We had all underestimated the loyalists. Despite repeated purges of the palace guards, there were still those loyal to the late Emperor who had remained hidden within the palace walls.

This morning’s early court session had proceeded normally, yet on Xiao Qi’s way back home after court, an urgent message was received from the palace: the Emperor had fallen from his horse and was gravely injured.

A prized horse from the western regions had just been sent into the palace as tribute, and the Emperor went eagerly to try it as soon as court ended. The palace attendants on all sides watched as the Emperor rode, faster and faster; at first, no one noticed anything amiss. But then the horse suddenly let out a frightened shriek and bolted from the enclosure, wildly galloping forward, trampling and knocking down several eunuchs along the way, while the Emperor called out in alarm… Before the attendants on either side could form a circle to intercept, the panicked horse abruptly leaped off a high platform — and threw the Emperor tumbling from midair to the ground. Everything had happened in the blink of an eye.

Even now, hearing Song Huai’an recount the scene, it still left me so shaken that my entire body went cold and I nearly could not keep my footing.

Xiao Qi rushed back to the palace and immediately sealed off the palace grounds, mobilized the Imperial Guards to hold the palace gates, and placed all the palace attendants under suspicion in confinement. Shortly after, the inner palace guards discovered that a groom who had been handling the horse had already taken his own life by poison.

To prevent the rebel loyalists from taking advantage of the chaos to stir up trouble, Xiao Qi ordered Song Huai’an to lead troops to secure the key positions in the capital, and commanded him to personally guard the prince’s estate — strictly forbidding any harm from would-be assassins — and furthermore would not allow me to leave the estate by so much as a single step.

I sat in my room restless and unable to stay still, consumed with worry. The situation was dangerously unpredictable; I did not know whether Xiao Qi was in danger inside the palace, nor how gravely the Emperor had been injured… Likely even Xiao Qi could not foresee how things would unfold from here — not knowing what fortune or doom lay ahead — and so had forcibly confined me to the estate, unwilling to let me rashly enter the palace.

Countless frightening thoughts refused to leave me, and the more I thought, the worse the anguish became. Even in the midst of ten thousand armies, I had grown accustomed to his figure — like a deity’s — believing him capable of anything, victorious in every battle, never capable of falling. Yet I had never imagined: if someday he were to be in mortal peril, what then? All this time I had grown so accustomed to depending on him and taking from him — yet I had overlooked the fact that he too was only an ordinary mortal. The understanding, tolerance, and support I had given him was so very little.

Just as my thoughts were raging and swirling with agitation, hurried footsteps sounded outside the door.

I pushed open the door and went out. I saw Song Huai’an come striding toward me at a rapid pace. “His Highness has sent word — the Princess Consort is to enter the palace at once!”

Throughout the palace, every direction was heavily guarded. Every hundred steps or so there was a patrol unit of Imperial Guards; every palace gate had been sealed by the Guards. Though the air was thick with the feel of an impending storm, there were no signs of actual disorder — it seemed the situation in the palace was already under Xiao Qi’s control.

Before the Qianyuan Hall, guards stood in rows. Imperial physicians hurried in and out. The slanting rays of the setting sun dyed the jade steps before the hall the color of blood. In the vast hall, a crowd of palace maids and eunuchs knelt prostrate on the floor, holding their breath. All the senior ministers of the court had already arrived — even Father, and the elderly Marquis Gu who had long been ill in bed; my brother also stood behind Father, hands at his side. Before them all, Xiao Qi stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his complexion coldly stern, a killing aura radiating from his whole person.

The moment I saw his figure, the heart I had been holding in suspension for half a day finally dropped back into place — yet it was immediately enveloped by the cold, deadly atmosphere pervading the hall, and all four limbs went cold as ice.

I walked slowly into the great hall; I looked around at the assembled civil and military officials, and found that I was the only woman there. Every gaze converged upon me… I paid my respects to Xiao Qi, Father, and Marquis Yunde. Father’s face was ashen and he said nothing; the elderly Marquis Gu gasped for breath, leaning heavily on someone for support. Xiao Qi looked at me with a deep, penetrating gaze, his expression unreadable, his voice grave: “The Empress is waiting for the Princess Consort in Zhaoyang Hall.”

I was taken aback for a moment and said in a daze: “The Empress summons this consort?”

The depth of Xiao Qi’s gaze was unfathomable; his words were bone-chillingly cold: “The Emperor has already read the posthumous edict. The young sovereign will ascend the throne. Since it is inevitable that the rear palace will intervene in governance, the Emperor has specially granted Empress Xie the honor of dying in loyal sacrifice.”

My ears rang as though struck by thunder. The breath lodged in my chest, and I could not release it for a long moment. Zi Long — just days ago still chatting and complaining to me — Wanru, who was still saying she wanted to visit Ci’an Temple to pray for the little imperial prince on Mother’s behalf… The little imperial prince — he was still so small, not yet able to speak, had never called out “Mother” even once, and yet was about to lose both parents forever…

“The Empress requested to see Princess Consort of Prince Yuzhang before she would consent to her sacrifice.” Xiao Qi’s voice reached my ears — strange and distant in that moment. I felt somewhat disoriented, and my body trembled faintly. I could not say a single word.

Xiao Qi looked at me in silence, a faint shadow veiling his brow. I looked at him, then at Father, my gaze slowly sweeping across the faces of all the assembled ministers.

Once the little imperial prince ascended the throne and the Empress Dowager presided over the court, the Xie Clan would once again become the foremost imperial in-laws — not to mention that the Xie Clan still had Zidan, and the remnant loyalists who venerated Zidan as the rightful ruler. If the Xie Family were to regain their footing through this, the inner palace and the court would very soon descend into bloodshed again. Neither Xiao Qi nor Father would allow such a situation to arise.

Wanru’s loyal sacrifice had already been decided.

My legs went unsteady beneath me; I had to be supported by a palace maid to take each step up into Zhaoyang Hall.

The palace lanterns had just been lit. The jade curtains stirred faintly; a wind blew straight in from outside the hall. The faint, weak cry of an infant — one soft sound after another — cut straight through to the heart.

Three feet of white silk. A gold-sheathed silver knife. A jade cup of poisoned wine — set against imperial yellow silk, each item resting on an ornately carved golden tray. In the household of emperors, even death came with such splendor and grandeur — as though it were a great grace and benevolence.

Empress Xie, dressed in white with her hair unbound, held the swaddled infant in her arms, bending low to kiss him, lingering long, reluctant to part. I stood at the doorway of the inner chamber; seeing this heartbreaking scene, I no longer had the strength to step inside.

Wanru looked back and saw me, and a faint, pale and bewildered smile rose to her lips. “I have been waiting for you a long time.”

I walked slowly toward her. There was nothing I could say — I only looked at her in silence. This innocent woman before me was about to be forced to her death by my husband and my father, and not only could I not stop it — I was here to personally see her off.

“The child is crying again — won’t you soothe him?” Wanru furrowed her brow and sighed, and passed the small bundle into my arms.

This pitiable child — born already into suffering and hardship; even the imperial physicians had once thought he would not live long. Yet he had held on with a tenacity no one expected. And now his father and mother were about to abandon him and leave together.

I held the child, and suddenly lifted my face; tears burst from my eyes and dropped onto the child’s face. He actually stopped crying. He reached out his small hand curiously, groping toward my face — as though trying to wipe away my tears.

Wanru laughed. Her face was suffused for an instant with a soft, gentle light — beautiful and tranquil as before, as though I had caught a glimpse of her as a young girl. “You see — the baby likes you!”

I turned my head away abruptly, unable to bear looking.

“A’Wu.” Wanru called softly to me, her voice endlessly gentle. “From now on, you must watch the baby grow up in my place — teach him to speak and to read in my place. Do not let anyone bully him… And my daughter as well. Whether they become emperor and princess or commoners, so long as they can live well — even if ordinary and without achievement — may they live long lives, a hundred years each.”

With every word she spoke, it was as though a blade cut into my flesh.

She looked at me, and suddenly tilted her head with a smile — just like her playful, adorable self of years past — yet her eyes held boundless sorrow: “You must promise me this. Only then will I consent to their wishes and sacrifice myself.”

I could hold myself up no longer. My knees buckled; I dropped heavily to the ground before her, and said in a trembling voice: “From this day forward, they are my children. I will protect and cherish them — I will love them as my own flesh and blood, and not allow them to suffer even the smallest grievance.”

“Thank you, A’Wu.” Wanru knelt down as well, looking at the child through her tears, and said quietly: “Perhaps this is retribution after all. I have harmed many people, and now it is my own turn… So be it. May all retribution fall upon me alone — let the children suffer no more.” The child suddenly made a soft sound and turned its head toward her; its black eyes were clear and bright, as though it understood every word its mother had said.

Wanru abruptly stood, stepped back several paces, and said in a sharp, stricken voice: “Take him away! Do not let him watch me go!”

I gritted my teeth and held the infant close in my arms, and bowed deeply down to the ground before her. In my heart I silently bid her farewell for the last time — The road to the Yellow Springs is long, Wanru, dear sister — take care.

I stepped out of Zhaoyang Hall, making my way step by step down the jade steps; behind me came the shrill, drawn-out announcement of the palace eunuchs: “Her Majesty the Empress has departed—”

In a daze I passed through one hall and another — from Zhaoyang Hall to Qianyuan Hall. My ornate, trailing skirts trailed as I walked along the imperial corridors and stairways, the rustling of silk brocade following every step.

The world was bleak and desolate; a cold wind swept toward me, sending the gauze across my arm billowing in the air. The wind was so cold — my heart so cold — only the small person in my arms gave me the only warmth that remained.

This tiny infant huddled in my embrace — fragile as a kitten — did not yet know that this sorrowful and harsh life had already begun.

Slowly I stepped into the great hall, passing through all those gazes, and walked toward Xiao Qi. He stood before the nine-dragon jade screen, his wide sleeves and tall crown commanding without any display of anger — fused with the great hall as though belonging to it, so that for a moment I had the illusion I was mistaken, as though he were the true master of this place. I looked at him steadily, holding the child, and slowly bent down. With bowed head and a blank expression, I said: “The Empress has departed.”

For a moment, the hall fell into absolute silence.

“Let the Emperor look upon His Little Highness.” Father, who had been silent at the side, suddenly spoke in a low voice, his beard and hair trembling faintly; one look at him and he seemed to have aged considerably more.

Xiao Qi nodded in silence, his gaze turning toward the infant in my arms — and through his cold, stern features there seemed to pass a fleeting shadow of sorrow.

Silently I passed through the hanging curtains, and carrying the child, walked toward the enormous imperial bed. I knelt at its side. “Your Majesty, A’Wu has brought His Little Highness to see you.” From the bed, the young Emperor, his breath barely a thread of life, let out a faint sigh; from the side of the bed he stretched out a hand, and with great effort, beckoned. I drew close to the bedside and brought the infant in his swaddling cloth up to the pillow. I saw that the Emperor’s face was ashen white; the hollows of his eyes were darkened, his lips entirely drained of color. He seemed unable to speak; his eyes were fixed and steady on my face, looking at me for a long, long while — and then, all at once, he blinked, and a strange smile appeared on his face.

For an instant, time flowed backward. Dimly I saw once more that arrogant and unruly Crown Prince, who always loved to torment Zidan and me, and every time his mischief succeeded, he would blink at us with a triumphant, mischievous smile. My tears burst forth; I called to him in a trembling voice: “Elder Brother Zi Long.” He broke into a smile — still that same casual, lazy expression — and in the eyes whose pupils were slowly diffusing, a light flickered once more.

I drew the child closer, so he could see clearly. “Elder Brother Zi Long, look — His Little Highness resembles you. When he grows up, he will surely be a mischievous little emperor…”

I suddenly choked and could not go on — but he laughed out loud; in a faint voice he got out one line: “Poor little thing.”

“When the horse leaped… it was like flying… flying…” He spoke in broken phrases; though barely a breath remained, something strange lit up in his gaze. I was overjoyed in that moment, thinking he was getting better, and turned my head to call urgently for the imperial physician — but then I saw his body go rigid, his gaze fixed and staring straight up at the top of the canopy, a fevered flush rising on his face. “I flew up — I saw the palace gate — I almost… flew… out…” Abruptly, his voice cut off. Just like that, it stopped.

Once again, Qianyuan Hall was draped in white and black mourning curtains, announcing the passing of yet another Emperor.

Less than a year apart, the palace mourning bells rang again at length; two Emperors of successive reigns had passed away one after the other. Empress Xie followed her late husband, sacrificing herself in loyal devotion; she was posthumously honored as Empress Xiaolieming Zhen and interred alongside the imperial mausoleum.

In a single night, Emperor and Empress had both passed from the world. Their lives together had been one of quarreling and conflict — in life, they were a pair of resentful spouses — yet in death, together in that cold imperial mausoleum, they would have only each other for company, never to be parted again.

That same night, dark news arrived again from Yong’an Palace: the Empress Dowager, upon hearing the devastating news, had suffered a stroke and fallen unconscious.

When I arrived, my aunt could no longer speak. She could only lie on the bed in a blank stupor, her gaze clouded and vacant — no matter what I said to her, she would not respond. Since the palace coup, she had shut herself away and refused to see anyone. She hated me, and hated even more the betrayal of her own son. Every time the Emperor stepped into Yong’an Palace, she drove him away with cold, cutting words; as for me, I could not even set foot past the doors of Yong’an Palace, and could only watch her from a distance outside the hall. Over the course of those months, she had aged swiftly — white hair scattered at her temples, her spine stooped, utterly transformed into a bent and withered old woman. Now the Emperor had passed away — taking with him the last pillar of her support — which was no different from a fatal blow.

I called to her again and again; she only stared blankly into a boundless distance, her gaze empty, her mouth murmuring a few words over and over in an incomprehensible mix.

No one could make out what she was repeating. Only I understood.

She was saying: In the playing of lute and zither, all is still and at peace.

Since the founding of this dynasty, there had been no precedent of an Empress consigned to burial alongside the Emperor. Empress Xie’s sudden loyal sacrifice shook the court from top to bottom. In this moment of crisis, Xiao Qi and Father set aside their old grievances and once again became allies. Xiao Qi pressured the aging and mediocre Gu Yong and the other elder nobles and prominent ministers, and forced Empress Xie to die in loyal sacrifice. Father, with one hand, sealed off news of my aunt’s stroke — those outside knew only that the Empress Dowager had fallen ill from excessive grief. With the Empress dead, the infant imperial prince could only be placed in the Empress Dowager’s care. Once the infant ascended the throne, the Grand Empress Dowager presiding over the court from behind the curtain would mean that the Wang Family had once again taken control of the imperial household.

The loyalists of the old regime — headed by the senior clan officials and the Xie Family — had originally thought they could be the opportunistic bird waiting in ambush, taking advantage of the Wang Family’s fall from power and Xiao Qi’s not-yet-firmly-established footing to strike first and eliminate the Emperor. The throne would then naturally pass to either the infant prince or Zidan. They believed that with the Empress and Zidan as their two bargaining chips, they were unbeatable in the court — yet they did not know that a cold sword had long been suspended above their heads: even the Empress’s head was severed, without a moment’s hesitation.

The palace attendants who had failed to protect the late Emperor that day, along with the stablemen and grooms of the Imperial Livery Bureau, had all been thrown into prison and put to torture. Before long, someone confessed that the mastermind behind the assassination of the late Emperor was none other than the head of the senior clan officials and the most fervent champion of Zidan’s ascension — Marquis Jingcheng Xie Wei. Regicide — punishable to the ninth degree of kinship. A once-illustrious clan that had stood shoulder to shoulder with the Wang Family was thus erased from the annals of history.

In the wake of the Xie Family’s destruction, I could see more and more clearly that the former glory of the great aristocratic clans could no longer conceal the ruin that lay beneath. Some people remained forever mired in past splendor, unable to face the storms of the present. Perhaps this was the tragedy of the great gate-valve clans. The realm of today was not the realm of former days. Xiao Qi was different from Father — he was not a disciple of Confucius and Mencius; he believed in the law of the victor, not in loyalty and benevolence. It takes ten thousand bones for one general to rise to glory. Perhaps someday he would carve open a whole new realm with the sword in his hand, and rebuild an empire of iron and blood atop mountains of bodies.

Faced with the three foremost senior ministers of the court, the Empress Dowager in Yong’an Palace, and Xiao Qi’s heavy troops, the senior officials who had been wavering — eager to support Zidan’s accession — reversed their positions one after another, declaring that it was only right and proper for the infant prince to ascend the throne.

Emperor and Empress — two great mournings. The realm fell into grief.

The old white mourning gauze in the palace had not yet been replaced when new black curtains were hung up. On the day of the Emperor and Empress’s interment in the imperial mausoleum, I stood in the empty, echoing Qianyuan Hall — and could no longer weep. After witnessing parting after parting, loss after loss, my heart had at last grown hard enough. Elder Brother Zi Long and Wanru, whom I had played with since childhood — they were submerged at last in the depths of memory; the names that remained in my heart were only the late Emperor and Empress Xiaolieming Zhen.

The new Emperor’s enthronement ceremony was held one month later.

In the great hall, behind the magnificent golden dragon throne, a curtain was hung. Palace maids forcibly assisted the Grand Empress Dowager up to her seat behind the curtain to preside over the court. I held the little Emperor, and sat beside my aunt.

Xiao Qi, bearing the dignity of Regent Prince, stood upon the vermilion steps — ascending the hall with his sword still at his belt, bowing to no one, not even the sovereign. The assembled ministers performed the ceremony of three kneeling and nine prostrations; cries of ten thousand years resounded through the golden hall.

Perhaps in the heart of every person prostrating below those vermilion steps, the thought was the same — not knowing who they were truly worshipping: that tiny infant, or the Regent Prince who stood above all but one? Not knowing who was truly the master of this ninefold imperial palace.

My gaze passed through the shadowy, shifting curtain, reaching toward him — three steps away. His black court robes were emblazoned with brilliant gold nine-dragon embroidery; his crown was tall and imposing, his sword gleaming and resplendent. Looking down over those assembled ministers from above, on that sharp, distinctive profile — a faint smile of surveying all beneath him. As though without intent, he turned his head — and his gaze pierced through the pearl curtain to meet mine.

I knew how much blood his sword had stained itself with. I knew how many bones lay beneath his feet. Just as my own two hands were no longer clean. Since ancient times, it has been the victor who claims the throne — on this summit of power, someone always falls, someone always rises. At this moment, I stood at the height of the golden hall, looking down at all the people prostrating below. Wanru, who had been defeated, and Marquis Jingcheng, had already plummeted into the depths of the Yellow Springs — become offerings on the altar of the throne.

I could only sincerely be grateful that the one standing here as victor was Xiao Qi, and the woman standing at his side was me.

With all the dust finally settled, the cold winter of the capital at last came to an end.

In order to care for the little Emperor, I was obliged to remain in the palace often — spending entire nights at this child’s side. Perhaps it truly was the bond between a child and those who hold a mother’s place: after Wanru was gone, this pitiful child cried and fussed for several days without ceasing, and even the wet nurse could do nothing about it. Only in my arms would he quiet down at all. He began to cling to me — whether for feeding or sleeping, he needed me nearby, and often kept me from sleeping a full night through.

Xiao Qi now presided as Regent over all affairs of state, and was busier than ever. The factions at court were in flux and the situation was delicate; the power of the great aristocratic clans was constantly being eroded, while scholars and officials of humble birth received increasing promotion. Yet it was impossible to select talent from humble families overnight, and governing the country was not something military men could accomplish alone — the Wang Family and the remaining clans still needed to be relied upon. Trivial matters pressed in without end; we were each consumed by our own affairs and there was no opportunity to untangle the knot that still lay between our hearts. Whenever morning court was held, I always watched his figure quietly from behind the curtain; his gaze too would drift over to me without intention.

Early spring sunshine, warm on the cold branches of the green trees in the imperial garden — exceptionally pleasant on a fine day. It was a rare stretch of good weather, and I walked with the wet nurse, who was carrying Jing, through the garden.

By the rules of the imperial family, small children were to receive their formal name from the Emperor at the time of their full-month celebration. But Jing had had no chance to receive a name from his father. When the imperial historian asked the Grand Empress Dowager to indicate her wishes, my aunt was still murmuring that same phrase in a daze:

In the playing of lute and zither, all is still and at peace.

And so I decided to take the child’s name from those words — calling him Jing.

These days had finally allowed him to gradually grow accustomed to sleeping with the wet nurse, no longer clinging to me day and night. I was thinking that within the next two days I would return to the prince’s estate; remaining in the palace for long stretches was always unsettling.

The wet nurse was holding the child when she suddenly cried out in delighted surprise: “Oh — the Emperor is smiling!”

I looked — and indeed, the child had narrowed his bright dark eyes and cracked open a little smile, directed at me. A deep, warm tenderness surged up in my heart; looking at that pure and innocent smile, I found I could not take my eyes away.

“He smiles so beautifully,” I said happily, and reached over to take the child in my arms. When I raised my head, I saw that the wet nurse and all the maids had knelt down behind me, bowing their heads in obeisance — and Xiao Qi was standing composed beneath the covered walkway of the warm side hall, a faint smile on his face, with not a single attendant beside him. I could not know how long he had been standing there, or how long he had been watching. I had not noticed him at all. I stared at him, adrift in the warmth of his gaze, and for a moment forgot words altogether. He walked slowly toward me, his expression gentle and mild — rare for him, without the habitual cool austerity. The wet nurse stepped forward and took the child, and led all the palace attendants in a quiet, discreet withdrawal.

“It has been a long time since I saw you this happy.” He looked at me steadily and spoke in a gentle voice, with a trace of wistfulness.

I lowered my head and smiled with studied nonchalance: “It is only that His Highness has not paid me much attention for a long time.”

“Is that so?” He watched me with a half-smile. “Those words of the Princess Consort carry something of the flavor of a lady’s complaint.”

I flushed at once; it had been so long since we had exchanged banter, I did not know how to respond.

“Come, walk with me.” He smiled with gentle ease, and took my hand — without giving me any say in the matter, he drew me off toward the depths of the imperial garden.

The forest path was secluded; the garden halls were quiet and empty. Occasionally a bird darted past the bare branches overhead, its light twittering echoing through the trees. Fallen dry leaves rustled softly underfoot as we walked. We walked side by side, hand in hand, each of us silent, neither of us breaking the stillness.

He held my hand, our fingers entwined — his palm extraordinarily warm. A thousand thoughts revolved in my heart; countless moments of walking hand in hand together passed before my eyes, and all those things I had longed to say felt, in this moment, entirely unnecessary.

“Did you sleep well last night? Did the child keep you awake?” He said it lightly, in the easy way of ordinary daily conversation. I smiled: “Jing is well-behaved now — not as clinging. Over these past days he has slowly gotten used to sleeping with the wet nurse.”

“Then why do you look so tired?” His fingers tightened around mine, drawing me closer to his side.

I lowered my gaze and was quiet for a moment, then finally gathered the courage to say what had been on my tongue: “Because someone keeps me awake through the night.”

He stopped walking. His gaze settled on me, bright and intent.

“Whenever I think of this person, I am full of worry and cannot decide what to do.” I furrowed my brow and sighed.

His gaze was tender, so warm it seemed it could melt a person. “And why is that?”

I bit my lip: “I once wronged him greatly… I owe him very much. I do not know if he still bears a grudge against me.”

Xiao Qi suddenly broke into a laugh — his brow and eyes full of it. “Foolish girl — who could bear to hold a grudge against you!”

In that moment, it felt as though the last of the sharp early spring chill had melted entirely into warmth. I tipped my head back and laughed looking at him, and seeing him looking so pleased with himself, a sudden impulse of playfulness rose in me. I composed my expression and said with mock gravity: “So Father truly will not hold a grudge against me?”

Xiao Qi’s smile froze on his face. The expression that crossed his face in that instant made me unable to hold back any longer, and I burst out laughing… My waist was suddenly seized; I was yanked hard against him. He was flushed with embarrassed rage, and in his deep eyes a glimmer of intimidating fury flickered. I bit my lip and laughed softly, and tilted my face up — challenging him with a look. He bent down close to me, his lips nearly brushing mine, yet at the last moment they swept lightly across my cheek, and the warmth of his breath coiled delicately against my ear. I went weak all over, and had not a shred of will to resist. I slowly closed my eyes, turning toward his lips… Yet long moments passed, and nothing happened. I opened my eyes in surprise — and saw him looking at me with a half-smile: “What are you waiting for?” My face turned crimson. I pushed him in indignation — but he only drew me in more tightly. Then his lips fell on my ear, my neck, my brow…

I closed my eyes and lay against his chest, and finally said what had been circling in my heart for a very long time: “If I truly cannot bear children — will you take other wives and concubines?”

His arms contracted sharply; he held me closer still. “The promise I made to you in Ningshuo — if you have forgotten it, I will say it again!”

“I have never forgotten it.” I lifted my eyes and looked at him steadily; my voice was trembling without my knowing it. “But if I truly, from now on…”

“No — that will not happen!” His voice was sharp and unyielding; his gaze was fierce, allowing not the smallest doubt. “The world is vast — I believe there is always a remedy for you! Central Plains, the northern steppes, the southern borderlands… Through a thousand mountains and ten thousand rivers, I will seek out every miraculous remedy this world has to offer and bring it to you.”

“And if it is never found?” I looked at him through my tears. “If until we are old, until we die, it is never found… would you regret it?”

“If it comes to that — then it is my fate.” His gaze was resolute and unwavering, and he sighed with deep feeling: “I have killed beyond counting in my lifetime; to live out my days alone would be no more than what I deserve. Yet Heaven saw fit to give me you… What fortune has Xiao had in this life, even if Heaven takes back everything else — at least we still have each other. In years to come, when I am old and befuddled, at least I will have you to grow old beside. A life like this — I ask for nothing more.”

A life like this — he asked for nothing more. And I asked for nothing more.

I gazed with deep devotion at his brow, his eyes, his temples… all of it the object of this lifetime’s devotion. The warmth in my heart grew gradually stronger and fiercer, becoming a brilliant flame that burned away all our mutual suspicion and sorrow.

Tears fell — sliding down my face without stopping. I smiled slowly: “You once said you would walk with me through this life, and from then on you were not permitted to go back on your word — even if I were shrewish and jealous, afflicted with grave illness, barren of children — three of the seven grounds for repudiation — you are still not permitted to go back on your word.”

He was deeply moved; he looked at me in silence, then suddenly gripped my hand. A flash of cold light — before I could make out his movement, the sword was already back in its sheath. My hand stung slightly; I looked down — only a very small wound, with a single drop of crimson blood seeping out. His palm too had a wound from which blood welled, and he took my hand in his, pressing our palms together, our fingers interlaced. The two streams of blood mingled together.

Xiao Qi looked at me gravely, and spoke slowly: “Every child I sire must be born of Wang Xuan. Even should there never be an heir, this life entire, I will take no other wife. With blood as oath, witnessed by Heaven and Earth.”