In the end, my mother’s coffin did not return to the palace, nor to the Defender of the Nation Duke’s estate. She had once said she had no face to enter the imperial mausoleum again, and she had no wish to be buried alongside the Wang family — neither her own clan nor her late husband’s family was her final resting place. Only this Ci’an Temple, far removed from the world’s dust, had been the home of her remaining years and would be the place to which her spirit ultimately returned. Since my mother had taken refuge in the Buddhist life, she would no longer cling to the glories of the mortal world, and an overly grand and clamorous funeral was not what she would have wished.

On the day the news of her death arrived, the noblewomen, dressed in plain white, came to Ci’an Temple to perform the rites of condolence; the following day, the officials entered the temple to offer their respects. The eminent monks of the capital led the temple’s nuns in conducting a religious ceremony for seven days and seven nights without pause, chanting sutras to lead my mother’s spirit to peace.

On the final night, I dressed in plain white mourning garments and knelt for a long while before her spirit tablet.

Xiao Qi had also stayed at the temple to accompany me in seeing my mother off on her final journey. Deep into the night, when the air had grown cold, he forcibly helped me to my feet. “The night is cold. Don’t keep kneeling like this — if your health suffers, you must know to take care of yourself.” My heart was bleak, and I only shook my head. He sighed and said, “She is gone. Taking care of yourself is what will set her spirit at ease.” Aunt Xu also wept as she urged me, and with no strength to resist, I let Xiao Qi guide me to a chair and stared in silent grief at my mother’s coffin, unable to speak.

A young nun dressed in pale blue slipped quietly to Aunt Xu’s side and murmured something to her in a low voice. Aunt Xu let out a long, heavy sigh, bowed her head and pondered in silence, her expression hesitant and sorrowful. I asked weakly, “What is it?”

Aunt Xu hesitated a moment, then said softly, “Miao Jing has been kneeling in the outer hall for half the night, begging to be allowed to bid the Princess a final farewell.”

“Who is Miao Jing?” I was momentarily confused.

“She is…” Aunt Xu paused. “She is the Jin’er who used to be in the household.”

I looked up, but she lowered her gaze and did not dare meet my eyes. Aunt Xu knew Jin’er’s identity, yet had only said “an old servant from the household” — out of attachment to the past and a desire to protect her, clearly interceding for Jin’er’s sake.

Palace women convicted of crimes and sent to Ci’an Temple lived in the humble quarters below the mountain and were not permitted to come and go freely; it was no easy matter for them to reach the temple gate, and they were absolutely not permitted to enter the inner courtyard where my mother resided. That Jin’er had been able to enter the temple and pass along a message showed how much consideration Aunt Xu had shown her in the ordinary course. I had no wish to see her at this moment, yet did not want to disappoint Aunt Xu’s feelings before my mother’s spirit. I could only sigh wearily and nod. “Let her come in.”

That thin, gaunt figure in a dark-colored habit and plain cap entered slowly. In so short a time, she had wasted away to skin and bone.

“Jin’er pays her respects to the Prince.” She knelt before Xiao Qi, not kneeling before me, and called herself by her former name — a jarring impropriety that her faint, threadlike voice made all the more unsettling.

Xiao Qi frowned at her, his face expressionless. Aunt Xu’s complexion also changed, and she coughed heavily. “Miao Jing! The Princess Consort, out of remembrance for the bond between mistress and servant, has permitted you to come and pay your respects. Will you not give thanks?”

Jin’er raised her eyes slowly. Her cold, piercing gaze bore down on me. “Give thanks? What cause do I have to give her thanks?”

“Miao Jing!” Aunt Xu was aghast with anger, her face ashen.

I had no wish to cause a scene before my mother’s spirit tablet. I pressed my hand wearily against my forehead, unable to look at her any longer. “This is not the occasion for you to make a disturbance. Leave.”

Jin’er laughed coldly again and again. “Not the occasion? When would the Princess Consort consider it the occasion? Must you wait until I have died and returned as a vengeful spirit—”

“Insolent!” Xiao Qi’s low voice rang out in a single rebuke — quiet, yet enough to make everyone’s heart jolt. Jin’er also stopped short, and shrank slightly, not daring to look directly at Xiao Qi’s furious expression.

“How dare anyone create a commotion in a hall of mourning — drag this madwoman out and give her twenty strokes of the rod.” Xiao Qi spoke coldly, without any change of expression, and quietly took my hand in his.

Guards from outside the hall responded and entered. Jin’er appeared to be frightened into a daze, staring fixedly at me, and numbly allowed herself to be dragged away without resistance.

At the doorway, she suddenly threw her body into a violent struggle, seizing the threshold with both hands, and shrieked, “The Princess Consort has engaged in a sordid affair with the Royal Uncle — this concubine holds incontrovertible proof. I beg the Prince to make a thorough investigation!”

The blood seemed to rush to the very top of my head, while a chill spread across my back.

Those words shattered the solemnity of the mourning hall, a sharp needle driven into every ear. Everyone froze in place. Silence fell on all sides, profound as death, broken only by the endless curling of pale smoke before the spirit tablet. I looked through the smoke — the expression on every face around me was perfectly clear: some were stunned, some alarmed, some… with an air of understanding. Only one face I did not dare turn to look at — the one beside me.

Jin’er was held down by the guards, her head stubbornly raised, staring fixedly at me, a gleam of bitter satisfaction curling at the corner of her mouth.

She was waiting for me to speak. And I was waiting for the one beside me to speak. In this moment, anything I said was superfluous; he needed only a single word, a single thought — even a single glance — to plunge me into an abyss ten thousand fathoms deep and shatter the trust that had been built through life and death into powder. I kept my gaze on Jin’er and met her venomous stare steadily, my heart devoid of sorrow or anger, as though I could no longer feel my own heartbeat.

This moment was harder than any moment that had come before, longer than ten thousand years. Xiao Qi at last spoke, his voice cold, without the slightest change of expression: “Defaming the imperial family, creating disorder in a hall of mourning — drag her out and beat her to death.”

I closed my eyes. My whole being felt as if it had stepped back from the edge of a cliff. The guards on either side immediately dragged Jin’er away, as though dragging away a heap of frayed and lifeless rags.

“I have evidence! My Lord, my Lord—” Jin’er had no strength left to struggle; she was hauled toward the door on her back, still shrieking in frenzied desperation.

“Hold!” I rose to my feet, drew myself up straight, and stopped the guards. Before my mother’s spirit tablet, before the ears of so many present — if I allowed her to plant seeds of suspicion that would later give rise to a flood of gossip, how would I face Xiao Qi in the future, and how would Xiao Qi’s dignity be preserved? I could tolerate her provocations time and again, but I could not allow her to strike at what I held most precious.

“Since you have evidence, you may as well present it for me to examine — and reveal the true nature of this so-called sordid affair.” I spoke lightly, looking down into her eyes.

Her arms were pinned by the guards. She said bitterly, “Before the Royal Uncle departed for the front, he entrusted to me a letter to be delivered to the Princess Consort of Yuzhang. The letter is still on my person. Its private contents are such that the Prince need only read it to know the truth.”

My heart gave a sudden lurch. I clenched my fist in secret, yet already had no retreat and no moment for hesitation. “Very well. Present it.”

Aunt Xu bowed in assent and went herself to grab hold of Jin’er’s jaw, preventing her from crying out, while reaching with practiced skill into her garments. Jin’er went rigid, her face turned scarlet, tears rolling down from the pain, and she let out a muffled sound in her throat, but could not break free.

I watched her coldly, without a trace of pity left in my heart. Aunt Xu was a woman of exceptional capability. Having been trained from youth by the Office of Discipline of the inner palace and having managed the household staff for many years, what looked like a light, effortless pinch was enough to make Jin’er suffer unbearably. She had gone out of the goodness of her heart to look after Jin’er and had even relayed her words and pleaded for her — only to have this catastrophe brought down upon her in return. Shamed and furious, how could she not use a heavy hand?

Aunt Xu did indeed find a letter tucked in Jin’er’s inner garment, and brought it to me.

The writing on the envelope was unmistakably Zidan’s hand. The events of the past flashed before me like lightning and flint, and in an instant my palms were drenched in cold sweat.

I did not need to open it to guess what Zidan had wished to say… Setting out for the south, knowing that he would have to cut down his own kin, he had long since made up his mind to die. The letter written in his despair had been entrusted by error to Jin’er, concealed until this day, and now became the very evidence Jin’er was using to falsely accuse him of a liaison with me. An inexpressible anguish gripped my heart, yet I dared not let a trace of it show. That thin letter, held in my hand, was no different from holding Zidan’s life.

I turned back, met Xiao Qi’s gaze in composed steadiness, and presented the letter to him with both hands. “As this concerns the honor of the imperial family, and as we are before my late mother’s spirit tablet, I ask the Prince to open and verify this letter and restore this concubine’s good name.”

Our eyes met, sharp as blades, swift as lightning, piercing through one another in that instant.

Words were superfluous at this moment. If there were true trust, why would explanation be needed? If the heart were clear and unburdened, why shrink from scrutiny? To be without guilt is to be without fear — only I was truly exhausted, and tired of the endless anxious dread. Whether he chose to believe me or doubt me, I still had my own dignity, and would never allow myself to be looked down upon by anyone. Before my eyes a mist was rising; a point of grief and sorrow slowly spread within my heart. Xiao Qi’s face grew gradually indistinct through my tears. I heard him speak at last, slowly, his tone unreadable: “A matter without basis — this Prince has no interest in reading it.”

He received the letter, raised it to the candle flame, and a flare of fire leapt up, consuming the words written there, scattering inch by inch into gray ash.

I had no wish for further killing before my mother’s spirit tablet, and only ordered Jin’er to be escorted back to the Office of Discipline in the palace and imprisoned there.

After my mother’s burial rites were completed, per Buddhist funeral custom she was cremated and enshrined in the spirit pagoda. Before all the mourning rites were concluded, I was unwilling to leave Ci’an Temple, insisting on personally seeing to everything connected with the arrangements for my mother. Xiao Qi’s affairs of governance kept him from remaining long at the temple to accompany me, and he had to return first. After that turbulent episode, it was as though a great disaster had dissolved into nothing — both he and I absolutely ceased to speak of it. Yet when he took his leave, he had gazed at me for a long while in silence, and in the depths of his eyes there was at last a profound helplessness and heaviness — a man of such pride as he, who would never bring himself to speak aloud the bitterness in his heart, who always bore everything silently. Only occasionally, that flicker of helplessness that showed in his eyes was enough to cause me pain to the very core. Zidan’s letter had nonetheless cast a shadow within his heart — for even the most magnanimous of men cannot ultimately bear that his wife should harbor even a half-shadow of another man within her heart. I did not know how such a knot could ever be undone; it was entangled with so many old grievances and wrongs that no words could resolve them. If I were to pretend blindness and continue to draw upon his tolerance, I could not bring myself to do that either. Perhaps a temporary separation, allowing us both to grow still and calm, would in the end be better. Aunt Xu consoled me, saying that longing was the finest remedy for healing rifts between hearts.

Several days later, another victory dispatch arrived from the north: aided by our hundred thousand troops, Prince Hulü had launched a surprise attack and captured the Turkic royal city in a single stroke, then immediately cut off the supply routes carrying grain from the royal city to the border. This blow from behind struck like a dagger thrust into the back of the Turkic Khan, who was fighting at the front — a wound nearly fatal in nature. At that time, the Turkic Khan, bent on revenge for the capture of Prince Hulan, had been launching a frenzied assault day after day, driving our frontier soldiers into a fury. Xiao Qi had given the armies strict orders to defend the cities only and not to engage. The moment Prince Hulü struck his decisive blow, the city gates were to be flung open and the troops sent out to battle. The morale that the three armies had built up over so long erupted at once, like tigers released from their cages; they swept into the assault with an unstoppable force.

The Turkic Khan, having suffered one severe blow after another, suddenly found himself besieged from front and rear, his casualties grievous. He finally abandoned the wounded and the sick, and with only his strongest and most able-bodied troops risked crossing the great desert, retreating northward in defeat.

The entire court and the realm beyond were greatly stirred. Those officials who had still harbored reservations about Xiao Qi’s dispatching of a hundred thousand troops northward were at last fully convinced and yielded their doubts willingly, all of them praising the Prince Regent’s brilliant decisiveness.

Though I remained in the temple, internal attendants came and went every day to report on major palace affairs. A’Yue also told me that the Prince was occupied with court affairs and governance each day, burning his candles until deep into the night.

That evening, I was sitting facing Aunt Xu beneath the window, going through the thick sheaves of sutra texts my mother had copied out by hand, when abruptly the whole world shifted — a summer downpour arrived without warning, though moments before the evening sun had shone fair and clear. The sky went dark as if blinds had been drawn; rain fell in sheets. Across the sky, dense clouds dark as ink closed over half the heavens; wild wind swept through the courtyard, setting the leaves swirling, and the heavy drops beat upon the blue tiles and wooden eaves with sharp, crackling sounds.

I watched the sky transform, and felt a nameless tremor in my heart. The sutra scroll I held dropped from my hands. Aunt Xu hurried to pull down the hanging curtain. “The rain has come so suddenly — the Princess Consort should go inside quickly, and take care not to catch a chill.”

I could not say where this unease had come from. I only gazed in silence toward the distant southern horizon, a vague anxiety in my heart. Returning to my room, I closed the door and lit the lamp — yet even in weather like this, two medical attendants from the Imperial Medical Bureau had come through the rain, not daring to neglect by a single day their routine visit for my daily health consultation and pulse-taking. Both had met with this sudden rain before reaching the temple gate and had truly been drenched to a pitiful state. Feeling apologetic, I quickly had A’Yue bring them hot tea.

I had always been delicate in constitution, and since my mother’s death I had grown somewhat thinner still. Worried that my grief had been too great and would damage my health, Xiao Qi had arranged for someone from the Imperial Medical Bureau to check on me every day.

“Old Physician Chen usually comes — why do I not see him today?” I asked casually, thinking only that Imperial Physician Chen had taken the day off.

“Physician Chen was just now summoned to the Prince’s residence, so this official has come in his stead.”

My heart tightened. “What matter summons the Prince?”

“It is said the Prince has caught a slight chill.” Physician Zhang glanced at my expression and quickly added with a bow, “The Prince is by nature of robust constitution — a slight chill is nothing to be concerned about. The Princess Consort need not worry.”

The rain eased slightly; the two physicians took their leave. A’Yue brought me a cup of ginseng tea, which I picked up and then set down without drinking a drop. I walked to the window and stared out at the curtain of rain, then turned back and stood at the desk, staring absently at the thick sheaves of sutra texts.

I heard Aunt Xu sigh. “Look at that distracted, absent-minded expression — the Princess Consort’s heart has long since left her own keeping.”

A’Yue said with a soft laugh, “The physician said there is nothing to be concerned about — the Princess Consort need not worry so.”

I gazed at the darkening scene outside the window, my heart alternately tightening and scattering in turmoil, unable to settle for even a moment. The rain was falling harder again; the sky was nearly completely dark.

“Have the carriage prepared. I am returning home.” I rose abruptly to my feet, and the moment the words were spoken, all hesitation and doubt left my heart.

The light carriage drove at full speed back to the Prince’s residence in the face of wind and rain. I went directly and quickly to the inner courtyard, and coming face to face was a medical attendant heading toward the study with medicine. The heavy smell of medicinal decoction reached me, causing a faint tightening in my chest. I urgently asked the attendant, “How is the Prince?”

The attendant replied, “The Prince has been laboring without rest for many days, and has become overly fatigued. Combined with a heaviness of heart, outside cold has invaded and taken hold. Though it is not a serious illness, he still requires rest and recuperation, and must avoid worry and excessive exertion.” I bit my lip and stood still for a moment, then took the tray myself. “Give the medicine to me. All of you withdraw.”

I quietly dismissed the guards at the study door. Inside, the lamplight was faint. I walked slowly past the screen and saw that the memorial spread open on the desk had not been finished reading; the brush and ink were set aside. At the window, Xiao Qi stood in a loose robe, hands clasped behind his back, his solitary figure conveying an indescribable desolation and cold composure. My heart ached suddenly; I stood holding the medicine, unable to take a step forward, only staring at him in a daze, not knowing how to begin.

The night wind entered through the window. The half-open carved lattice casement stirred slightly; he gave a low cough, two soft sounds, his shoulders faintly moving, and my heart clenched at once. I quickly went to him, setting the medicine on the desk. Without turning around, he said coldly, “Leave it and go out.”

I poured the medicine into the cup and said with a gentle smile, “Drink your medicine first — there will still be time to send me away afterward.”

He turned abruptly to face me, staring fixedly. His brow and eyes were against the light, and his expression at that moment could not be read. I smiled at him, then turned away and lowered my eyes, slowly stirring the medicinal brew with a small spoon, testing whether it was the right temperature. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back and said nothing; I attended carefully to the medicine, equally silent. The two of us faced each other in wordless quiet as the sound of the water clock reached us faintly from a distance.

He laughed suddenly — his voice hoarse, without a trace of warmth. “You heard the news so quickly?”

Not understanding why he would ask this in particular, I could only look down and say, “The attendants did not mention it. I learned of it only today when the people from the Imperial Medical Bureau came to check on me.”

“The Imperial Medical Bureau?” He frowned. I lowered my head further, feeling all the more guilty, deeply regretting my own inattentiveness — that even his being ill had not reached me in time. No wonder he was displeased.

“Did you not come back because of the matter of Zidan?” His voice was flat and indifferent.

“Zidan?” I looked up in surprise. “What has happened with Zidan?”

He was silent for a moment, then said in a level tone, “News arrived just today: the rebel Zi Lu suffered defeat at Fenglin Isle. Prince Xian Zidan, at the battle’s height, released the enemy, allowing Zi Lu to escape, and in doing so was struck by an enemy arrow.”

A sharp sound rang out as I lost my grip on the jade cup. The medicine splashed in all directions.

“How badly… is he injured?” My voice was trembling; I dreaded hearing inauspicious words from his lips.

Xiao Qi’s gaze was concealed in deep shadow, cold and pressing, penetrating my body like ice and snow. “Song Huai’an took a desperate risk and went into the field to rescue Zidan. His wound is not life-threatening.” He stared at me, and his thin lips moved as he drew up a contemptuous smile. “Only — Prince Xian, upon learning that Zi Lu had failed in his escape and been cut down on the spot by Hu Guanglie, refused in the encampment to receive treatment, and ceased eating in an attempt to end his life.”

I had always believed I knew him most deeply — yet how was I to know that time had already twisted everything out of shape? The Zidan of today was no longer the one he used to be.

I had known he was of a nature soft as water and unyielding as jade. My original thinking had been that placing him with Song Huai’an — a solid, dependable man who could keep him in check — would at least protect him from harm. I had not imagined his determination to die was so absolute.

“Why has your color gone so white?” Xiao Qi watched me with something between a smile and a sneer. “Fortunately that arrow was slightly off its mark — otherwise this Prince would truly have had no way to explain to the Princess Consort.”

His words, reaching my ears, were like a blade thrust into my heart. I slowly bent down and picked up the fragments from the floor one by one, silently biting my lower lip.

Xiao Qi suddenly seized my hand and swept the broken porcelain from my palm. “It’s already shattered — do you think you can gather up an unbroken cup again?”

“Even if it is only a teacup, when you have used it for a long time you grow reluctant to throw it away.” I raised my eyes to meet his, wanting to smile, yet the corners of my eyes were wet, tears blurring what lay before me. “Palace servants at one’s side, officers in one’s command — face each other long enough and one develops a measure of regard. How much more so for Zidan, who grew up alongside me! I was the one who first broke my promise, and then let my heart turn elsewhere. The tender feelings of our youth have long since become the affection of siblings — and now all I wish is to preserve his life, to let him pass his remaining years in peace. Is even this something you cannot allow? Are you truly determined to force me to sever every human bond, to hand over to your sword those around me, one by one, before you consider me devoted and faithful?”

The words poured out before I could stop them, and there was no calling them back. Whatever else they might be, they were the words of a moment’s anger, and could not be unsaid… The two of us had both gone rigid, our eyes locked, and a dead silence fell between us.

“So you resent me this deeply.” His expression was frozen and still; in his eyes there was no longer any hint of gladness or anger.

I wanted to explain, yet did not know what to say. All the words had gone stiff on my lips.

The water clock ticked on. It was already late in the night, still and cold, the moon at its zenith — a night so clearly fine and beautiful, yet cold as the dead of winter.

“The hour is late. Rest.” He spoke with indifference, as though nothing at all had happened. In an instant his gladness and anger were concealed, all emotion tucked away behind a mask where no one could see it, yet his meaning carried a deep and pervasive chill.

I watched him lift his foot and walk out, his upright figure stepping into the heavy bed curtains — within reach, yet separated as though by a deep chasm. The anxious fear within me could no longer be suppressed. I would have preferred him to turn back, to grow angry, even to argue with me — anything was better than leaving me with only that cold, bleak retreating figure. Fear began to rise in me — fear that he would leave me here alone and never come back… All pride and all grievance dissolved before the terror of that one moment. I had never before known that I could be so frightened.

I ran out after him. Stumbling, I knocked over a lacquered screen, and the enormous crash caused him to stop at the door — yet he did not turn around, his figure still rigid and unyielding as iron.

“You must not go!” I rushed up from behind and wrapped my arms around him, holding him with all my strength.

I had given up so much before grasping this happiness — how could I let it go again? I had hurt so many people before keeping safe the one who mattered most — how could I lose him?

He stood motionless and let me hold him. The rigid coldness of his body softened gradually, fraction by fraction, and after a long while he sighed and said, “A’Wu, I am very tired.”

My heart felt as though it had been cut through. The pain was beyond words to say. “I know.”

He gave a low cough, and his voice was full of loneliness and weariness. “Perhaps one day I too will be injured, will die — would you, at that time, also shelter me like this?”

I shook my head and cried out in a broken voice, “You will not be injured, you will not die! I forbid you to ever say such things again!”

He turned to face me, looking at me steadily, and let out a long breath of a smile. A desolation showed through his brow and eyes. “A’Wu, I am not a god either.”

I was shaken. I raised my eyes and looked at him blankly — his smile seemed weary, and cold to the very depths. The moonlight in the courtyard poured like water and silk, casting a faint, pale radiance over the jade-green trees and white jade steps.

“How long will it take you to grow up?” He lifted my face, and sighed deeply, making no effort to conceal the disappointment in his eyes.

The moonlight was cool. Cooler still was my heart.

“Have I disappointed you greatly?” I smiled, and let my hands fall away in defeat. “What have I done to disappoint you so?” All my striving and all my sacrifices over these long years — had he truly seen none of them? Yet for a single word spoken in anger, he had given up on me so easily… Was I not a mortal, then? Had I no weariness or pain? I shook my head, still smiling, as tears fell freely. I stepped back, one step at a time. He suddenly reached out to stop me, trying to draw me into his arms. I pulled away decisively, straightened myself, and bowed formally before him. “This concubine is still in mourning and is not suited to share chambers with the Prince — I ask the Prince’s indulgence.”

His hand froze in mid-air. He stared at me for a long while, then turned and left in dejection.

The following day I returned to Ci’an Temple, buried myself in tending to the small remaining matters of my mother’s affairs, and set foot no more in the Prince’s residence. Xiao Qi came to see me several times; we both acted as though nothing had happened, yet there was a considerable distance between us. Aunt Xu saw this and, mistaking it for an ordinary quarrel, repeatedly urged me to return home soon. I could only smile bitterly and deflect her, citing the remaining affairs connected with my mother’s passing as a pretext to remain at the temple.

In the quiet solitude of the temple, only Aunt Xu and A’Yue were beside me. Since my mother’s death I had started awake from sleep every night, always dreaming of some fearsome creature chasing me, and frequently seeming to see blood spread across the ground. My one consolation was that my brother would soon return. He had received word of the bereavement and was already on his way back to the capital to observe mourning rites — a few more days and he would arrive.

After several more days of delay, there was no one in the palace to oversee matters, with internal attendants running back and forth every day. I simply brought Aunt Xu with me and returned to the palace, taking up residence in Fengchi Palace.

No matter how Aunt Xu and A’Yue urged me, I could not bring myself to return to the residence of Prince Yuzhang — unwilling to face Xiao Qi’s cold indifference, unwilling to think about how to manage what lay ahead. I felt only exhausted. The long-accumulated suspicions had at last knotted themselves into resentments within both our hearts — into wounds, into knots that could not be undone.

Zi Lu’s death brought this war to its end, yet it did not end the greater killing.

The southern imperial clan had suffered a complete collapse. The various princes died or surrendered; the rebel troops suffered casualties beyond counting; smoke and fire rolled across the land, blood spilled for a thousand miles. The southern expeditionary army returned to the capital in triumph, and the members of the imperial clan brought in chains to stand trial in the capital numbered more than a thousand.

The northern theater’s victory was also assured. The army advanced deep into the Turks’ territory, drove to the walls of the royal city, and installed Prince Hulü on the throne, unleashing a great slaughter and exterminating the resistant royal clan.

The Turkic Khan fled in defeat to the western wilderness. Abandoned by all and surrounded, weakened by wounds and sickness, he died suddenly at Feisha City. His remains were presented before Prince Hulü’s tent and exposed on the city walls for three days, denied any burial.

I had long known Helan Zhen’s ruthlessness, yet I had not imagined he could be so merciless toward his own birth father. Thinking back on those days, I could never shake the image of those eyes beneath the moonlight — so full of bitterness and venom… Helan Zhen had in the end taken his demonic nature deep into his soul, consigning the whole of his life to the word “hatred.” The Turkic Khan was dead; he had at last avenged the great grievance of his life. Would Xiao Qi be next?

Fortunately, he would have no further opportunity for that. Tang Jing, in the name of suppressing the rebel royal clan and protecting the new ruler, stationed a hundred thousand troops in the Turkic royal city, holding in check the newly enthroned Prince Hulü. The new Turkic ruler had inevitably become a puppet on his throne. This had been Xiao Qi’s long-laid design: from this time forward, the Turks would bow their heads and become a vassal state of our dynasty in perpetuity.

It was said that Prince Hulan was to be escorted into the capital that evening. The capital’s citizens flocked into the streets in great numbers to witness with their own eyes the downfall of the Turks’ former greatest warrior — now the Prince Regent’s prisoner — and the city resounded with praise for the Prince Regent’s brilliance and might.

I closed my book, no longer in any mood to read, and only gazed blankly at the drifting clouds in the sky above, my thoughts drifting back many years to when I had stood on the city tower and watched his figure in the distance from afar… Time flows like water; how many years had passed without my noticing.

Aunt Xu came in quietly, her face full of smiles, and bowed to report, “Princess Consort, an attendant has just come with a message — the Prince would like to take the evening meal in Fengchi Palace tonight.”

I gave a small start, then lowered my gaze and said mildly, “I understand — go and make the arrangements.”

Aunt Xu sighed and seemed about to say something, then held back. I knew what she wanted to say: Xiao Qi was clearly extending an olive branch, and she hoped I would not persist in my stubbornness and disappoint him again. In the past several days, Xiao Qi had been occupied with affairs of governance but still came often to Fengchi Palace to see me, yet had never raised the subject of reconciliation, nor asked why I refused to return home — as though he were certain I would bow my head as usual and ask for his forbearance. Perhaps, seeing that I remained impassive and unmoved, he had gradually grown anxious, and had finally brought himself to set aside his pride and seek peace. Watching Aunt Xu busy herself in the outer hall — lighting dragon ambergris incense, hanging up the rose-gauze palace lanterns… Suddenly, a deep sadness washed over me. When had I become like a woman of the inner palace, needing to ingratiate myself and exhaust every scheme merely to please my husband?

As the lamps were lit, Xiao Qi entered the hall with the weary expression of someone who had borne much, though his manner was warm and composed. I was lying with languid ease on the brocade daybed, reading a book, and merely gave him a slight bow with a smile, making no move to rise and greet him. He stood there in his formal court robes for a moment, then could only have the maids help him remove his outer robe. In ordinary times this was something I did for him with my own hands; today I chose to look away and take no notice. Remarkably, he showed no displeasure, still smiling as he came to my side, took my hand, and said gently, “I have kept you waiting — let the meal be served.”

Palace attendants filed in with dishes of exquisite, elegantly presented food, as though special pains had been taken for the occasion. Every dish was one I particularly enjoyed. A rich fragrance of wine drifted over; a palace attendant held a jade vessel and a luminous white cup and filled them both. Xiao Qi looked at me with a warm smile in his eyes. “This is a thirty-year-old plum wine — it was quite a difficult matter to find.” A warmth stirred in my heart, and I looked up with a smile, only to meet his intent, burning gaze.

“It has been a long time since I last drank wine with you.” He sighed and smiled faintly. “For neglecting a beautiful companion, I ought to punish myself with three cups and beg the Princess Consort’s pardon.”

I suppressed a smile and turned my head aside, choosing not to respond to him — yet in doing so happened to glance at the attendant serving wine: with her green-black coiffure and slender waist and delicate, lovely features, something about her seemed strangely familiar.

I heard Xiao Qi smile and lament, “Can it be that even a woman is more worthy of your attention than I?”

Turning to see his expression of helpless resignation, I could not help but laugh, and gave him a sideways look. “A rough soldier — how could he compare with a beauty?”

The lovely attendant stood behind Xiao Qi, her fair neck lowered in shy modesty. Something stirred in my heart; from the side her brow and manner felt all the more like something I had seen before, as though a memory buried deep within me were slowly pushing its way open… Xiao Qi had already raised his cup with a smile, lifting it to his lips to drink. In a flash of sudden thought, a name burst from my lips — “Wait—”

At the very instant I spoke, a cold glint flashed at the edge of my vision. That palace attendant moved with sudden violence — swift as a ghost, she lunged from behind with a blade of light toward Xiao Qi. In the fraction of a second before thought, I threw myself on top of Xiao Qi, pushing him hard to one side. At my ear a cold wind swept past — already touching, it seemed, the blade’s keen edge — yet my body suddenly lightened, caught by Xiao Qi as he pulled me into his arms and fell back rapidly, and simultaneously a surge of fierce force shot out as he swept his sleeve outward… The crack of breaking bone, a sound of pain, the clang of metal falling — all happened in the flash of a lightning strike.

The cries of the surrounding palace attendants rose only then: “An assassin! Help—”

The palace attendant’s strike had failed. She spun, threw herself toward a pillar, and instantly her head was broken and bleeding; she crumpled to the ground.

Only then did I come back to myself. I gripped Xiao Qi tightly, and seeing him safe and unharmed, felt the last of my strength leave me — my whole body went weak, my mouth opened, but no words came out.

Xiao Qi seized me fiercely into his arms, furious. “Have you gone mad — who told you to throw yourself at her?”

I was about to reply, when before my eyes everything seemed to dim, and my body immediately went limp and gave way.

“A’Wu, what’s wrong?” Xiao Qi was greatly alarmed.

My left hand felt a faint numbness and aching. I forced myself to raise it. My arm seemed to weigh a thousand pounds. On the back of my hand was a mark, extremely faint and shallow — the finest of red lines, from which tiny threads of blood oozed; the vermillion carried within it a trace of an eerie, iridescent green… Everything before my eyes grew blurred and dark; the sounds of voices and cries receded from me, growing distant. The only thing I could feel was his warm, firm embrace.

Faintly, dimly, I heard his voice, hoarse as he called my name. I forced my eyes wide open; his face was sinking into an indistinct blur.

“That day — you asked me whether I would…” Summoning the last faint remnant of clarity, I closed my eyes and exhaled. “Foolish man — I gave you my very life. And you still ask whether I would…”

— Perhaps one day, I too will be injured, will die — would you, at that time, also shelter me like this?

— Yes. I would. I would give my own life to shelter you.