hours for his sake. I clasped my brother’s hand and sighed. “Brother, you simply have not yet met that person. Perhaps one day, when you do meet them, you will understand — to love someone wholeheartedly, and to be loved by them wholeheartedly in return, that is the most profound feeling time can offer.”

My brother stared absently at the fallen leaves swirling across the courtyard. After a long while, he finally turned back to face me — with a rare gravity and stillness. “I would rather never encounter such a person.”

Several days later, I issued a marriage decree in the name of the Grand Empress Dowager.

The eldest legitimate daughter of the Shen Family, Shen Lin, was betrothed to Prince Jiangxia Wang Su as his principal wife. The eldest daughter of Marquis Xinyuan, Wang Pei, was granted the additional title of Princess Xuanning and given in marriage to the Silver-Ribbon Guanglu Grand Master Wu Jun.

Over these several years, my family had experienced rises and falls, climbing to nearly the pinnacle of power and nearly tumbling into the abyss. Fortunately, all of that was in the past. Today, the Wang Family had finally risen again under my hand. No matter what winds of change might blow, the lofty prestige of the foremost clan in the realm remained undiminished.

My mother’s mourning period had not yet concluded. My brother’s wedding to the Shen daughter could take place no sooner than the following summer, at the earliest. And Princess Xuanning’s wedding to Wu Jun, owing to the Grand Princess’s mourning period, was set for three months hence.

My brother sent people to Langya to bring my aunt and two cousins to the capital, where they would reside temporarily at the Duke Zhenguo’s residence.

The day after my aunt and the others arrived in the capital, Xiao Qi came down from the morning court session and specifically accompanied me to the residence to call on them.

It had snowed lightly the night before. As the morning light first broke, the snow had not yet melted. Within the red gates and deep courtyard, jade branches and crystal trees stretched in all directions — a scene like a celestial palace.

“What distinguished elegance — truly out of the ordinary.” Xiao Qi smiled with approval. “The Duke Zhenguo’s residence rivals even the palace inner gardens in its magnificence. It is truly worthy of a family of ancient noble pedigree.”

I smiled, my gaze drifting slowly over every familiar plant and stone, yet my heart was bitter and desolate. He saw only the imposing grandeur of the timber and brick before him. An empty hall and jade-adorned stables — how could it compare to the flourishing splendor of former days? Xiao Qi took my hand and gently drew me close, saying nothing, yet his gaze was full of quiet understanding and comfort. I looked up at him softly, warmth suffusing my heart as well.

Turning through the covered corridor, I caught an unexpected glimpse of the jagged ornamental rockery, and a smile spread across my face unbidden. “Look there — my brother and I used to hide behind that rockery and throw snowballs to startle the little maids. After we had frightened them to tears, my brother would go and play the good fellow, coaxing the young girls back into happiness.”

Xiao Qi laughed and lightly pinched the tip of my nose. “Such a mischievous child, even back then!”

I ducked away from him, a playful impulse rising in me, and lifted my skirts to run out into the garden. My long hem swept a wide trail through the accumulated snow. My deep crimson gauze skirts brushed against the crystal branches, and my palace-satin beaded embroidered shoes were covered in tiny flakes of snow.

“Careful — the ground is slippery!” Xiao Qi frowned and caught up to seize me, but his eyes were brimming with laughter. I seized the opportunity to grab a handful of snow and flung it at his collar, but he sidestepped it without appearing to move at all.

“Stand still! You keep moving around — I cannot hit you!” I stamped my foot, scooped up a full double-handful of snow, and hurled it at him with all my strength. Then suddenly I felt a rush of wind at my back —

“Watch out!” Xiao Qi lunged forward in an instant. My vision blurred as he yanked me sharply toward him. Something swept past my ear with a whooshing sound, and snow particles showered down in a fine cascade. I looked up in astonishment and saw that Xiao Qi had sheltered me in his arms — but his shoulder had been struck squarely by a large snowball, leaving him covered in a disheveled mess of snow fragments, utterly undignified.

Xiao Qi’s expression darkened. He turned to look toward the rockery. “Who dares act so insolently?”

I too looked up in astonishment — and then a flash of brilliant color caught my eye. A crimson figure stepped out from behind the rockery. A creature of ice-and-snow loveliness wrapped in a large red feathered gauze cloak, her dimpled smile bewitching, her bright eyes dancing — enough to make the red plum blossoms in the snow seem dull by comparison.

“A’Wu sister!” the charming creature called out in a bright, clear voice. Her glossy dark eyes slid from me to Xiao Qi, and she stuck out her tongue with cheeky playfulness. “Brother-in-law, you look so fierce!”

Xiao Qi and I stared at each other in bewilderment.

“Qian’er — is that you?” I gazed blankly at the young girl before me, unable to believe that the chubby, simple-looking little girl from my memories was this breathtakingly radiant young woman before me — my cousin, Wang Qian.

“We pay our respects to the Prince and the Princess Consort.” My aunt, dressed in full first-rank official regalia of deep blue-green cloud brocade, led her two daughters forward in a bow before us.

Her hairpins and ornaments swayed lightly, catching the light even against the white at her temples, and her clear, proud bearing and dignified features remained undimmed. I helped her up and studied her carefully — but in my mind’s eye, my aunt’s care-worn and haggard face suddenly floated to the surface. The two sisters-in-law had originally been of similar age. Now they seemed to have aged a decade apart from each other. My aunt had also been born to a distinguished family; she and my own aunt had been close friends from girlhood, and after marrying into the Wang Family, their bond had deepened into that of sisters-in-law. Who could have foreseen that estrangement would later grow between them, that the two would drift further and further apart, and ultimately turn against each other?

That year, my aunt — unmoved by my cousin-by-marriage’s pleas — had sent her only son into the army to be tempered, intending for him to inherit the legacy of the Prince of Qingyang.

The cousin I remembered, Wang Kai, had been a perceptive and quick-witted young man, his heart full of ardent patriotism — yet born with a frail constitution. He had not adapted to the northern climate at the military post, soon fell ill, and before he could return to the capital, died of illness far from home. My cousin-by-marriage was plunged into the grief of losing her son, and precisely at that moment, my brother Wang Su was granted a distinguished title. She became convinced that my aunt had shown favoritism to the main branch of the family, held her responsible for her son’s death, and harbored a deep, bone-deep hatred for her — to the point of developing resentment toward our entire main-branch household.

By the time of the palace coup, my uncle was assassinated and killed. Heartbroken and despondent, my cousin-by-marriage took her two daughters — both born of concubines — and returned to the ancestral home in Langya, and for many years refused all contact with us.

Both younger cousins were daughters of my uncle’s concubines. Their birth mothers had died early, and they had been raised by my aunt from childhood, genuinely regarded as her own. When they had departed, the elder daughter Wang Pei had been only ten, and the younger Wang Qian not yet nine. After years of separation, the little girl who used to trail after me calling out “A’Wu sister” at every turn had blossomed into the lovely, graceful beauty now before me.

Qian’er stood nimbly to one side, blinking impishly at the girl beside her. That tall, slender young woman beside her stood with lowered gaze and composed expression, dressed in a pale lake-blue cloud robe, her cloud-piled hair loosely pinned, her brow and eyes as exquisitely lovely as a painting.

“I always remembered what Pei’er looked like as a child — so timid and shy. I never imagined she would grow into such a beauty.” I took Pei’er’s hand and smiled with a sigh. “And Qian’er — I would barely have recognized her.”

Pei’er’s face flushed slightly, and she bowed her head in silence, not even daring to look up at me.

My aunt inclined her head with a smile. “I have been living in the countryside, and my guidance has been insufficient. Just now, Qian’er was disrespectful and caused offense to the Prince. I beg your forgiveness.” Her manner and tone still carried a faint coolness of pride, though considerably gentler than in former years. The long passage of time, it seemed, had softened even the loftiest of spirits.

Xiao Qi’s expression was warm and amiable. He observed the formality of addressing a senior and stayed by my side, exchanging cordial pleasantries with my aunt in an unhurried, gentle way. I had expected my aunt to be reluctant to part with Pei’er, who was being given in marriage to Jiangnan, and had already prepared myself on how to persuade her. To my surprise, not only did she not object — she seemed genuinely gratified. Taking Pei’er’s hand, she sighed. “This child, once she is married off, will at least have someone to depend on for the rest of her life. That is better than following me through cold and quiet days.”

There was a note of wistful sorrow in her words. I was about to speak, but Xiao Qi had already said lightly with a smile: “Now that Princess Xuanning is to wed far away, and the old Madam is of advancing years, living in the remote ancestral home would inevitably be lonely. It would be better to return to the capital, where there would be someone to look after you.”

My aunt smiled and nodded. “The ancestral home is remote and distant, after all — nothing like the bustle and vitality of the capital. This time, once I have seen Pei’er married, it will only be Qian’er, that girl, who still weighs on my heart.”

“Mother!” Qian’er interrupted her mother’s words, stamping her foot in a sweet, petulant protest. My aunt looked at her with fond indulgence and said nothing, a smile playing at her lips. Xiao Qi and I exchanged a glance and smiled as well.

In the midst of our conversation, a guard entered and bent to murmur something quietly to Xiao Qi. His expression immediately darkened.

Xiao Qi rose and took his leave of my aunt, leaving me at the residence to continue visiting. The two of us walked him to the door together, and he turned back to say to me in a gentle voice: “You are dressed too lightly today — do not go out playing in the snow.”

In front of my aunt and Pei’er, I had not expected him to be so attentive to such details. A warmth crept unbidden into my face. Behind me came a light laugh — again it was Qian’er, covering her mouth and watching Xiao Qi with dancing, mischievous eyes.

Xiao Qi, for his part, was quite unperturbed. He gave me one long, deep look, smiled, and turned to depart.

“A’Wu has married well.” My aunt watched me with a smile, lifted her teacup and took a small, slow sip. “Your aunt truly had a fine eye.”

“When it comes to matrimonial fate, each person has her own.” At the mention of my aunt, I had no wish to say more. I only offered a faint smile and turned the conversation. “Pei’er’s husband is also a man of distinguished reputation and talent. When he arrives in the capital in a few days to escort her, you will be even more pleased when you see him, Aunt.” Both sisters had been sent away by my aunt. Had Pei’er also been present at that moment, I could only imagine what shade of crimson she might have turned.

My aunt set down her teacup, then let out a quiet, drawn-out sigh. “This child Pei’er… is truly unfortunate in her fate.”

“How so?” I frowned and looked at her.

My aunt sighed. “As you may have known before, Pei’er has been constitutionally weak since birth, always sickly, just like her birth mother in those days. Her birth mother died in difficult labor. I have always worried that when this child marries and has children of her own, she may not survive that passage. It would be better, I thought, to simply let her forgo childbearing altogether.”

A sharp pain seized my heart. My aunt seemed to continue saying something, but my mind had grown unfocused and I could not take in her words — not until she called my name with some force did I return to myself.

My aunt narrowed her eyes slightly, gazing at me with a look of quiet contemplation, her gaze seeming to conceal the sharp point of a needle.

“A’Wu, what were you thinking about?” She began to speak with a smile, her expression reverting to the warmth from before.

I met her probing gaze and quietly steadied myself inwardly. “Even so, Pei’er is marrying into the Wu household far away. Without an heir, things would be very difficult for her in the years to come.”

My aunt nodded. “That is precisely why I intend to select two reliable maids to go along as part of her dowry. When they have borne children, those children can be adopted by Pei’er.”

I frowned slightly, and the shadow of Jin’er passed across my mind unbidden, leaving a quiet, unexplained desolation in its wake. My aunt’s words rubbed into my heart like grit, causing a vague, dull ache — yet I could not think of how to respond. I could only nod in silence.

Although Xiao Qi and I had never had a child, the world outside assumed it was simply due to my frail health, unaware that I might never be able to bear children.

Yet the expression that had flashed, briefly, across my aunt’s face just now left me with an inexplicable unease. Though I could not name precisely what was wrong, my instincts rose in wariness — I was unwilling to let her learn the truth.