They had slipped away from the palace in a carriage, spending days beneath the open sky, wind and stars as their only companions, the world seeming to hold just the two of them.

Night melted into Roga’s arms, struggling to believe this was real, fearing it was merely an extended dream. And if it were a dream, she wished to stay within it, to rest forever at his side, hoping any awakening would wait until much later.

Clinging to him, she kept her eyes closed, silently praying as she nestled against his chest. His whispers caressed her ear, soft and soothing, easing her fears. It was in this moment that she realized how tender a human heart could become. Stripped of the armor and weapons of the world, even the strongest heart could find itself vulnerable and fragile.

If they could just escape that gilded cage, happiness would surely be within reach.

They traveled south, avoiding towns, until at last they entered a small village. Peeking from behind the carriage’s curtain, she watched the bustle of the market, where each passerby moved with purpose. Among them was a young girl hawking fruit, her large, intelligent eyes bright with life. A woven basket on her arm held deep green lotus leaves cushioning cherries as red as jewels, golden loquats, and fresh, green apples. The girl’s sweet voice, tinged with the soft lilt of a southern accent, charmed Night, who bought a handful of loquats, cradling them in a lotus leaf, their fragrance inviting. Beside her, Roga stood, watching her with a gentle smile.

But then came the thunderous beat of iron-shod hooves—a line of armored guards, surging toward them, closing in a circle.

Startled, she let the loquats slip from her grasp. Golden fruits scattered across the dusty ground as the lotus leaf floated down, like a snowflake falling gently on a bed of ash.

Panic filled her as Roga took her hand, his grip strong but trembling, his once warm touch now cold.

"Your Highness, the Empress commands your return to the palace."

Happiness, once within their reach, vanished as swiftly as it had come, leaving only the bitter aftertaste of fleeting joy. She had thought she could seize it, hold it close, but it slipped through her fingers, beyond her grasp.

A voice, distant and hollow, echoed in her mind: “Power—only power…”

They remained seated together in the carriage, silence heavy between them, pressing down until the very sound of their heartbeat, the flow of their blood, seemed deafening. Each dared not meet the other’s gaze, as their faces mirrored one another in pale despair.

“What are you thinking?”

“Roga, on my fourteenth birthday, you made me a promise… Do you remember?”

She looked at him, her voice soft yet unyielding, carrying a touch of solemn resolve.

“To never let you feel sorrow.”

Gazing at her fading, ghostly form, Roga felt an unbearable sense of helplessness tighten within his chest, intensifying until it pressed down, grinding him hollow, its weight bruising every corner of his heart.

They arrived at Jing’an under the cover of night, passing through the Xuanwu Gate. The carriage wheels creaked and groaned, rolling to a halt before the Hall of Supreme Harmony.

"Princess, the Prince awaits you in the hall."

The moment had finally come, relentless as the cold march of time, allowing no reprieve. She hesitated before stepping down, watching the carriage slowly continue on toward the secluded palace.

Roga lifted the curtain, their eyes locking in silent farewell until the carriage bore him from sight.

“Princess.” A palace attendant murmured gently, nudging her forward.

The inevitable awaited her, each step over the dark stones toward Xie Liulan weighted with reluctance.

Within the grand hall, sands trickled silently through a golden hourglass. Though the chamber was brightly lit, an air of somber restraint hung over it, stifling.

Night stood there, guilt and agony pricking her skin like burning needles, cutting to the very marrow, leaving her breathless.

Xie Liulan’s expression, however, remained composed, his gaze lacking the fury she had anticipated. His deep black eyes held the clarity of autumn waters, calm and unmoved.

He regarded her with a patient smile, his words a gentle murmur: “You’ve returned.”

“Father, I only wanted to be with Roga. I just…” Her words were stilled as Xie Liulan pressed a cold, slender finger to her lips.

“Child, you entrusted your heart to the wrong man,” he said, his voice as frigid as it was scalding.

A shiver ran through her, beads of sweat tracing her brow as she forced her eyes open, nearly collapsing.

“What did you do, Father?”

The hall windows stood open, a sudden gust lifting Xie Liulan’s blood-red sash in the glow of crimson lanterns. He gently brushed a stray lock from her forehead, his smile cutting deep lines into his ageless face.

“It’s not what I’ve done, but what Su Qingfu has chosen to do. After all, Roga is her only son…”

Before he could continue, Night had already turned and fled.

Xie Liulan glanced at his hand, recalling the warmth it had absorbed from her skin, his smile deepening as he murmured to himself, “Ah, foolish children…”

Within the halls of Ningye Palace, silk drapes lay torn into shreds, a jade teacup rolled across the embroidered carpet, and ivory screens stood askew. The once-elegant chamber had been reduced to chaos.

This was the scene that greeted Roga as he entered. “Mother…”

Su Qingfu stood by the window in a cinnabar robe, a yellow sash around her waist marking her as Empress. In the chilly spring air, Roga, for the first time, perceived her frailty.

Hearing his voice, she turned slowly, her gaze drifting downward. The beads of her phoenix hairpin shimmered like ripples over water, casting a faint shadow on her ivory-pale skin beneath her long, dark lashes. Roga knelt before her with a heavy thud.

“Mother, please, let us be together. Grant us your blessing.”

His deep black eyes, clear as autumn waters in a secluded valley, bright as the silver moon in a midnight sky, held a look she had never seen. Her heart twisted with bitterness.

She stared at him, perhaps intending to speak, but the words remained unsaid. Coldness gradually filled his heart as he remembered that this distant woman had always been thus. An invisible wall loomed between them, as impenetrable as the palace walls.

“Without her… without Night… I have no happiness left. I’m willing to abandon everything, only grant us your blessing.”

In the hazy glow of the candlelight, Su Qingfu’s face appeared haunting and strange. Her gaze shifted as she gently lifted him, smiling as she spoke, each word deliberate. “Jia’er, you are my only son. Naturally, I wish for your happiness, and I will grant you that happiness.”

“Mother…”

His stunned expression met her faint smile, carrying an undertone of resigned helplessness.

“It’s nothing. You seem alarmed by this disorder. It’s not you that’s caused me to summon you with such urgency; there are other matters. Come, sit and talk with me.”

Su Qingfu stepped closer, her cold hand lightly clasping his arm. A chill shot through Roga’s chest, rather than comfort, as she guided him to sit on a red sandalwood chair. Her face, pale and drawn, framed by dark strands, carried a trace of fatigue. Her slender white fingers rhythmically tapped the mahogany table, her gaze distant, fixed upon the window, obscured by a beaded tassel that shrouded her eyes.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

“Did you know? Your grandfather—my father—died. Just three days after you left the palace.”

“What? Grandfather was always in good health…”

Roga’s body trembled as he looked at her in shock.

Yet she seemed oblivious to his disbelief, her red lips reciting the words with cold detachment. Somewhere in her eyes, embers smoldered, and her lips curved into a smile, as faint and surreal as dawn’s first light—a smile both strange and layered with meaning.

“He didn’t die of illness; he… dashed his head against the wall outside Qian Xie Palace.”

“Mother!!”

A tear seemed to rend Roga’s chest, a sharp, unbearable pain.

That old man with hair turned white, timid yet kind, was the only one in this palace, apart from Night, who had shown him gentleness. He recalled the warmth of his grandfather’s hand on his forehead, so tender. This was the man who would say, “Your Highness, you are the last hope of our Su family.”

“Your father fell ill two days ago, and you… eloped with Night. Xie Liulan said that you could not ascend the throne with foreign influence wielding power. So, for the thousands of Su lives, for your smooth ascension, blood—bright red blood—stained the palace entrance.”

“How could…” Lost in grief, Roga missed the brief flicker of satisfaction that crossed Su Qingfu’s gaze.

“It’s nothing; I simply needed to clear my heart, lest I never see you again.” She sighed softly, reaching out to stroke Roga’s brow with her long fingers. “Do you know, if you leave, I can no longer stay in Ningye Palace. Jing Shou Palace would not accept me either. Xie Liulan would cast me into the Cold Palace—a prison from which no palace woman escapes. I might live out my days there, alone. My life has been nothing but hardship. Your father—well, you know—his heart never belonged to me, but to your aunt. My only joy, my only fortune, has been you. And yet it’s almost absurd, for now you, too, love a woman from the Night clan. The three men in my life—all tied to that family. My father, oppressed by the Night clan, dying at Xie Liulan’s hands. My husband, a mere shell, bewitched by a Night woman. And my son, ready to abandon everything for her…”

“Mother…” In that moment, Roga felt utterly lost, like a child caught in wrongdoing, helpless and panicked under Su Qingfu’s gaze.

“What am I to do, Jia’er? Tell me, what am I to do? I entered this palace at sixteen, bore you at nineteen, and now I am only thirty-five. Look…”

She lifted her hand, tracing her hair. Her sleeve slid down to reveal a pale arm, lined with faint, thin scratches left by her own nails.

A wave of anguish tore through Roga, guilt flooding him. His mother had borne so much, alone in this desolate palace. The pain she endured had driven her to such self-destruction.

Unfazed by his anguish, she reached for her jeweled hairpin, pulling it free. Strings of pearls and jade clattered to the floor, and her once-tidy hair unraveled, flowing like a stream in the faint light, rising and falling with her breath.

The candlelight froze in place, dim as water. Under its flickering glow, her dark hair, now streaked with white, sent a chill down Roga’s spine, numbing him with a quiet, hollow ache.

So much weariness, beauty unaged, yet her hair had grown brittle and gray. Was this his fault?

Roga stood, then knelt before her, gripping her cold hand, devoid of warmth.

“I love her, I love her, Mother. I only love her. Is it so wrong? Is there anything wrong in that?”

Slowly, she withdrew her hand from her son’s grasp and lifted the porcelain teacup from the table. The tea had long gone cold, its once-rich fragrance dissipated to a faint whisper, the jade-green leaves sinking to the bottom. She took a sip—bitter, astringent.

It was oolong, steeped in pure mountain spring water; yet, perhaps it was her troubled heart that rendered it unpalatable. Setting the cup down, she regarded Roga’s pained expression, the silver threads in her hair, and memories of her late father. A softness entered her voice.

“No, my son, love is never wrong—but you have loved the wrong person. Jia’er, you are the sole heir to the throne of Li, and one day it will be yours. For years, you’ve studied the way of kings. Can you truly forsake your duty—to the kingdom, to the people, to your mother—all for the sake of a woman?”

Roga looked up, met her shadowed gaze, and moved as if to rise, but her hand gripped his shoulder with a strength he had never known.

For the first time, he felt the full force of her will, holding him firm, unmovable.

“If you leave, our Su clan will be utterly finished. Think carefully, Jia’er. You may resent my coldness, but I’ve lived under constant threat—from the Night clan without, and from assassins within, all while knowing I could never rely on my husband. What choice did I have? And my father and brothers—each one died at the hands of the Night clan, their eyes unclosed in death. You truly have no choice, and if you still insist on walking away, then… do as you will.”

Kneeling on the cold black stone, he felt its chill seep into his bones. He gazed at Su Qingfu’s smiling face, until he felt a tear trickle down. Her faint smile dissolved into a sob of regret, tears streaming silently down her cheeks.

He and Night—were they nothing but two souls caught in an ill-fated knot? Perhaps they should never have crossed paths, but they had, binding together inextricably. He had wanted to avoid this, to flee, but they were entangled beyond escape.

To separate them now would tear him apart, as though half his soul were being ripped away.

In a daze, he brushed away tears that were not his own. Trembling, he buried himself in Su Qingfu’s lap, sobbing, “Mother, I cannot forget her. I love her, I love her!”

Su Qingfu stroked his hair, allowing him to rest against her knee, smiling faintly. She knew that her years of courtly scheming, honed within the palace walls, had equipped her to handle this naïve son.

Holding that slight, triumphant smile, she reached into her sleeve and slowly drew forth a golden crystal vial, placing it on the table.

“This is ‘Forget-Me-Not,’ a costly elixir that will make you forget her. I won’t force you, Jia’er. I could pour it into your mouth myself, or slip it into your tea, but I’d rather you make this choice. As Li’s future ruler, consider carefully the path you must take, what you must sacrifice, what you should gain. I won’t force you. The choice… is yours.”

He looked up, meeting his mother’s gaze, now dry of tears, and reached for the vial. His hand trembled, hesitated, opened and closed again and again, yet he could not bring himself to take it.

To drink this potion would be to build a wall. On one side was Night; on the other, his solitary self. An invisible wall, severing his memory, erasing her from his life, restoring a world where she had never existed.

Already, a faint glimmer of dawn touched the sky, the morning star shining like a tear.

Would she, too, feel this loneliness?

A silk handkerchief—a simple piece, woven with love and longing, horizontal threads and vertical threads, each strand a bond, whether of longing or of solitude.

Solitude, winding tight around his soul; longing, binding every corner of his heart.

Love, softer than silk, finer than thread.

From this moment on, only she would remain, lost in solitary yearning, weaving herself into his memory, her absence becoming the fabric of his solitude.

If he could forget, would he be spared the agony of love lost?

Forget, that shadow within his heart.

Forget, the one woman whose love had seeped into his very marrow and blood.

Then, as if sensing something, he glanced back.

There she stood, proud, framed in the doorway. The wind stirred her blue robes and raven hair, her eyes dark as the night sky, glowing with a shimmer of sorrowful light.

She held that same, ancient pose, as if part of the fading night, watching him in silence.

The sun rose, its first golden light casting a glow across her figure, a fleeting halo around her.

An inexplicable tremor ran through him. He couldn’t let her go, could he?

But just as he began to pull his hand back, memories surged forth—the empty eyes of his father, his mother’s graying hair, his blood-stained grandfather, and the cries of his Su clan, perishing in a pool of crimson.

It was clear now. From the very beginning, he’d had no choice. Fate’s wheel had circled back to the same origin, decreeing that they must part.

Something shattered in his gaze as he looked at her, filled with longing. He knew he could no longer bear her boundless love, could not face her expression of desperate hope…

For he had chosen—to betray her, cowardly and selfishly, to flee alone.

Without further hesitation, he seized the golden vial and drank it down.

Night stood frozen in the doorway, her gaze meeting his as he turned.

His eyes, warm and affectionate as ever, yet too filled with love.

And in that instant, as she watched him lift the vial, she laughed—a broken, desolate laugh.

Her deepest fear had come to pass, though she had foreseen it all along.

Yes, he loved her—but her love had been without reservation, while his love had always lived in the shadow of power.

He loved her, truly, yet he could not give up his throne for her. This, then, was his love.

How foolish she had been, knowing the futility, yet striving for it regardless, and now she was utterly defeated, shattered beyond repair…

“You were never the right one… Roga! In the end, you betrayed me…”

She faltered, covering her mouth with her sleeve, black eyes wide with disbelief, grief rippling like waves through her gaze.

Watching him, her head throbbed with pain, seeing him struggle to crawl toward her, every inch a struggle, the distance between them stretching into an endless chasm.

She looked at him, feeling a blaze within, a thousand needles stabbing her soul.

At last, he reached her, his hand, bloodied from the shattered fragments on the floor, trembling as it clasped her bare ankle.

Moments ago, she had run with all her strength from the Hall of Supreme Harmony, losing one embroidered shoe, stumbling, tearing off her foot covering, yet still running barefoot along the icy path, never wavering.

But she was too late. He had already chosen to let go…

He struggled at her feet, his blood staining her pale ankle.

The sight of that vivid red color pierced her heart with exquisite agony.

She bent slowly, reaching for his hand, and just as she meant to clasp it, he recoiled, his beautiful, tormented face evading her gaze.

In that fleeting moment, their hands brushed but failed to grasp.

She touched nothing but the fading warmth of his fingers.

Without surprise, she looked at her empty hand, then down at him, withdrawing her hand slowly.

She said nothing, only gazed at him with an almost tender detachment, as though seeing him for the first time.

He lay prone, enduring the blade-sharp pain tearing at his mind, looking up at her.

His hand, trembling, reached toward her once more, inch by inch.

She watched his hand, her eyes dimming, yet she smiled softly, stretching her own hand toward him, only to let her sleeve strike his face with a sharp, cutting motion.

The pain in his head felt as though it would split him apart. He watched her, that girl, turn slowly, leaving him.

For reasons he couldn’t understand, he knew she did not cry, while he could not control the tears that fell from his own eyes.

I’m sorry…

The sunlight, cold as water, sealing a lifetime of sorrow.