At dawn, before the sun fully ascended, the sky was already painted in resplendent hues of violet, with the morning star shimmering on the horizon like a gem embedded in a regal tapestry.

Rousing lazily from his bed, Roga allowed himself to be dressed in ceremonial robes by a throng of attentive attendants.

“Your Majesty, Grand Tutor Fu requests an audience outside the palace gates,” He Qian announced deferentially.

“Summon him in,” Roga responded.

As the palace servants parted the curtains, Grand Tutor Fu stepped in with measured strides. A wave of warmth, laced with the faint fragrance of dragon musk, enveloped him, making the grand hall feel like an eternal spring. Despite the dim, predawn light, Fu’s gaze instantly locked on Roga, seated regally behind his imperial desk, clad in full court attire.

“Long live the Emperor! May Your Majesty reign for ten thousand years,” Fu declared, bowing deeply.

“Grand Tutor, what brings you here so early to the Qianxian Palace?” Roga asked, raising a golden teacup. His tone was unhurried, his gaze focused on the swirling liquid within.

“Your Majesty, General Mo and I recently conducted a covert investigation in the capital and uncovered this memorial,” Fu replied, presenting a document.

Roga accepted the scroll and perused its contents with a calm detachment. A faint, inscrutable smile played on his lips as he idly twirled the teacup with his fingertips.

“So, Wu Chuyu proves himself to be quite the opportunist... Grand Tutor, are you certain it was the Su family, not the Ye clan, that embezzled fifty thousand taels of grain funds?” Roga asked, his tone sharp yet indifferent.

“The Ye clan has been severely weakened; they lack the capacity for such a scheme. Furthermore, Wu Chuyu is the Empress Dowager’s brother-in-law, and the phoenix seal affixed to the document bears her unmistakable authority—an impossible forgery,” Fu answered, his grave expression accentuating the lines of his weathered face.

As the first rays of morning light pierced the horizon, their pale blue glow illuminated Roga’s composed visage. The faint smile lingered on his lips, but his eyes remained as cold and unyielding as frost.

After a moment of contemplation, Roga swiftly penned a confidential decree. Inspecting its contents meticulously, he sealed the letter with the imperial jade seal and handed it to Grand Tutor Fu.

“Grand Tutor, you are the only one I can trust. Mobilize all forces in Jing’an discreetly. Let no one know of this decree,” Roga instructed.

“By your command, Your Majesty,” Fu replied, bowing deeply before taking his leave.

As Fu exited with careful steps, Roga’s lips curled into an enigmatic smile. His thoughts murmured silently in the depths of his mind: The Su family and Mother... you brought this upon yourselves.

The night was as dark as ink, with long gusts of wind tearing across the palace eaves, their shrill cries echoing like mournful wails. Inside the Jingshou Palace, the attendants shut the latticed windows, drawing embroidered curtains to shield the chamber from the restless night.

Seated before her dressing table, Su Qingfu meticulously removed her makeup, though fatigue shadowed her delicate movements. The reflection in the bronze mirror revealed a woman whose prime had long since faded. She touched the strands of silver threading her hair, her fingertips lingering on their soft fragility.

In the stillness of the night, her silhouette blurred into the mirror’s polished surface, exuding a poignant loneliness. Tomorrow, she would turn forty-two—a year of supposed enlightenment—yet the best years of her life had withered away in the silent confines of the palace. Her days had yielded nothing but an endless, suffocating solitude.

Her sigh broke the quiet, a long exhalation filled with weary resignation. Suddenly, the soft rustle of footsteps and the whisper of silk snapped her from her reverie.

Turning, she saw Roga standing behind her, his eyes like frozen steel, his complexion ashen with resolve.

“Your Majesty, what brings you here at such a late hour?” Su Qingfu asked, startled. Her voice, usually light and melodious like spring rain, carried an unmistakable tremor of unease and guilt.

Roga’s gaze, unyielding as it bore into her, weighed heavily on her spirit. “It has been too long since I paid my respects, and as tomorrow marks your birthday, I came to deliver a special gift,” he said, his voice dry and distant, his eyes seeming to peer beyond her into the void.

“You are most considerate, Your Majesty,” Su Qingfu replied, forcing a smile. Detecting something amiss in his demeanor, she reached for the ornate box he presented. Inside was not a token of affection, but a letter.

Opening it, her face turned pale as the words etched in her own handwriting leaped out: Transfer fifty thousand taels of grain funds from Qingzhou to the Su family’s private treasury. Her eyes widened in shock, shrinking back as if pierced by invisible needles.

“This... What is this?!” she exclaimed, her voice quaking.

“Exactly what it appears to be,” Roga replied, his words deliberate and cutting.

The phoenix seal, irrefutably hers, adorned the document. Her mind raced as dread seeped into her bones. She remembered the day in the Su family’s study, when Wu Chuyu had clumsily spilled tea, forcing her to leave the room. Upon her return, she had thought little of his peculiar expression. Now, the truth struck her like a thunderbolt—she had been betrayed, not just by him, but by her own kin. Her body trembled as Roga’s frigid stare bore down upon her.

“I have no choice but to believe the evidence, Mother,” Roga declared, his calm voice concealing the tempest within.

What followed was a clash of wills, one embodying imperial authority, the other maternal defiance. But it was Roga’s unwavering resolve that sealed Su Qingfu’s fate. Faced with her son’s decree of lifelong exile to the royal mausoleum, Su Qingfu’s pride and bitterness consumed her. Unable to bear such humiliation, she resolved to take control of her own destiny...

Suddenly, she recalled that day in the Su family study. Just as she was about to affix the phoenix seal, Wu Chuyu had clumsily overturned a tea cup. She had left to change her robes, only to return to his slightly peculiar expression. At the time, she had dismissed it as mere nervousness.

But Wu Chuyu lacked the audacity to betray her outright. There could be only one possibility…

She had been ensnared by her brother-in-law and the Ye clan’s machinations. And now, her own son pressed her relentlessly. The trajectory of her fate was already clear.

At this thought, her voice turned sharp and piercing:“You—you suspect your own mother of embezzling the grain funds?!”

“It is not suspicion, Mother. The evidence is irrefutable. You leave me no choice but to believe it,” Roga responded, his voice calm and unshaken.

His composed tone sent a wave of rage through Su Qingfu. She sprang to her feet, sweeping the powders and rouge from the dressing table to the floor with a furious motion. Her bloodshot eyes locked onto him as she rasped out,“It wasn’t me! It wasn’t me, Your Majesty! That seal—it was Wu Chuyu’s trap! That day in the Su family estate, I had just retrieved the seal…”

Her words faltered. How could she explain? That the phoenix seal had been meant to access the private treasury? And not only to guard against the Ye clan but also against her own son? The origins of that wealth were equally unspeakable.

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Her hesitation only solidified Roga’s conviction.“Mother, you know better than anyone what the Su family has done over the years. I have been lenient, but this time, I cannot tolerate it any longer,” he said, his eyes glinting with an icy brilliance that was almost terrifying. “Once, the Ye clan had Xie Liulan. Now, the Su family has you.”

At his words, Su Qingfu froze as if struck by lightning. She sank back into her chair, her hand weakly waving him away. Bloodshot veins crept across her gaze as she whispered hoarsely,“Then… what does Your Majesty intend for me?”

“You are still my mother, and tomorrow is your birthday,” he replied, his voice as detached as ever. “In three days, I would ask that you retire to the imperial mausoleum, to spend your remaining days accompanying the late Emperor.”

Su Qingfu fixed her gaze on him, biting her lips so hard they nearly bled. She tried to meet his stare with resolute defiance, but when her eyes locked onto his cold, emotionless ones, she felt as if her very soul was pierced. She trembled uncontrollably, averting her gaze in disarray.

“Your Majesty, are you going to imprison me? To confine me until I die?” she asked, her dry lips struggling to form the words. Her hands clenched tightly, her knuckles pale from the pressure. “I am your mother!”

Roga’s expression finally shifted, a flicker of irritation and disdain crossing his face. This woman—his mother—had always tried to manipulate him from the shadows, her presence like that of a haunting specter. Her false smiles, her lack of maternal warmth, and her icy demeanor…

He let out a cold laugh, his tone devoid of emotion as he said,“Did Grandfather not once say the same to you? You paved my path to the throne with your father’s blood. You may not have wielded the blade yourself, but Grandfather was forced to his death by you. You’ve never faced this truth. Perhaps you haven’t even noticed—you haven’t dared to look me in the eye all these years. You fear the sins you have committed!”

His words slowed deliberately, each syllable driving deep into Su Qingfu’s ears. She stared at him in stunned silence, as though he were a vengeful ghost rising from the depths.

Then, Roga smiled—a pure, crystalline smile, radiant as light reflecting in his fathomless black eyes. At that moment, Su Qingfu knew it was over.

Desire and buried emotions roiled within her chest. The feelings she had suppressed with all her might surged uncontrollably. She did not love her son—she never had.

Even though he was bound to her by blood, she had only ever regarded him as a tool for her schemes. She had never understood what it meant to be a mother.

Her gaze softened, tinged with complexity. Slowly, she stepped toward Roga, reaching out to straighten his collar. With her eyes cast downward, she offered a faint smile—lonely and tender, like a peony blooming in the dark.

“My son, you’ve been poisoned by love. The venom runs too deep. Mother can no longer save you,” she murmured.

Her hand brushed against his cheek, carrying the faint fragrance of aloeswood. It brought him back to a memory of his father’s final days, when he had fallen gravely ill. For the first time, her cold hands had held him tightly.

Now, she stood before him, her silken robes and streaks of white hair exuding an icy yet soft aroma. The pain of it all seeped into Roga’s bones. He nearly reached out but trembled, suppressing the urge.

Back then, as now, she had sighed quietly. It was as if tears had threatened to fall, only to dry before they could reach the corners of her eyes. But alas, they were only imagined tears.

Roga silently observed, his lips pressed into a firm line, the corners trembling ever so slightly.

His mother’s fingers rested cautiously on his shoulders, tightening bit by bit. With that contact, a torrent of parched emotions seeped into him, cell by cell—like molten lava or venom, inching into his being, stirring a tempest beneath his outward composure.

In this moment, they were closer than they had been in years. A single gesture, a mere extension of his arms, would bring him fully into her embrace. Yet he knew, with unshakable certainty, he would never reach out.

Because this was the burden of kingship.

And so, he stepped away—far, far away—and shut himself off from the sight, the sound, the knowledge of her. Only by doing so could he maintain the fragile balance of the current state of affairs.

Still, she was his mother, the only kin he had in this world, and he would not act with complete cruelty.

“Mother, I still have matters to attend to. Forgive me for taking my leave,” he said, voice steady despite the tempest brewing within.

Unspoken emotions, hotter than fire and colder than ice, churned in his chest. At last, he slipped free of her icy grip and strode away, not once looking back.

The hall fell into an eerie stillness, broken only by the mournful wails of the wind as it howled through the palace corridors.

The red candles flickered, casting a dim glow. In the shadows, Su Qingfu stood alone, her figure thin and forlorn.

She gazed after the retreating golden figure, her expression unreadable, her silence stretching into eternity.

Half her face was illuminated by the candlelight, the other shrouded in shadow. Slowly, her lips curled into a cruel smile.

“Roga, my son,” she murmured, “to be imprisoned and left to die—such an end is far too humiliating for me. I will not accept it.”

With practiced grace, she retrieved the fallen hairpin and rouge from the floor. Then, she began applying her final layer of makeup. Calmly, she adjusted her attire and waited for the dangling tassels of her crown to settle, their soft chime fading into stillness. Only then did she open the hidden compartment of her dressing table, retrieving a small black porcelain vial.

Lifting her hand, she brushed back the silver strands framing her face. Her eyes, now devoid of life, reflected only an empty resolve. Smiling faintly, she tipped the contents of the vial—Wan Yan Ku, the infamous poison—down her throat.

Suddenly, her hands clutched at her chest as a wave of agony coursed through her. Stumbling, she turned, but her legs gave way, and she collapsed onto the cold, tiled floor.

The venom spread swiftly, its torment unbearable. She gasped for breath, struggling against the searing pain. Her sleeve wiped at her lips, leaving a crimson smear on the white silk—a vivid mark of her final moments.

Yet, her gaze remained calm, veiled in a misty haze as she stared into the distance. Through the fog, she seemed to see a woman clad in eternal black, standing there as though merged with the shadows of night.

The desolate palace, blurred and indistinct, surrounded her.

It felt like the day long ago, standing at the gates of Ningye Palace. The woman’s eyes were clear yet sorrowful.

Su Qingfu reached out a trembling hand, but the figure dissolved like ripples on water.

“Ye Rong,” she whispered, her voice filled with venomous hatred, “I curse you. I curse you to never gain his love, to be forgotten by him forever. I curse you to live a long, lonely life, to languish endlessly in this desolate palace!”

With her curses came a fresh torrent of blood, her garments dyed deep red until their original color was nearly indistinguishable.

Her life had been one of hurting and being hurt.

The royal feasts, the night banquets, her father, her son—it no longer mattered.

She had gained so much, clinging to everything she could, all in an attempt to fill the suffocating void of her midnight solitude.

The sorrow spread through Jingshou Palace like water, soft and suffocating. On the floor, Su Qingfu still bore the dignified air of the Empress Dowager of Li, even in death.

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At the hour of Yin, the first light of dawn crept into the sky. In Qianxian Palace, the morning court had yet to convene. Behind the light curtains, the golden incense burner emitted threads of bergamot fragrance, its smoke curling in solemn stillness.

A palace servant, dressed in plain blue, rushed inside. At the white jade steps, the night guard He Qian turned at the sound of hurried footsteps.

The servant, forgetting decorum, failed to bow and merely exclaimed, “Something has happened at Jingshou Palace!”

The hall fell silent at his outburst, the weight of his words dawning on him too late. Trembling, he dropped to his knees.

Within the inner chamber, Roga, who had not slept all night, frowned and asked impatiently, “Who is outside?”

The servant glanced at He Qian, cold sweat dripping down his back. “Your Majesty, there is grave news from Jingshou Palace. The Empress Dowager…”

“What of the Empress Dowager?”

Reclining against an embroidered pillow adorned with nine dragons, Roga closed his eyes. A foreboding sense of dread swelled within him.

Su Qingfu’s cold, detached gaze seemed to materialize in the darkness, staring at him silently, her lips forming unspoken words. The weight of emotion buried deep in his heart sank further and further.

When he opened his eyes again, though her frozen stare was gone, the unease intensified. An emptiness formed in his chest, a strange void he could neither name nor fill. His voice carried an uncharacteristic edge of restlessness.

“The Empress Dowager… has passed,” the servant stammered.

“Is that so…”

Roga’s response was devoid of surprise. His long lashes cast shadows over his pale eyelids, his posture unwavering even in the face of such news.

Within his heart churned a tumult of shock, fear, and… an odd sense of relief.

He thought of all the times he had gone to Jingshou Palace on this very day to pay his respects.

She had always sat upright, adorned in heavy makeup and elaborate robes, exuding an air of cold detachment. That icy loneliness had been impossible to miss.

No matter how skilled her facade, she lacked the natural warmth of a mother.

She had never loved him, even though he was her only child.

And so, he felt no sorrow, even though she was his mother.

Steeling himself, Roga said, “I understand. You may leave.”

The servant, startled by his calm, bowed deeply and withdrew without question, knowing better than to linger.

He Qian stood at the foot of the steps, his body weak with unease. “Your Majesty…” he began, his voice tinged with tentative concern.

Noticing the worry in He Qian’s tone, Roga offered a faint, measured smile. “Announce that the Empress Dowager succumbed to sudden illness. Court will be suspended for a day. As for the Su family, though guilty of corruption, their past contributions shall be acknowledged. Spare their lives, but exile them.”

His words were spoken gently, his smile soft. Yet, in his dark eyes gleamed a chilling, almost merciless light, sharp enough to draw blood.

Once He Qian departed to carry out the decree, Roga was left alone in the vast emptiness of Qianxian Palace.

Ensuring no one could see him, he buried his face in his hands, the warmth of his palms pressing into his eyes.

In a hushed voice, he murmured, “Mother…”

I have forced you to your death.

Each word carried a pain too deep to be spoken aloud.