In the deep hours of the night, as the third watch heralded a world cloaked in tranquility, the lights within Ningye Palace remained aglow. The gentle amber hue of the candles cast swaying shadows upon the delicate gauze of smoke-hued silk, painting fleeting impressions of elegance against the window frame.

A drowsy palace servant stationed outside the hall stifled a yawn, only to be startled awake by the faint silhouette of a figure emerging at the far end of the corridor. Suspended lanterns of carved crystal illuminated the pathway, their smoky radiance caressing the approaching figure, a woman adorned in a flowing gown of verdant silk, overlaid with diaphanous sleeves of mist-like fabric. A delicate shawl encircled her arms, while the trailing tassels of her golden phoenix hairpin swayed gently in rhythm with her measured steps.

As she drew closer, her crystalline gaze, as pure and limpid as autumn waters, rendered her beauty almost otherworldly. The palace servant, momentarily transfixed, quickly collected himself.

"Your Grace, shall I announce your presence?" he asked, trembling slightly.

Lady Shu Fei raised a hand, her voice soft yet resolute. "No need to make a fuss. I will enter on my own."

Before he could respond, she brushed past the curtains and disappeared into the chamber.

Within, Ye Rong sat silently before a vanity. The pale glow of the brass mirror reflected her face, its pallor made stark by the dim candlelight. Her ebony locks cascaded like a waterfall as she loosened her coiffure, the strands gleaming silkily against her alabaster neck. The faint sound of footsteps did not startle her; she merely murmured, "You’ve come."

Enveloped in the solitude of the palace, the flickering greenish candlelight danced like ethereal mist upon her black-clad figure, casting an unearthly aura. Her dark hair framed her shoulders, as if she were already detached from the mortal world. Lady Shu Fei stepped forward, lifting a strand of Ye Rong’s lustrous hair with tender fingers, brushing it as though savoring a memory.

"He once told me," she began, her voice tinged with wistfulness, "that all of your family bear hair as dark as the night. His was just like yours—long and jet black."

Ye Rong remained composed, neither speaking nor turning to meet her companion’s gaze. Shu Fei, with an ivory comb in hand, began to smooth the tresses in measured strokes. The moonlight streamed faintly through the gauze-draped windows, casting an icy glow upon the mirror and illuminating their shared reflection.

"I used to comb his hair, just like this," Shu Fei continued, her voice trembling with suppressed emotion. "He vowed to bind his fate with mine, to live and die as one."

Her shadowed features revealed a heart burdened by regret, her words trailing into a silence broken only by the almost imperceptible sound of the comb passing through Ye Rong's hair.

"On your birthday," Shu Fei ventured, her tone lightening slightly, "were you pleased with the gift I presented?"

"Quite so," Ye Rong replied, her voice as faint as moonlight, yet laced with a quiet edge. "I must thank you for persuading the Empress Dowager’s trusted physician to collaborate. Without him, how else would they have believed I was with child?" Her eyes, glinting with an enigmatic brilliance, met Shu Fei's through the mirror, exuding an allure as mysterious and intoxicating as the moon’s reflection upon water. "Your heritage shows, Shu Fei. Half of your blood flows from the Ye clan, and it seems you’ve inherited their ruthless precision."

"Your Majesty flatters me," Shu Fei responded humbly. "I am unworthy of comparison. It was you who once saved my mother. Though she has since passed, your kindness remains a debt I can never repay."

"Is that all there is to it? Zi Jing… Ye Tan is in Qingzhou now. These past years have been… unkind to him."

Ye Rong’s words were laden with subtle intent, her profile half-obscured by shadow, the faint imprint of a blue-hued flower upon her cheek lending an air of both elegance and melancholy. As the clouds veiled the moon, a fragile sliver of silver light peeked through, painting the scene with a muted warmth.

Shu Fei gripped the comb tightly, its teeth biting into her palm as her voice wavered with anguish. "I know his heart has always been steadfast, yet I have wronged him deeply. But on my mother’s deathbed, I swore to fulfill my father’s final wish. It left me no choice—I had to enter the palace… I had to betray him."

Ye Rong sighed softly, turning her face toward the light, though her expression remained unreadable. "In a few days, he will return to Jing’an. I will arrange for you to see him."

For a moment, Shu Fei appeared overwhelmed, her gratitude escaping as a whisper. "Thank you, Your Majesty. You must know, for him, there is nothing I wouldn’t do."

Realizing her vulnerability, Shu Fei quickly masked her emotions, her cheeks tinged with embarrassment. Yet Ye Rong’s enigmatic smile remained, as though she held some profound understanding of both Shu Fei’s sorrow and her own fate. Her slender, snow-white hand reached out, its motion as graceful as an unfolding orchid, gently taking Shu Fei’s trembling fingers. Her sightless eyes, deep and inscrutable, glimmered with an ineffable blend of pity and grief.

"Go back now," Ye Rong said, her voice devoid of warmth. "We wouldn’t want anyone to grow suspicious."

The comb slipped from Shu Fei's grasp, shattering upon the floor with the brittle sound of fractured jade. Bowing low, she murmured her farewell and retreated, leaving the chamber with faltering steps.

At the close of December, as the year drew near its end, the imperial palace buzzed with activity, yet the silence within Qianxian Palace and Ningye Palace remained ominous and unbroken. The courtyards of the inner palace were abuzz with whispered speculation, their inhabitants dispatching trusted confidants to uncover the mystery, but all efforts proved fruitless.

On this day, snow fell in great flurries, blanketing the world in a pale hush. Within Qianxian Palace, Roga sat motionless, his long fingers rhythmically tapping against the armrest of his grand chair. His eyes were shut, his demeanor mimicking a state of light repose, though the shadows cast by his lashes etched eerie trails across his face, exuding a ghostly intensity.

Standing nearby, He Qian held his breath, paralyzed with fear. He had never seen Roga in such a state before. He knew that for nearly a month, there had been no word from Qingzhou.

"Your Majesty, General Mo requests an audience outside the hall," came the piercingly sharp voice of a palace attendant, echoing through the chamber.

Roga's eyes snapped open as he lifted his head, his expression still calm, yet a faint smirk curled his thin lips. Adjusting the white fox fur collar draped around his neck, his gaze, sharp and chilling even under the bright sunlight, glinted like tempered steel.

"Let him in," he commanded curtly.

The attendant bowed low and retreated. Moments later, Mo Qiehuai entered the hall. His crimson court robe, embroidered with lion motifs, marked his station as a second-ranked official. A jade belt cinched his waist, but his disheveled appearance betrayed the rigors of travel.

"Your Majesty, I, your humble servant, pay my respects," Mo Qiehuai intoned, kneeling in a posture that was neither entirely reverent nor fully defiant.

Roga stepped forward swiftly and helped him to his feet. "There's no need for such formalities between us. Tell me—why has there been no war report from Qingzhou for over a month? And why have you returned so abruptly?"

Mo Qiehuai met his gaze directly, the unease in his eyes unmistakable. "Your Majesty, there is no report because there has been no battle."

"What?" Roga's composed facade cracked, his carefully curated mask of cold elegance giving way to disarray. His breathing grew labored.

"Your Majesty," Mo Qiehuai ventured cautiously, "if I may be so bold, when was the last time military provisions were dispatched to Qingzhou?"

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

At this, Mo Qiehuai suddenly dropped to his knees, catching Roga off guard. The emperor instinctively moved to help him up, but Mo remained prostrate.

Roga, astute as ever, had already surmised the gravity of the situation, though he clung to a faint hope that it was not as dire as it seemed. After a long pause, his voice, hoarse and strained, finally broke the silence.

"A month and a half ago, I personally ensured the provisions were sent. Why? What has happened?"

"Your Majesty," Mo Qiehuai replied, his voice heavy with dread, "we received nothing—only crates emptied of their contents. I attempted to requisition supplies from the surrounding prefectures, but... it was impossible."

Kneeling on the cold, polished stone floor, Mo Qiehuai saw only the embroidered boots of the emperor, the chill of winter seeping through the soles into his very bones.

Roga was silent for a long time, his gaze fixed on the resplendent plaque bearing the inscription "Honor Heaven, Revere the Ancestors." The words glimmered under the light, mocking the chaos below.

Taking a deep breath, he murmured, "Impossible."

"Your Majesty, if even one word I speak is false, may I be struck down by the heavens," Mo Qiehuai declared, bowing so deeply that his forehead struck the ground with an audible thud.

"The reports I received stated that five hundred thousand taels' worth of military provisions had already arrived in Qingzhou. How could this be? It must be her... Only she would have the power to orchestrate such a scheme."

Mo Qiehuai lifted his gaze, his eyes searching Roga’s face. But the emperor, his hands clasped tightly behind his back, did not return the look. Instead, he stared out into the snow-laden horizon, his thoughts a whirlwind of fury and realization. "Summon the empress," he commanded at last, his voice cold and resolute.

With that, he extended a hand to help Mo Qiehuai rise. "Stand. The snow-chilled floor is no place to linger, especially after such an arduous journey. Rest for now."

"As you command," Mo Qiehuai replied, bowing again before departing.

As Mo left the hall, Roga remained rooted to the spot, his thoughts consumed by a single certainty: it was her. No one else in the empire possessed the reach and audacity to siphon off fifty thousand taels without a trace.

The hall returned to its eerie stillness. The heavy fragrance of incense from the dragon-shaped burner filled the space, oppressive and cloying, like wine brewed too strong—a scent that clouded both air and judgment.

Mo Qiehuai lifted his head, his gaze fixed intently on Roga. Yet the emperor did not meet his eyes, instead turning his face slightly to watch the falling snow beyond the window. His hands, clasped behind his back, tapped rhythmically as he pondered. “Summon the Empress,” he commanded at last.

Having spoken, he extended a hand to help Mo up from the cold stone floor. “Stand. The ground is bitterly cold on such a snowy day—you’ll hurt yourself if you kneel too long. You’ve endured a hard journey; take your rest now.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Mo replied, rising to his feet. He said no more, turning to leave the hall.

As Mo departed, Roga scarcely noticed his exit, his thoughts entirely consumed. It must be her. Who else but the Ye clan could orchestrate such a seamless embezzlement of fifty thousand taels of military funds?

The hall fell once again into a heavy silence. The dragon-shaped incense burner exhaled the rich fragrance of agarwood, its intensity thickened by the winter chill. The scent lingered, cloying and oppressive, like a draught of overly potent wine, stirring unease in the soul.

Outside the palace, Mo Qiehuai did not immediately depart. Instead, he stood quietly beneath the corridor. The attendant who had guided him, recognizing Mo as a favored figure of the emperor, tactfully pretended not to see him and withdrew to a distance.

In front of Qianxian Palace, skeletal trees stood stark and lifeless, their barren branches cloaked in a mantle of pristine snow. Each flake glistened with a crystalline brilliance, like the most flawless glass.

It was unclear how long he lingered there before he finally caught sight of her. From afar, she appeared, surrounded by palace attendants as she approached with measured grace.

Her black gown, embroidered with golden epiphyllum patterns, was trimmed with sable fur at the collar and cuffs. The fabric flowed behind her, the hem trailing elegantly with each deliberate step. Her makeup was heavier than usual, yet meticulously applied. Raven-black brows framed eyes as deep and enigmatic as obsidian pools. Her hair, styled high, was adorned with a golden phoenix coronet, its beak clutching long cascading tassels that swayed but never tangled.

Snowflakes fell gently upon her figure, though even their brilliance seemed unable to rival the icy aloofness of her presence.

Not until Ye Rong drew closer did Mo Qiehuai smile and speak. “Greetings, Your Grace.”

Ye Rong hesitated for a fraction of a moment before replying, “The general has returned from Qingzhou? You must have endured much hardship on your journey. Have you presented yourself before His Majesty?”

As she approached, Mo Qiehuai studied her carefully. Her appearance struck him as frail—her jawline sharper than before, her complexion so pale it seemed translucent, even beneath the finest rouge. Her eyes, sunken and shadowed, glimmered darkly, like the inscrutable depths of the imperial pond.

He stepped forward, so close that the attendants gasped audibly, yet he paid them no mind. “You’ve grown so thin,” he remarked.

Ye Rong stood calmly, meeting his scrutiny without flinching. Her gaze, fluid and reflective like mist over mountain streams, carried no hint of coquettish charm, but rather a profound clarity tinged with coldness.

He recalled her beauty in days past, as dazzling and regal as a blooming peony in the imperial gardens, exuding an ethereal magnificence. Yet now, though her allure had deepened into something even more striking, it bore a poisonous, sorrowful quality—like the otherworldly beauty of the death-flowered manjusaka.

The thought brought a flicker of emotion to his feline-like eyes as his brow lifted slightly. Shifting topics, he remarked, “I just saw His Majesty. It seems his mood is utterly foul. And yet, here you are, looking so unwell. Are you unhappy about my return?”

Ye Rong inclined her head, the faintest of smiles curving her lips—a shadow of mirth laced with unmistakable irony. Her voice, low and lilting, carried a touch of derision. “His Majesty is in poor spirits?”

Mo Qiehuai abruptly grasped her hand, his thumb brushing against her skin as he leaned closer. The warmth of his breath hovered mere inches from her, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “Your methods are truly extraordinary. Fifty thousand taels of military funds disappeared without a trace, not even passing through my hands. And the confiscated wealth of Ye Songdu and his ilk—surely, none of it reached the Ministry of Revenue. Now, with the state treasury nearly emptied and nothing replenished, do you think His Majesty can be in good spirits?”

“And what of it?” she replied coolly. “Is this not the perfect opportunity for us?”

His eyes flickered with a brief hesitation, a momentary falter she instantly noticed. Lowering her gaze, she reversed their grasp, her jade-like fingers curling around his hand.

Mo Qiehuai’s hands were long and sinewy, marked by calluses that spoke of labor and hardship—hands that bore no resemblance to those of privilege and ease, so starkly different from his.

"Why hesitate now?" she asked, her tone sharp and unyielding.

A chill ran through Mo Qiehuai’s heart. Her words implied actions he had yet to uncover, steps already taken beyond his knowledge. The man on the dragon throne, unaware of the hidden fractures beneath him, might soon find his foundation crumbled, the slightest storm toppling him like a tree with rotted roots.

The attending palace servants had long retreated to a discreet distance, yet their covert glances betrayed unease at the pair’s bold proximity and unconcealed intimacy. Fear lingered unspoken in their hearts.

His gaze lingered on her face for a long moment before he finally said, slowly, “He has ruled for many years. His roots run deep. Such matters cannot be rushed.”

She raised her head slightly, her fingers slipping free from his hand with deliberate grace. Her eyes, still as death, betrayed no ripple of emotion, no sign of anger or fear. There was a quiet finality in her gaze, a composure so unshakable it seemed to drain the very air of tension. Even he, for all his strength, felt a shiver of unease.

"You’ve been bent under his imperial authority for too many years," she murmured, her voice laced with disdain. "You’ve grown submissive—your courage long since dulled."

“Are you provoking me?” he retorted, his finely chiseled features darkening with anger. A cold smile twisted his lips, his rage simmering just below the surface, ready to erupt.

But in the next instant, he mastered himself. His fingers curled tightly within the folds of his ornate robe, leaving faint, crescent-shaped imprints in his palm.

The icy wind swept through, carrying with it a flurry of snowflakes that danced like silken ribbons, delicate and fleeting. They seemed almost alive, spiraling around her as though drawn to her presence. Her expression, however, remained as cold and inscrutable as frost-covered glass, revealing nothing of her thoughts.

“Not at all,” she replied evenly. “You must have noticed the recent machinations of the Su and Wu families. They’re determined to depose me as the empress, citing my inability to bear children.” Her face remained impassive, but the corners of her pale lips curved into a faint, enigmatic smile—a smile as eerie and elusive as a flickering candle in a ghostly bloom of underworld flowers. “Qiehuai, it’s not too late to back out. Without you, my path will be more arduous, but not impossible. Rest assured, your lineage remains safe with me—I will never allow another to learn of it.”

“Your words cut deep, you know,” he said with a faint chuckle, his tone laced with bitterness. “I’ve just returned from Qingzhou after days and nights of relentless travel, and yet you won’t even allow me a moment to rest.”

He studied her, his expression softening as he extended his hand once more to clasp hers. The gleam in his dark eyes, caught in the dappled shadows of nearby branches, lost its sharpness, replaced by a glimmer of warmth—a fleeting flicker of sincerity.

His hands, wide and reassuringly warm, enveloped hers, which were cold as snow and ice. She instinctively tried to withdraw, but his grip held firm.

In that touch, she sensed a rare authenticity, the bare truth of him revealed. The words she had intended to speak faltered, unspoken, as a faint, indefinable emotion flickered in her gaze—neither sorrow nor anger, but something closer to resignation, a quiet acceptance tinged with indifference.

“In fifteen days, it will be her grand birthday celebration. Ten days from now, she is scheduled to visit Famen Temple for her customary prayers, stopping by the Su residence on her return,” she said, her voice calm and deliberate. “It’s a rare opportunity. Without the Su and Wu families, he will lose a vital support.”

Suddenly, without warning, Mo Qiehuai pulled her into an embrace, his arms tightening as though he wished to absorb her entirely. Just as abruptly, he released her and strode away with long, determined steps, leaving the palace attendants gasping in astonishment behind him.