Su Qingfu, with a detached and measured tone, left behind a parting remark: “The Empress is with child. She should focus on her recovery and leave other matters aside.” With that, she departed, taking the consorts with her, leaving the inner chamber silent save for the two of them.

Within the pale blue silk canopy, tassels swayed gently. The incense burner exuded wisps of fragrant smoke, softening the amber glow of the lanterns. On the huanghuali table, golden candlesticks dripped molten wax, forming beads like longing-filled red pearls.

Roga pulled the quilt snugly over Ye Rong, his voice laced with concern as he asked, “How are you feeling? Does the discomfort persist?”

Shaking her head faintly, she adjusted her posture, leaning against his stiff shoulder. “Much better now,” she murmured weakly.

“That’s good. Try not to think about anything and get some rest.” After a moment’s hesitation, Roga continued, his voice uncharacteristically hesitant, almost hoarse: “About the Duke and the others…”

That tone made Ye Rong’s body tremble involuntarily. She pressed herself tightly into his arms, seeking warmth.

Tonight felt especially cold—perhaps the coldest night of the year.

Yet, his embrace remained warm. She rested her cheek against his chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heartbeat. A fleeting, bitter smile tugged at her lips.

“Your Majesty, there’s no need to speak of it. I understand. Those born into the imperial family are never truly free.”

It felt as though a blade had plunged mercilessly into his chest, leaving a searing, bloody wound. Roga’s pale face was momentarily shadowed by a twisted expression, like a serpent coiling in his anguish. Yet he forced a tender smile, speaking softly:

“Let’s not dwell on it. After all, today is your birthday. I had the kitchen prepare a bowl of poria chicken noodle soup for you. Please try it.”

When the palace servants presented the dish, Roga smiled faintly. “I know you dislike medicinal flavors, so I made sure they simmered it thoroughly. The poria’s bitterness should be almost entirely gone now.”

Though she couldn’t see, the pervasive scent of the soup reached her easily, stirring distant memories.

The taste brought back an image—his hand feeding her spoonful by spoonful as she lay in bed. She had frowned at the bitterness, and he had laughed softly, sharing in her discomfort. Over time, even he could no longer bear the taste of poria; his laughter turned bitter, just like the medicine. Those fleeting, ash-like fragments of the past now seemed so distant.

Lost in thought, she was startled when a pair of chopsticks brought noodles to her lips. Reflexively, she pursed her mouth, frowning.

With a sigh, he realized she was being playful.

Her unspoken defiance seemed to say, I won’t have it.

Smiling helplessly, he took a sip of the soup himself before leaning forward. Pressing his lips gently against hers, he let the warm broth flow between them, carrying his breath with it.

She tried to struggle, her weak hands flailing lightly, but she lacked the strength to resist.

After a long moment, she leaned against him, gasping softly for air.

But from where he couldn’t see, her eyes burned with a fierce, fiery determination, while traces of ice seemed to harden in their depths.

“What is that incense? It’s giving me a headache.” She let out a soft sigh, her delicate brows furrowing in faint sorrow and melancholy. “Hedu, change it. Use the green cardamom incense from the northern tributes. I prefer that scent.”

From outside the canopy, Hedu entered with a black sandalwood box. Approaching the bronze crane burner, he removed the old incense from its copper grate and replaced it with pale green cardamom resin. His hand trembled slightly.

Roga, curious, glanced at Hedu’s actions. But before he could dwell on it, Ye Rong reached out, her fingers grazing his face.

Her touch was soft, deliberate, as she traced the lines of his features—his eyes, his temples, the curve of his jaw, the straight bridge of his nose, and the thin, firm line of his lips. Her fingers lingered especially on the shape of his eyes, their coolness gliding across his skin with a strange persistence.

It was the first time she had shown him such affection since her poisoning.

His thoughts grew hazy as he pulled her gently into his arms, awkwardly yet tenderly cradling her as he fed her small bites of noodles, murmuring words of comfort.

Nestled against him, Ye Rong obediently ate. Her gaze, soft and unfocused, blinked occasionally, as though shy. Yet, beneath the veil of innocence lay a faint allure, a trace of coquettish charm. Between sips of soup, she began to speak:

“My father once told me a story… There’s a legend about how, when Nüwa created humanity, she forgot to give some of them hearts. Those heartless ones cannot love.

“They wander the mortal world, carefree and unburdened. But they cannot truly love. They may feign affection, sometimes so convincingly even they cannot tell truth from falsehood. Yet when faced with personal gain, they abandon it without hesitation.

“One of them had a lover who couldn’t bear this, so she prayed fervently to Nüwa. Moved by her devotion, Nüwa revealed three ways to earn the heartless one’s love.”

“What are the three ways?” Roga asked, feigning indifference.

“The first,” she said, gripping his hand tightly, her delicate brows furrowing with a faint smile, “is to weave a seamless garment—not a single stitch nor thread should be visible. If she can clothe the heartless one in it, his love will be hers.”

“That sounds impossible. What’s the second way?”

With an absentminded murmur, he continued to feed her, though his tone betrayed curiosity.

“The second,” she replied, resting her head against his chest, “is to find a piece of land located between the sea and sky. It must neither touch the heavens nor meet the water. Only then can she become his true love.”

As she leaned into him, the warmth of his body enveloped her, and she shamelessly drank it in, as though trying to steal it entirely for herself.

Snuggled close, she was reluctant to let go.

Perhaps it was simply because tonight was unusually cold, she told herself.

“Still impossible. What’s the third way?”

“I’ve forgotten…”

Ye Rong murmured softly, her long, dark lashes trembling faintly, forming a graceful arc that cast a pale shadow over her ivory-like skin.

Roga, utterly mesmerized, watched her without paying heed to her words. A wave of emotion stirred within him, compelling him to reach out and caress her finely sculpted face. His fingers lifted but hesitated in midair before quickly retreating. Abruptly, he stood from the bedside.

“Get some rest. I have matters to attend to,” he said, his voice carrying a mix of restraint and urgency.

As he turned to leave, Ye Rong caught his sleeve, making him pause and look back.

Her eyes, hazy with unspoken emotions, were like trembling strings of a guqin, plucking a sorrowful, plaintive tune in his heart.

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“Don’t go…”

Roga instinctively avoided her gaze and replied softly, “I must. There’s too much to handle; I can’t delay.”

“Roga, I’m carrying your child.”

Her voice was barely audible, like a desperate whisper from a drowning soul clinging to a lifeline, as she tightened her grip on his sleeve. “Stay. Please don’t go.”

Her eyes shimmered with a strange light, pleading, vulnerable, no longer haughty or cold. She looked like an ordinary woman—hurt, seeking solace from her husband’s indifference.

Bit by bit, inch by inch, Roga pulled his dragon-embroidered golden sleeve from her grasp and strode away without looking back.

Left alone, she collapsed onto the bed, her body trembling as though her skin was being torn apart. The pain was vivid and searing, dragging memories of chaos and despair into sharp focus.

He had given up.

He had abandoned everything—everything.

She had fought with all her might, but there was no retrieving what had been lost.

Now, they were enemies.

The faint aroma of cardamom mingled with the warmth of the brazier, but it couldn’t mask the pervasive sense of desolation that filled the hall, like the futile fluttering of decayed wings incapable of ushering spring’s vitality.

The brilliantly lit Qianjian Palace was steeped in oppressive silence. No one dared speak, and no one dared sleep. Attendants moved quietly, replacing the burnt-down candles with fresh ones, their flickering flames casting an eerie glow in the third watch of the night.

In the main hall, Mo Qiehuai had changed out of his armor into a pale purple robe. He stood nearby, watching Roga with a casual yet unreadable expression.

“What’s with your sudden inclination to favor the Ye clan? That’s not like you, Qiehuai.” Seated behind the imperial desk, Roga’s expression was dark and brooding, his furrowed brows casting a shadow over his sharp features. A grayish hue tinged his face, and even his smile carried an icy malice. “What benefit did you gain from this?”

“Oh, plenty of benefits,” Mo Qiehuai replied, feigning ignorance of Roga’s mood. He winked slyly, his grin playful as his eyes narrowed mischievously. “First, it gives me an excuse to shield the Ye clan. Second, I get to see the Dowager Empress lose her temper—she looks rather amusing in a rage. And third…” He chuckled, his grin widening, “I get to tease the Grand Preceptor. You should’ve seen his face when you declared the Ye clan spared—his beard practically jumped off his face, and he turned as green as a spring onion.”

Despite himself, Roga couldn’t help but let a genuine smile replace his cold smirk. The dark tension in his expression eased, and his brows no longer cast shadows over his face.

“I was only helping you, Your Majesty,” Mo Qiehuai continued with a mockingly earnest tone, his feline-like eyes gleaming with a sharp light. “If the Ye clan were wiped out now, the Su or Fu family would seize the opportunity to rise. Your troubles wouldn’t end—they’d only multiply.”

Roga gazed at him intently, saying nothing. He picked up a yellow-glazed teacup, idly turning it in his hands without drinking, his smile faint and tinged with weariness and bitterness.

“And what about the ten thousand troops stationed in Qingzhou? Are you planning to execute them all as well?”

Mo Qiehuai’s tone slowed as he sipped his tea. He stopped short of mentioning the Empress’s pregnancy, choosing instead to let the thought hang unspoken.

Roga fell silent, deliberating. Completely eradicating the Ye clan would indeed create complications. Their connections ran deep, and the Su family’s ambition loomed dangerously. Though he had already taken down the Ye clan’s three most influential leaders through Mo Qiehuai’s intervention, uprooting the family entirely would leave him equally battered and exposed.

“Did you retrieve Ye Fengming’s military token?”

“Your Majesty underestimates me. Of course, I did,” Mo Qiehuai replied with a scoff, pulling a jade object from his sleeve and placing it on the imperial desk.

His informal gesture carried a boyish air that made Roga chuckle.

The token was unremarkable in design—a carved jade plaque. But its translucent, lustrous surface radiated a soft sheen, attesting to its immense value.

Roga turned the token over in his hand, his fingers brushing the smooth jade. One side bore the character for “Ye,” while the other was inscribed with “Army.”

After a moment of contemplation, he handed it back to Mo Qiehuai.

“Three days from now, you will depart for Qingzhou. I’ll assign you another ten thousand troops.”

Roga rose from his seat and pointed to a map spread across the desk. His smile, faintly illuminated by the incense’s smoke, seemed both distant and hollow. His slender finger traced the jagged lines of the borders as he spoke.

“The northern tribes hold Gulu and Lin counties—both are key strategic points, easy to defend and difficult to attack. With those two counties in their grasp, the northern tribes are like a slumbering tiger, poised to pounce on our kingdom. Your first task is to reclaim those counties.”

“That will be a tough campaign. And as far as I know, the treasury isn’t exactly overflowing,” Mo Qiehuai replied, his tone measured, as his fingers toyed with the edges of the map.

Roga’s smile deepened, his dark eyes glinting with inscrutable thoughts. The candlelight reflected off them, making his expression even more enigmatic.

“No matter. Have you forgotten the wealth left behind by Ye Songdu and Ye Kesuo? Each of them was as rich as a nation. There’s more than enough for the army’s needs.”

“Rest assured, Your Majesty. I will ensure we achieve a decisive victory,” Mo Qiehuai said, his crescent-shaped smile brimming with confidence.

Then, with a playful tug on Roga’s golden sleeve, Mo Qiehuai leaned in closer, his grin unabashedly familiar. “I know this request might annoy you, but I have to say it. Before I leave, I must meet the Empress. Privately, if possible.”

Roga’s sleeve was tightly clutched, resisting even the slightest tug. His eyes narrowed as he regarded the slyly grinning Mo Qiehuai. After a long moment of silence, he sighed in resignation and finally said with a faint smile:

“For someone your age, you still lack seriousness. Let go already. I’ll make arrangements for you later. Otherwise... dealing with the morale of Qingzhou’s tens of thousands of troops will be a nightmare.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty. I’ll take my leave now. It seems you still need to explain yourself to the Dowager Empress tonight,” Mo Qiehuai replied, releasing his grip. Bowing low, his feline eyes glimmered with an inscrutable amusement.

By the time Roga entered Jing Shou Palace, the hour was late.

Su Qingfu sat upright, her demeanor suggesting she had aged a decade overnight. Despite her careful maintenance, her haggard appearance was unmistakable.

“Mother,” Roga greeted, his voice calm.

Before he could utter another word, a sharp blow struck his cheek. A searing heat spread across his face, and the pain confirmed the weight of the slap he had just received.

Wiping the blood from the corner of his lips with the back of his hand, he straightened himself, his expression cold.

Neither spoke, and silence engulfed the room.

The wind outside howled against the windows, its mournful whistle amplifying the palace’s bright yet chilling ambiance. The flickering candlelight cast unsteady shadows, veiling their faces in a murky haze.

They stared at each other, their expressions masked, unreadable.

“Do you know why I struck you?” Su Qingfu finally broke the silence with a bitter laugh. Her voice was devoid of warmth as she fixed her gaze on her son.

Roga’s heart clenched, his steady composure faltering as he looked at her.

Her disheveled hair framed eyes that burned with hatred. Her pallid face trembled as she gripped the table for support, barely able to stand.

“Do you realize what you’ve done? Do you understand... how could you let her get pregnant?”

Realizing her loss of composure, she took a deep breath. When she spoke again, her voice was measured, stripped of the earlier agitation, as if recounting cold facts.

“You insisted on marrying her. I thought that by marrying her, you’d understand what needed to be done.”

Roga hesitated, lowering his gaze.

“I’ve been careful… it happened only once.”

“Once? Once is all it takes. She is the Empress, and her child will not only be a legitimate heir but also the inheritor of the Ye clan’s legacy. Do you understand what that means? It signifies the unification of imperial power and the Ye family’s influence. What will you do then? You refuse to eradicate the Ye clan out of misplaced mercy, yet they remain resilient even in their decline. Can you still call yourself an emperor? Can you hold on to the throne?”

Her sharp words pierced the silence, but Roga’s face remained impassive, betraying no reaction.

Su Qingfu watched him, her son who had always been reticent and reserved. Even now, his emotions lay hidden beneath an inscrutable mask, surfacing only when she could no longer see.

Her expression shifted from pale to green, her steps faltering as she collapsed into her chair. After a long pause, her face darkened as she spoke with quiet venom:

“If you had listened to me and eradicated the Ye clan, she would have remained childless and powerless without their support. She would have been entirely at your mercy.”

“Your Majesty, whether the child is a boy or a girl, it presents a grave threat. Every woman in the harem can bear children, but not her—she must not. Do you understand? Ye Rong cannot be allowed to give birth to your child.”

Her half-lidded eyes gleamed with a twisted smile, almost grotesque in its malice, a far cry from her usual dignity. “I can’t help you do this. Ningye Palace is too heavily guarded. In this vast imperial court, only you can make it happen.”

With those words, her smile faded, her eyes dimming with a predatory glint. A palpable menace radiated from her, as if she were ready to devour anything in her path.

The wind howled furiously outside, its wails seeping into the hall as the candles flickered, their flames dancing erratically like ghostly apparitions.

Roga rose and pushed open a window. The wild wind extinguished the candlelight, its icy gusts cutting through him like blades.

Through the swaying shadows of the trees outside, the night sky loomed heavy and oppressive.

He closed his eyes, and the image of a woman in black emerged in his mind. Her aloof elegance, her fleeting tenderness when he treated her kindly, her poised sorrow—all haunted him. Was she enchanting, or ethereal? He could not say. But she was unforgettable.

“I understand, Mother. I know everything you’ve said. I… have already dealt with it. That child will not be born. It will not.”

As he spoke, a sharp pain throbbed in his forehead, but he turned to meet Su Qingfu’s gaze. His eyes, shrouded in a faint, dark mist, betrayed nothing of his inner turmoil.

Su Qingfu looked at her son, clad in imperial yellow, his face etched with anguish and resolve. Her own weariness grew more evident as a sigh escaped her lips—an inexplicable sigh, heavy with meaning even she did not fully understand.

Outside, the corridor was brightly lit, its glow filtering through the windows and casting shifting shadows upon the ground.