The dark hall lay in a shroud of shadows, illuminated only by a lone, flickering candle casting its muted glow across the chamber.

He opened his eyes, disoriented, gazing at the bed draped in crimson silk, the apricot-hued tassels softly shimmering in the dim light. Though utterly exhausted, he felt an unexplainable emptiness that denied him rest. A faint fragrance lingered in the air, elusive yet sweet, familiar yet foreign, stirring memories he couldn’t quite place.

He reached beside him but grasped only emptiness.

Startled, he sat up, searching the vacant space next to him.

The silence in the hall was profound, broken only by the sound of his own breathing.

“Summon someone.”

At his call, He Qian entered, bowing respectfully beside the bed.

“Where is the Empress?”

“Your Majesty, the Empress… she…” He Qian stammered, reluctant to speak.

“Speak, now!”

Flustered, He Qian finally responded, “The Empress said she wasn’t used to sharing a bed, so she has retired to the side hall.”

“Leave.”

His gaze turned cold as he dismissed the servant without another word.

He lay back down, but the pillow felt icy. Turning his head, he watched the golden candelabrum outside the bed canopy, where droplets of wax fell, bead by bead, pooling like crimson jewels.

It didn’t matter, he told himself. One day, he would have her proud heart bow at his feet—and that day was close.

The faint scent clung to his senses, denying him sleep. He buried his face into his arm, only to realize the fragrance emanated from his own skin, whispering softly, penetrating to his very bones.

In his mind’s eye, her face appeared—a face adorned with delicate blue flowers, hauntingly beautiful.

This winter arrived early in Jing’an; snow had begun to fall by early September.

The sky, dim and heavy, cast an ethereal light across the landscape.

Having just finished his morning duties, Roga made his way to Ningye Palace.

Guided by attendants, he saw her in the palace courtyard from afar.

She stood under a plum tree, wrapped in sable, the falling snow gently dusting her hair and the fur lining of her cloak, as though unaware of its touch.

The chirping of a bird startled Ye Rong from her reverie, and she slowly turned to face him.

As she turned, Roga glimpsed an expression he could not forget.

It was a look of loneliness, tinged with an unfathomable sorrow, as if her solitude had reached a depth that transformed her sadness into a fragile transparency.

Whom did she long for? For whom did she ache?

He watched her in silence. Jealousy should have gripped him, yet a strange, familiar ache filled his heart.

Knowing she couldn’t see, he still found himself concealing his unease, about to speak when she, with a voice like frost, beat him to it.

“Where did that bird come from?”

Snapped from his thoughts, Roga held out a gift—a delicate, ivory-carved birdcage.

“Sent as tribute from the southern barbarians. I thought you might like it.”

His warm fingers guided hers to trace the birdcage’s carved patterns.

Her fingers trembled, pulling back instinctively, yet his grip held steady, drawing her gently into his embrace.

In his arms, she was more exquisite than the plum blossoms. He reached out, brushing her lips, feeling the coolness of her skin seep through his fingertips, filling him with a strange chill.

Smiling tenderly, he murmured, “This bird’s song is beautiful, a small delight to pass the time.”

The bird flapped within its cage, the golden bell on its foot chiming softly as it stirred.

“What kind of bird is it?” She felt his hand linger at her lips, then brush her cheek as if testing its softness. Turning her head away, she said, “As a tribute bird, it must be lovely.”

“It’s all lake-blue, a ‘qingniao’—though I doubt it can rival your beauty.” Roga leaned close, his voice soft as silk against her ear: “The path to Penglai is not far; let this loyal bluebird go ahead.”

She shivered, her brows knitting subtly as her mind drifted to the verse, ‘Our meetings are as fraught as our partings; the east wind fails to hold back the blooms.’

Snow continued to swirl down like plumes of white feathers, blanketing the world around them.

The song of the caged bird, melancholic and ethereal, twisted through the air like the trailing ribbons of a celestial maiden, wrapping around the heart.

“Do you like its song?”

His warm breath, laced with a scent of dragon’s musk, hovered close to her face, tender and persuasive—yet Ye Rong’s countenance remained untouched by warmth.

“It’s cold here. Let’s go inside.”

He dismissed the attendants with a wave, and personally guided her, step by step, into the warmth of Ningye Palace.

In the inner hall, a middle-aged servant knelt on the ground, teeth clenched against his pain.

Ceramic shards lay scattered beneath his knees, blood seeping slowly from cuts, spreading a dark stain on the tiles. Upon seeing them enter, he quickly prostrated, bowing despite his agony.

Familiar with the man’s face, Roga helped her to her seat and asked with mild interest, “What’s the matter with that servant?”

“Oh, just a clumsy oaf from the Empress Dowager’s palace, incapable of even bringing tea properly.”

“I see…” He glanced at the man briefly, his eyes narrowing slightly.

Then, as he loosened the sable cloak from her shoulders, he spoke in a low voice, his words both imploring and seductive:

“Rong, your birthday is soon, isn’t it?”

She lifted her head, her long, pale neck curving gracefully as her unfocused gaze turned towards his voice.

“Your uncles, the Marquis of Lingzhou and Marquis of Qingzhou, have not seen you in some time. Why don’t we invite them back to Jing’an to celebrate your birthday? Besides, I should reward them for their service.”

Her fingers tightened on the armrest, her pallid knuckles flushing with blood.

A faint smile curved her lips, as if the snowflakes outside had sighed in unison.

“As Your Majesty wishes. I will summon them back to Jing’an for you.”

“Then I’ll leave it to you. I must take my leave for now, but I’ll return later.”

She rose gracefully, bowing with an elegance that could only come from nobility.

“Your servant humbly sees Your Majesty off.”

Her vision was swallowed by darkness, an all-consuming blackness that seemed to drain her warmth, leaving her shivering with a bone-deep chill.

The bluebird on the table sang its mournful tune, each note laced with a haunting dread that echoed in her ears.

“This bird’s call disturbs my peace. Blind it. And him—no need for kneeling. Blind his eyes as well, then send him back to Jing Shou Palace.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

She rose and moved to the window, where the wind stirred, and snow fell, brushing her face with a piercing chill. Was it her heart or the snow that was so cold?

It was past noon, and the plum blossoms were half-open, vivid and delicate, yet the chill of winter and the desolation of the palace remained undisturbed. Snow lingered in patches along the eaves, casting a pale shimmer over the austere beauty of Ningye Palace.

The draped curtains fluttered like silken waves, and inside, the charcoal brazier radiated warmth, filling the hall with a spring-like coziness.

A hurried step approached, drawing closer until a figure clad in a crimson robe with an embroidered crane across his chest entered, a stern-faced elder with graying hair. His expression was fierce enough to startle the dozing attendants into a quick salute. “Marquis.”

“Where is the Empress?” Night Songdu ignored them, his gaze fixed through the sheer curtain, and asked in a low voice.

A purple gauze curtain draped the doorway, allowing a faint blush of light to filter through, obscuring the scene behind it.

“The Empress is resting. Please allow me to inform her of your arrival,” the attendant said deferentially, bowing low. “Kindly wait in the side hall.”

In the side hall, layers of incense smoke coiled and wafted through the air. The attendant served tea and set a few delicacies before him. Night Songdu took a forced sip, his mind heavy with worry that drifted like the rising tendrils of tea fragrance in the room.

After some time, the attendant finally reappeared, bowing as he spoke softly, “Your Excellency, Her Majesty asks that you return tomorrow, as she is too weary to receive you today.”

“Outrageous!”

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

Wrinkles furrowed across Night Songdu’s face, his expression hardening like chiseled stone. He slammed his palm onto the table, rose abruptly, and strode toward the inner hall.

“Marquis!” The attendant, horrified, trailed him, calling out in vain.

In the inner hall, red-hued incense smoke spiraled from a delicate burner, merging with the silken veils before diffusing in graceful plumes.

Night Songdu swept toward the curtain, raising his hand to pull it aside, yet halfway through, his hand froze and dropped, as though burned.

The lavender curtain swayed, falling gently with a soft flutter that stirred the air.

In that brief instant, he glimpsed the woman reclining on the Shuangfei couch, her disheveled hair and bare arms pale as snow against her dark gown, her loose attire hinting at the starkness of winter.

The aged man’s face flushed faintly with embarrassment at his own audacity.

The attendant had rushed in, whispering frantically, “Marquis!”

The figure on the couch stirred, her eyes like fractured shards of ice, cold and unearthly.

“What’s the commotion?” Her voice was a soft sigh, ethereal yet weary.

“Your Majesty, Night Songdu humbly greets you,” he replied deferentially, bowing low.

Ye Rong, still lying on the couch, merely sighed, a sound both profound and distant.

“Marquis, what brings you here?”

Night Songdu, though displeased with such an informal audience, dared not protest; after all, it was his own impropriety that had led to this. With barely restrained anger, he replied,

“Your Majesty, I heard that you have summoned the Marquis of Lingzhou and the Marquis of Qingzhou back to the capital in your capacity as the head of the Ye clan.”

Hidden behind screens of silk, her figure blurred, Ye Rong’s voice drifted through, languid and drowsy.

“Yes, my birthday is approaching, and I wanted to see them. His Majesty has yet to meet them since his ascension; it is an opportune time for such an occasion.”

“Your Majesty, I implore you to reconsider,” Night Songdu’s expression twisted in concern, his hands clenched tightly beneath his crimson sleeve. “They are the backbone of our clan. If anything happens, it would be as though the Ye family lost its very limbs.”

“What could possibly happen? They’re simply coming to celebrate my birthday. Must you view it so gravely?”

“Your Majesty, we cannot afford to be careless!”

His voice rose in intensity, but from behind the veil, her voice remained unperturbed, almost careless, her indifference stinging against his mounting frustration.

“Careful of what? Did they not return every year for Father’s birthday? Why should it be different for mine?”

“Your Majesty! The times are not as they once were!”

“Marquis, I merely asked them to join me for my birthday. Is that too much to request? Spare me these excuses. If there’s nothing further, you may leave. I am weary.”

Hearing this, Night Songdu’s face paled, his expression taut with unspoken anger.

“Your Majesty, you may be blind, but must your heart also be so?”

With a heavy sigh, the purple curtain parted, and she emerged in her ebony robe adorned with dark blue and violet blooms, her loosely gathered hair cascading around her pale face.

“How dare you! Marquis, do you truly hold me in such contempt?”

From the midnight-hued sleeves embroidered with golden-edged lotus blossoms, a slender, alabaster hand extended and pointed directly at him.

Night Songdu stared, transfixed, feeling as if her unseeing eyes held within them a bottomless pool that could strip bare any hidden truth.

“Though my eyes are blind, I will not tolerate your insolence!”

Was it fear that surged within him?

“My apologies, Your Majesty. I take my leave.”

With a trembling heart, he hastily bowed and withdrew.

“It was still a suspicion until now. But seeing his reaction confirms it. Father always held him in high regard, yet he conspired with outsiders to kill him—and now he dares to stand before me, feigning righteousness. Even I cannot help but admire his audacity.”

Ye Rong’s words, devoid of warmth, startled He Du, who turned to look at her.

Though it was early winter, sunlight bathed the hall, casting its bright glow across her serene, unmoved face.

Under the warm sunlight, her profile appeared exquisitely delicate; her eyes, dark as the midnight sky, held a chill colder than ice, a heat fiercer than fire—a turbulent blend of water and flame that seemed to speak of her most hidden past, her sorrows… and the loneliness carved deep by betrayal.

He Du reached out to help her sit, murmuring, “Your Majesty, the Marquis is already wary.”

“It matters not. My only task is to summon them back to Jing’an. The rest… Roga will handle. Jing’an, I fear, will soon be awash in blood and chaos once more.”

Her icy words made him shudder. He Du lowered his head, took a steadying breath, then looked up again, only to find her expression had returned to its usual indifference. Her clear gaze swept over him, seeming to pierce to his very soul.

“Please, Your Majesty, rest assured—I would give my life to protect you, and ensure you remain unharmed.”

“How amusing, He Du. In this world, no one can truly bear the life or death of another. Let’s not pretend you could, and certainly not when my life is so burdened. I carry the fate of the entire Ye clan on my shoulders—you could never bear it.”

With this, Ye Rong smiled faintly, her lips painted with a touch of crimson rouge, a smile that held both allure and scorn.

“I overstepped,” he replied, unfazed, bowing slightly as he resumed his stance by her side.

With that, her eyes slowly closed, dark as the night itself.

Incense smoke curled and floated in soft wisps, filling the air with a subtle fragrance.

He Du looked at her, and a phrase rose unbidden in his heart: Loneliness so deep, beauty as transient as a flower.

Roga knew that Night Songdu had come to see her, and he knew of the altercation between them. Everything was proceeding smoothly, though almost too smoothly.

Casually making his way through the shadowy corridors, Roga noted that Ningye Palace, usually bustling with attendants, was silent and empty today. The palace lights blazed bright, yet the gates were tightly shut. A sense of unease stirred within him, prompting him to quicken his pace.

Outside the hall, only He Du stood guard. Upon seeing Roga, he knelt respectfully, his face expressionless, yet shadows crept over his features, darkening his gaze.

But Roga sensed something in his eyes—not respect, but a faint chill.

Fixing He Du with a piercing look, he asked coldly, “What is going on?”

“Her Majesty… wishes to be alone today and does not require our service,” He Du replied evenly.

“Oh?”

Observing He Du’s hesitation and measured words, Roga raised an eyebrow. Just as he was about to step inside, He Du spoke again, his voice calm and deferential.

“Your Majesty, the Empress said she wishes for solitude…”

He nearly kicked out in irritation but checked himself, knowing it was improper to vent his anger on a servant. With a sweep of his dragon-embroidered sleeve, he strode into the hall.

The palace was faintly permeated with the scent of blood. Countless candles flickered in the room, casting dizzying light.

He narrowed his eyes, scanning the chamber, and finally saw Ye Rong huddled in the corner of the couch, trembling like a leaf, her usual cold composure shattered.

Her fingers were tightly clenched, blood trickling from between them, staining the lavender sheets beneath her like vivid red plum blossoms blooming in disarray.

His heart skipped a beat as he rushed over, reaching for her.

“What happened… what’s wrong?”

Ye Rong heard his approach and slowly lifted her face, hesitating.

Her brows knit together, a fragile, bewildered expression on her pale face. In the candlelight, her features took on a pale, moonlit hue, a hint of red blossoming on her lips, and a faint fragrance filled the air. Her blue-rouged cheeks seemed to melt into a sorrowful translucence, as though on the verge of tears.

“Who allowed you in here?” Her body shook, lips tinged with blood. “Leave. Go away!”

“It’s me, Roga. What happened, Rong…” he murmured, calling her name as he held her close. “Someone, come quickly!”

“Don’t call them… please, don’t…” She pushed him weakly, her voice heavy with sorrow. “Leave… please, just go…”

Roga gasped in shock, gripping her hands.

Her fingers were drenched in blood, each palm bearing a thin, deep cut, her nails driven into her own flesh, leaving crimson stains, like flowers blooming in sorrow on her fingertips.

“Your Majesty.”

At her call, He Du appeared at the bedside.

“What’s wrong with her?! You fool—why didn’t you call for the royal physician?”

“Your Majesty, this is an ailment Her Majesty suffers each winter. Physicians are of no help. She must endure it alone, and in three days, it will pass.”

“He’s right,” she murmured. “Leave, Roga. Let me be.”

The bitterness of her words was like gall. She clenched her fists, the pain causing her heart to tremble, though it brought clarity as well. A faint, enchanting smile played on her lips. Sweat beaded on her brow as she lowered her head, her dark hair casting shadows over her face.

Seeing her thus, Roga lost control and barked at He Du,

“Fetch the royal physician, now!”

“Your Majesty, it’s merely the residual poison from her Bone-Seering Soulbane toxin—it won’t help…” He Du’s gaze remained calm, sweeping over them both with a look as cold and unreadable as ice.

Roga felt as if his mind had been struck by thunder.

Bone-Seering Soulbane was a rare, palace-brewed poison, unlike any other; it was slow-acting, lying dormant for a year before finally manifesting. Once it activated, it rooted itself deeply in the bones, an agony relived each winter until death.

“Do not worry, Your Majesty—the Empress’s poison is nearly purged; only the residual effects remain. If she endures these three days, she will be fine.”

He looked at her, seeing in the dim candlelight her eyes clouded over with shadows. Roga felt his heart tremble, and he spoke softly,

“Her eyes… is it also because of…”

“Yes, the Empress’s blindness is a result of the Bone-Seering Soulbane poison.” He Du bowed, gesturing to the two porcelain bottles on the bedside. “The red vial is for pain relief; the blue contains… a sleeping draught, which will allow her to rest peacefully.”

With that, he turned and left. Roga frowned, watching him depart, anger surging within him, but as he turned back, he saw Ye Rong shiver again.

The searing pain, burning through her very bones, finally escaped as a strangled moan from her lips, soft as a cat’s cry. Sweat seeped through her inner garments to soak her outer robe, her loose hair spilling across the bed in dark waves, tangling like threads of sorrow that coiled endlessly.

“Is it unbearable? Do you want the medicine?”

“This medicine only stifles the poison temporarily. When its effect fades, the poison will still flare up…” She pushed away the red porcelain vial with a long, weary sigh.

“Don’t worry. The pain will ease soon. It will all be over soon.” He cradled Ye Rong, gently stroking her back. But his clumsy comfort was as ineffectual as it was unpracticed, failing to soothe her.

She gave a bitter laugh, leaning into his embrace, yet her body remained rigid, as if her heart was a smoldering ember.

The image of a childhood memory flickered before her mind—a boy riding a bamboo horse, circling a girl as he teased her. Was it a laughable memory, or a scar so deep it sliced her bones? She could no longer tell.

The bone-deep agony tore her apart inch by inch, her vision engulfed in darkness, a night that held no stars… dragging her relentlessly into a sea of despair, while he stood on the shore, seated upon his golden throne, flanked by beauties, wearing an innocent yet mocking smile.

The past felt as if it had scattered like smoke, drifting away… until the day they met again, and he greeted her, “It has been too long, my dear sister.”

Under the bright lights, Ye Rong’s complexion had turned ashen. Her eyes were tightly shut, her hands clenched, soaked in blood—a sight that laid her suffering bare.

He gripped her cold hands, shielding her wounds.

Fear gripped him—a fear of losing her, suddenly so vivid.

She did not push him away this time. Instead, her fingers clutched his hand with all her strength, nails digging into his flesh, scraping, gouging, until blood mingled with flesh. Like a drowning soul grasping a lifeline, she clung on, refusing to let go.

Then, a faint murmur broke from her lips:

“Roga… Roga…”

“I’m here, Rong.” Ignoring the pain in his hand, Roga gazed deeply at her, soothing her softly as he held her close.

“Rong, take the sleeping draught; it will take away the pain.”

Whispering her name, he propped her against his shoulder, one hand cradling her thin shoulders, wiping the sweat from her brow. With his other hand, he took the blue porcelain vial, carefully placing the pill at her lips, gently urging her to drink.

Unexpectedly, she raised her head sharply, the space between them narrowing until he could feel her breath mingling with his.

“Remember, Roga—I have never run away from anything, not even from pain…”

“Why…”

“My pride won’t allow it. My blood as a member of the Ye clan won’t allow it. Fleeing is the act of cowards, a way to burden others with one’s suffering… So I’ve borne every sorrow, every pain. Do you understand?”

Her eyes, half-closed, reflected the soft glow of red candlelight, like a dream of fireworks fading into the night—a fragile beauty.

His heart trembled as he looked at her, taking a deep breath to steady himself, fighting a sensation that robbed him of air.

“Yes… I understand,” he replied, though the words felt hollow.

“No, you don’t… You have never understood, Roga… because you chose the path of escape long ago…” Her voice was a faint whisper, as if drifting from a dream. “You chose a path that has driven us both into a corner, leaving no way back… Don’t worry… I won’t die… I will live… I’ll live to watch you…”

Seeing her, too weak even to lift her eyelids, he leaned closer, trying to catch her words. But she had already fallen silent.

His fingers brushed her pallid face, tracing the curve of her cheek. Then, he pulled her closer, his hand threading through her hair, gliding along her slender neck—delicate, fragile, as if she might dissolve at his touch.

“Let go of everything. Rest now.”

Though still shaking from the pain of the poison, she seemed to hear him, her trembling form leaning into his chest. In a barely audible voice, she murmured,

“Roga… lonely Roga…”

Lonely?

Lonely!

Lonely…

Why did he love her so? Knowing it was dangerous, knowing the threat she posed to his peace, why did he love her?

He had seen countless beauties. Why her? She wasn’t gentle; she lacked compassion, and her heart was as cold as winter frost.

Yet, in those sightless eyes, she seemed to see his loneliness with a clarity no one else could match.

As if she, weathered by life’s storms, already knew every betrayal, every sorrow that plagued the human heart… a single word from her, and he was lost, entangled, unable to escape.

Outside, snow began to fall, and a chill seeped into the palace. The snow and wind were bitterly cold, bone-chillingly so.

Breathing in the faint scent of her skin, he watched her, huddling closer, seeking warmth against his chest.

They seemed, in that moment, to be each other’s only warmth in the world.

Something within him melted. For the first time, he faced the truth within himself.

Feeling their hearts drawn close on that snowy night, he felt his heart blaze with an unfamiliar warmth.