After the morning court session, Xiao Qi met with the civil and military officials until deep into the night, and it was the still of late night when he returned to the residence.

I stood on the jade steps before the great gate of the Prince’s Residence, holding a palace lantern, watching silently as those two columns of lamplight wound toward me from the distance.

Xiao Qi reined in his horse and halted ten paces from where I stood. I looked at him, smiled slightly, and raised the palace lantern with my own hand to light the way home for him.

He swung down from his horse and strode to stand before me, pulling me tightly into his embrace. The attendants and guards withdrew to a distance, and all around fell quiet as the night wind passed over us.

Tears slid down my face at that moment. The silvery, finely wrought palace lantern slipped from my hand and fell, rolling down the jade steps, extinguishing without a sound.

The wind was cold, the dew heavy, the night deep.

Only we two held each other, our shadows intertwined and mingled, stretching long upon the ground.

Facing each other in silence — yet silence surpassed all speech.

He tightened his grip on my shoulders without a word. The warmth of his palm was like a flame, searing through until my skin burned.

In his eyes, red threads were woven through with exhaustion, sharp and dark together.

I raised my hand to smooth over his brow, his eyes, his cheeks, and let my fingertips rest upon his lips.

Those thin lips, sharp-cut as a blade, pressed together with a trace of difficulty.

In that moment, I only longed to see those lips break once more into the smile of ordinary days — that proud, cold, composed smile that was his alone.

He gazed at me for a long while, then let out a long sigh and closed his eyes. “In the end I have failed you — failed all the world.”

Though I had long known he would blame himself, hearing those words still pierced my chest like a needle.

Tang Jing’s uprising had invited foreign invaders and brought calamity to the people. Xiao Qi had misjudged a man and been too slow to guard against it — he bore responsibility that could not be denied.

Yet he was, after all, not a god. Even with brothers who had shared life and death for more than ten years, who had walked together out of mountains of blades and seas of blood, even those could not resist the temptation of ambition.

Such is human nature — even a god might not see through it completely, let alone Xiao Qi, who was only an ordinary man.

Yet without need of reason — wrong was wrong, and failure was failure.

Xiao Qi might not be a gentleman in the classical sense, but he was also no coward who would cover his mistakes and shrink from accountability.

To personally lead the campaign — this was his accountability to the world.

Song Huai’an, Hu Guanglie, Tang Jing — these three had once been the men he trusted and depended upon above all others. Bound in shared hardship of the past, in life-and-death fellowship, and now with Hu and Song serving at his left and right and Tang Jing holding the northern frontier, they had formed an unbreakable tripartite stronghold. Looking across the present realm, not one person could match them in power — yet who could have foreseen that in a single night, lord and subject would turn against each other, and brothers would draw blades.

Tang Jing was narrow and envious, arrogant and domineering, and had long harbored a bitter grudge against Hu and Song, with disputes between them never ceasing. These disputes had been suppressed repeatedly by Xiao Qi, who had warned Tang Jing time and again — tolerance itself could not have been more generous.

Yet the man had not tempered his conduct by even a fraction, drawing ever-increasing criticism within the army and prompting a steady stream of memorials calling for his censure.

When it came to the decision to strip away his military authority and rotate the frontier officials, Xiao Qi had weighed the matter long before reaching that painful decision.

Perhaps Tang Jing’s rebellion had surprised everyone else — but it may not have been truly unexpected to Xiao Qi.

It was not that he had failed to foresee it, nor that he had failed to guard against it. He had simply trusted, with too much confidence, in the bond forged in battle — trusted in the loyalty of old brothers from those days past.

Tang Jing’s rebellion had clearly been planned long in advance.

After the death of the old Turkic king, the royal clan had fallen into endless succession disputes, ultimately fracturing into two. The Southern Turks held the old capital and enjoyed the rich southern grasslands, gradually opening trade and cultural exchange with the Central Plains. The Northern Turks had retreated to the harsh northern steppes, still living by herding, sharpening their troops and resting their horses, subjugating the twelve northern tribes and building a new royal city. Yet the Southern and Northern Turks, bearing old grievances against each other, remained in opposition with no contact whatsoever. Even when the army of the Central Plains had swept in to help King Hulu seize the throne, the Northern Turks had only watched from the sidelines, not committing a single soldier. Only after King Hulu inherited the throne did the Northern Turks tacitly recognize the Southern Turks’ royal authority.

The mystery behind all of this could not be known. But there was one man who must have been the key.

Helan Zhen — with what means had he, bearing the lowly status of a royal bastard, navigated and maneuvered between these forces, ultimately winning the acquiescence and support of the Northern Turks? And by what means had he won the trust of that dark and scheming man Tang Jing? What kind of pact had the two of them reached, united against Xiao Qi?

He had endured in hiding for so long — perhaps he had been waiting for precisely this day, when a chance to take revenge upon Xiao Qi would finally come.

Early the next morning, I met my adopted daughter, and the young general who had come through blood and battle across a thousand miles.

When I had waited for Xiao Qi at the gate the previous night, I seemed to have caught a chill in the wind, and had begun coughing again through the night. Xiao Qi wanted me to rest quietly in bed, but today was the day the girl would come to the residence — no matter what, I had to go and greet her myself.

Entering the main hall, I saw a young man in a plain blue robe and a slight, thin girl already seated inside. Seeing me enter, the young man immediately rose and knelt in salute. “Your subject Xie Xiaohe pays respects to the Princess Consort.”

Blue-robed and dark-haired, with a refined and elegant bearing — Xie Xiaohe, and this was what such a clear and bright-faced young man looked like.

I smiled. “General Xie, please rise — there is no need for formality.”

I turned to look at the girl. She had a sharp, delicate chin and fine, attractive features. Her pale yellow palace dress could not conceal the pallor of her face, which drew pity at first sight. At this moment she stood there with her head lowered, not performing any greeting, only silent.

“Qin’er!” Xie Xiaohe turned his head and reprimanded her in a lowered voice — but there was no harshness in it, only tender concern.

She gave a faint start, then stepped forward with her head still bowed. She seemed extremely reluctant, and yet could not go against what Xie Xiaohe had said.

I rose and stopped her just as she was about to kneel, smiling gently. “Your name is Qin’er?”

“My name is — Mou Qinzhi.” She paused a moment before speaking her name, laying particular emphasis on the character Mou.

Mou Qinzhi, not Xiao Qinzhi — I completed the second half of what she had left unspoken in my own heart, and in an instant understood her meaning. This child of seven years — difficult as it must have been — kept her own surname fixed firmly in her heart and refused to change it.

Xie Xiaohe spoke up anxiously, “I beg the Princess Consort’s pardon — Qin’er is still young and ignorant of proper conduct…”

“General Xie worries too much.” I cut off his hurried explanation with a smile and was just about to speak when my chest suddenly heaved, and a fit of coughing overtook me. I covered my mouth, and for a moment could not say a word.

A’Yue quickly stepped forward to offer the medicinal broth.

I reached out to take the medicine cup, and then heard Qinzhi speak up, timidly and softly, “You shouldn’t drink water when you’re coughing.”

Both Xie Xiaohe and I were momentarily startled. We saw her lift her head, her eyes bright and clear, a trace of sadness in their depths. “My mother said that drinking water when you’re coughing will make you choke.”

“Foolish child…” Xie Xiaohe was caught between laughter and tears. I, too, smiled, though my heart ached with a sharp, quiet pain.

“Very well — then I won’t drink.” I set down the medicine cup and looked at her with a warm smile. “Your name is Mou Qinzhi — that is a very lovely name.”

She looked at me with bright, clear eyes.

“My name is Wang Xuan.” I rose and extended my hand toward her. “Shall we walk around and look — see which room you like?”

She hesitated for a moment, and then at last shyly placed her small hand in mine.

— From this day forward, I had one more daughter.

Holding this child’s hand, my heart was suddenly filled with a quietness and a softness.

To love one’s own young, and thereby extend that love to the young of others — it was only at this moment that I understood the true meaning of these words.

Within my body was the child of Xiao Qi and myself. And at my side was this child who had lost her parents and everything in the war — she, too, would be a treasure I would cherish dearly. I would love her, protect her, and give her back all the love and warmth that had been taken from her.

And not only her — there were so many suffering children. None of them should be made the sacrificial victims of war.

Leading Qinzhi along through the covered walkways, my thoughts grew ever clearer and my heart opened with sudden understanding —

In a war that belongs to men, women need not only stay at home and wait for their husbands to return.

There was still much I needed to do.

The moonlight was cold and pale, piercing through the lattice windows and flooding the carved railings before the hall.

Xiao Qi stood before the desk, facing the lacquered black sword case. The cold, clear moonlight surrounded his still figure. Though he stood without moving, a stern and chilling air emanated from him.

The sword case opened slowly. A long sword — its scabbard bound with sharkskin and swallowed in silver — mottled black throughout, was gripped once more in his hand.

The moment the sword entered his hand, it was as if man and sword became one.

A killing spirit spread through the air. In a daze, it seemed as if we were back beneath the vast desert sky, in the endless yellow sands of the frontier beyond the passes.

— This was his personal sword, which had accompanied him from horseback across mountain and pass, sweeping through a thousand armies, drinking the blood of the Turks, never leaving his side for ten years — until the day he marched on the capital, forced his way into the palace, and presided over the court. After that, he wore the dignity of Regent Prince, his rank and ceremonial robes upon him, and his sword was changed to the dragon-and-seven-star long sword befitting a Prince of the First Rank.

This blade that had drunk blood was sealed away, together with his former gleaming armor.

On the day the sword was sealed, I was at his side and saw with my own eyes as he closed the sword case.

I had said then with a smile, “May this sword never see the light of day again — may all under Heaven finally know peace.”

Those words still echoed — and now the beacon fires burned once more. This blade that had drunk blood for half a lifetime had inevitably returned to the world.

In the moonlight, Xiao Qi raised the sword horizontally. Three feet of cold steel rang out from the scabbard, bright and murderous.

I squeezed my eyes shut, feeling the cold reach even to my lashes. For a moment I could not bear to look.

In the end, it was still killing — killing, and killing again.

Beneath the iron hooves of Prince Yuzhang’s formidable forces, there would be no more mercy or forgiveness. What they would bring was only slaughter and punishment, deterrence and annihilation.

I exhaled, and he turned and looked at me. His gaze was cold as a forest, heavy as a thousand weights.

I walked toward him, my steps faltering and yet heavy as lead.

He frowned and returned the sword to its scabbard. “Don’t come closer — weapons of war are inauspicious to you!”

I gave a forlorn smile and reached out to clasp that mottled black scabbard, slowly running my hand along it. Every scar, every mark was a record of life and death — how much blood and fire, how much living and dying, how much sorrow and bravery had been engraved upon this blade?

“A’Wu!” He pulled the sword away and set it heavily on the desk. “This sword carries too much killing spirit — it is inauspicious for you, it will harm your body.”

I smiled a little. “No matter how heavy the killing spirit, it cannot be heavier than you — and I have never once feared you.”

He said nothing, gazing at me in silence.

I looked up and smiled as I always did.

Since Tang Jing’s rebellion, the Turkic breach of the passes, my brother’s capture by the enemy — these cascading calamities had turned the very sky and earth. Yet my response had been stronger than he had expected. I had not fallen ill, had not given way to panic. Before him I had always met everything with calm. When all the world was watching him, I alone stood at his back — the only source of comfort he had, and the last place of quiet he could come home to.

Moonlight fell like water, casting both our shadows on the ground, soaking them in liquid silver, swaying faintly. Perhaps because the moonlight was so bright, what lay before my eyes gradually blurred and dissolved, and a deep, sharp ache welled up.

Tomorrow, we would part.

After this night, I did not know how many long and endless nights would pass before we could be together again.

This road led across ten thousand miles of mountains and passes. The long wind could not carry voices across the distance — only this single wheel of moonlight was shared between us, carrying the weight of longing, shining beside him wherever he went.

He raised his hand and gently touched my cheek. His palm was warm and damp — it was my own tears.

When had I begun to weep, my face already streaked with tears?

“Do you blame me, A’Wu?” He spoke in a husky voice, a faint tremor in it.

— Do I blame him?

To say I do not would be a lie.

Here, in the most difficult of times, he was going far away to the battlefield, leaving me alone to face every hardship — loneliness, fear, unpredictability, even the ordeal of giving birth.

The pain was real. The resentment was real.

I was only a woman — a woman who feared parting and feared loneliness.

Yet I was also the wife of Xiao Qi, Princess Consort of Prince Yuzhang.

This pain was no longer mine alone. This resentment was no longer mine alone to carry.

Ten thousand lives had faced loss of home and the agony of separation in the fires of war. Against all of that, how could I dare to feel resentment? How could I dare to feel pain?

I raised my hand and laid it over the back of his, and smiled faintly. “Every day earlier you return, one part of my resentment lessens. If you lose even a single hair, one part of my resentment grows. I will keep on resenting you — until the day you come home safely and never again leave — not once more, not for the rest of our lives.”

Before I had finished speaking, I was already choking.

He said nothing, only lifted his head and kept it raised for a long, long time — before at last lowering it to look at me. In the depths of his eyes there was still a glimmer of moisture.

I reached up, trembling, to touch his face, and was suddenly pulled into his fierce embrace.

He held me so tightly, so tightly — as if afraid that the moment he let go, he would lose me.

“I will return before the baby can speak — before that first time he calls out ‘Father’! A’Wu — you must wait for me. No matter how hard it becomes, you must wait for me…” His voice broke. His throat worked, and he could say nothing more. His reddened eyes looked at me with a depth as if he wished to see me all the way into his heart. His body trembled faintly, betraying every ounce of his pain and helplessness.

In this moment, he was no longer the all-powerful Prince Yuzhang — only an ordinary man of flesh and tears, a helpless husband and a guilt-ridden father. I could clearly feel the heartache he suppressed beneath his cold exterior, could feel his fear… He feared that after this parting, they might never meet again. He feared I might not survive the trials of childbirth. He feared I would not live to see his return. Yet caught between the demands of home and country, there was always one side he must sacrifice — no matter how much it hurt, he had to let go.

I buried my face deep against his chest and nodded with all my strength, tears pouring freely. “I will! I will wait faithfully for your return — and on that day, I and our baby will be there in the Emperor’s hall to welcome your triumphant homecoming!”

In the fifth month of Yuanxi, Prince Yuzhang set out north to suppress the rebellion.

The advance force was led by Marquis Guanwei Hu Guanglie as vanguard commander. He led one hundred thousand elite troops racing through the night to reinforce the northern frontier.

Additionally, Deputy Generals Xu Geng and Xie Xiaohe were dispatched to lead one hundred thousand light cavalry, advancing step by step toward Xuluo to garrison along the way.

Xiao Qi personally commanded three hundred thousand royal troops northward, with six armies assembling at Liangzhou.

Right Chancellor Song Huai’an remained in the capital to oversee governance and superintend grain and military provisions.

When news spread that Prince Yuzhang had personally marched to war, the army’s morale surged and the entire realm was heartened and inspired.

Not only was the fighting fierce along the northern frontier — in the capital, in the court, in the palace, and even within the military encampments, hidden currents ran everywhere, the winds turbulent and treacherous. Xiao Qi had left Song Huai’an holding position in the capital, managing government affairs and superintending the grain and provisions for the troops. In the open, Song Huai’an controlled the capital’s security and supply lines; in secret, I managed the palace and the aristocratic clans. The two worked openly and covertly in concert, with all threads ultimately converging back to Xiao Qi’s hands.

When the border crisis broke out, Hu Guanglie was the first to petition for the right to go to battle and claim merit. He and Tang Jing had always been at odds, and this time he was all the more afraid of Song Huai’an seizing the credit. Tang Jing’s rebellion had already greatly heightened Xiao Qi’s vigilance and suspicion, and Hu Guanglie’s actions at this moment only added fuel to the fire.

Since entering the capital, a group of rough-hewn generals led by Hu Guanglie had grown arrogant on the strength of their achievements, frequently causing outrageous scenes. Hu Guanglie, in particular, harbored intense animosity toward the high-born aristocratic families, constantly picking quarrels and causing trouble. He was greatly displeased with Xiao Qi’s measures to win over the aristocratic clans, and had on multiple occasions complained privately that Xiao Qi, having risen to power, had forgotten his roots — favoring his wife’s clan while disdaining his old brothers from their former days.

Previously Xiao Qi had still heeded the old bonds of loyalty and restrained himself repeatedly. But since the Tang Jing incident, there was no longer any indulgence.