By the time Roga awoke, dawn had barely brushed the sky, soft tendrils of light filtering through the intricately carved windows, casting an otherworldly glow across the chamber. Slowly, he opened his eyes, gazing up at the crimson canopy above, its heavy drapes descending like velvet shrouds, trapping wisps of faint light within their folds. The night's soothing comfort had left him utterly drained. He reached for her beside him, only to find the space empty.

He sat up abruptly, his voice instinctively laced with worry and an unrestrained edge of frustration.

"Yerong!"

Yerong remained curled up at the corner of the bed. At the sound of his voice, she lifted her head slowly. A faint shadow of melancholy crossed her brow, her quivering lashes casting a soft darkness beneath her eyes. Her lips bore fresh marks from where she had bitten them, a trace of blood lingering, while her long hair, spun like woven sunlight, cascaded over the lilac sheets like spilled ink.

There was something almost unsettling about her pale face tinged with a hint of peach. Her loosely draped robe had slipped from one shoulder, baring the delicate curve of her collarbone and the soft line of her chest. She continued to tremble, but not as she had the night before, when pain had driven her to silent shudders.

Beneath her slightly parted clothing, her alabaster skin glowed faintly pink under the black silk, her lashes fluttering subtly. The rouge beneath her eyes glistened in the sunlight, a touch of azure like a sunlit kiss upon her skin. Watching her, Roga felt a dryness creep into his throat, a strange allure radiating from her fragile form.

“What happened to you?!”

Wrapping her arms around herself, she trembled like a frail willow in the breeze, unconsciously biting her lip. Though she seemed on the verge of speaking, she only managed a wistful smile.

“Roga… Is it morning already? You should go to court… Hurry…”

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Don’t touch me! Stay away!”

As he reached toward her, she slapped his hand away, her voice desperate and breaking. Even this small movement left her visibly exhausted, a sheen of sweat beading at her brow, her labored breath as delicate as a wilted blossom, ready to fall at the faintest sigh.

“Tell me—what’s wrong with you?”

He thought she was merely being petulant, and a shiver ran through him as he laughed lightly, pulling her gently into his arms. His hand pressed against her skin—smooth and refined, hands well-accustomed to luxury. It felt familiar yet strangely foreign, causing her to laugh softly, her gaze distant and dreamlike.

“Fire burns to the soul… and when it does, all that's left is a hollow shell… Please, go… quickly…”

Her eyes, deep as a midnight lake, smoldered with hidden flames. Her hair, loose and wild, framed her face, casting layered shadows and drifting waves of fragrance, an intricate web woven by a spider’s touch.

Roga lowered his head, gazing at her intently. At last, he understood why she had drawn blood from her own hands, why the drug had been prepared.

“It’s all right, Yerong. I am your husband, your king. Don’t fear… No matter what, I am here…”

He caressed her cheek, moving closer, until only a hair’s breadth separated them, immersed in the sweetness of her scent. She shivered, her lips slightly parted, as if inviting him closer.

In the next moment, he kissed her, and her already heightened senses lost all control, like flames drawing a moth into a willing plunge. She clung to him, her movements sinuous as a serpent, her crimson lips passing their fevered hue to his.

Their mouths met, and she tasted his neck, his shoulder, and his chest, her icy hands slipping beneath his clothes, leaving a trail of fire upon his skin. Her lips brushed his ear, her breath light as oleander, both sweet and deadly, whispering his name with a tender cruelty.

“Roga…”

Her hand circled his neck, her body leaning back in a graceful arc as he held her, her body pressing firmly into his palm. His throat grew parched, his breath quickening, his desire unmistakable.

He nipped at her delicate ear, eliciting a soft gasp that sounded more like a fragrant sigh, a murmur meant only for his ear.

“Yerong…”

Roga’s voice rasped, coarse and low, an irresistible edge as he questioned her, torn between tenderness and ferocity, fanning the flames of her already burning desire.

“Do you… love me?”

Her breaths came in soft gasps, each one a whisper by his ear. Her hands clutched at his skin, dragging her nails over him, leaving traces of red.

His voice was faint and trembling, a tone so lost it sent an ache deep into her heart.

Without a word, she gripped Roga’s shoulder with her trembling hand, drawing close. She bit down without hesitation, the taste of blood spreading between their lips, spilling from her teeth. The harsh, violent flavor shattered the last thread of his self-control. Heavy breaths filled the air, mingling with the sound of tearing silk, and then an intense sensation pierced through her entire body.

Her legs wrapped around his waist, her body shuddering with each impact, whether from the poison’s surge or sheer pleasure, as fragmented sounds escaped her lips—whimpering, murmuring, laced with undeniable allure.

And he drank it all in, inch by inch, consuming her spirit to the core.

Her half-closed eyes misted with moisture, her hair flowing around her like a spun web, layer upon layer, binding the moth to its sweet and silken prison. They tangled, their limbs knotted so tightly that they became an inseparable whole.

At this moment, he forgave her unfaithfulness.

In this moment, he wished to merge her into his very bones.

Outside the window veiled in brocade, fine snow dampened the glass, the wind’s howl never ceasing.

For three days, the king had neglected his morning court, setting the palace abuzz, rumors of the queen’s favor spreading throughout the harem.

When ministers urged him to attend, his handsome face only bore a faint smile.

When she heard the whispers, she too, coldly smiled.

Their hearts harbored different thoughts.

It was October 21st, only four days from her birthday.

After weeks of recovery from the poison’s effects, Yerong had regained her strength, just as Jing’an descended into the most beautiful yet unforgiving depths of winter.

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

Despite the months of medicinal treatment, Yerong ventured out to the plum garden, undeterred by falling snow or He Du’s protests.

The garden lay on the western edge of the royal grounds, the plum blossoms blooming defiantly in the snow, their subtle fragrance drifting through the bitter cold. Along the cleanly swept stone path, free from any trace of snow, she stood by a tree, wrapped in a thick sable cloak.

“My lady, this plum tree bears white blossoms—reach out and feel them,” He Du murmured.

Following his words, she stretched out her hand past the umbrella held by her attendant, catching a few snowflakes instead. The snow melted slowly in her palm, pricking her skin with a chill that burned as it faded.

Around the plum tree lingered a faint scent, imbued with an austere loneliness.

White plum blossoms—she could not see them, but in her mind, they must possess a fragrance beyond snow, a purity beyond snow.

How she longed to see them…

Suddenly, a bowstring’s hum sliced the air. He Du moved swiftly, pushing Yerong aside as a black-feathered arrow buried itself in the tree. Snow scattered from the branches above, and the palace attendants gasped, rushing to help her from the ground.

“Are you unharmed, my lady?”

“Seems I missed my mark—apologies if I startled you.”

A man’s voice drifted from afar, mocking yet devoid of any sincerity. Hearing this nonchalant tone, Yerong’s body froze for an imperceptible moment before she found herself caught in a familiar embrace, Roga’s low voice in her ear.

“What are you doing out here? Are you hurt?”

Roga held her tightly, blending relief and fear, one hand gently caressing her sable-draped back, the other drawing her closer.

The other man, observing Yerong’s lowered head from a few steps away, could only see the pallor of her face peeking from beneath the cloak.

He took a few more steps forward, noticing the delicate golden butterfly ornaments in her hair, their jeweled strands swinging and covering her face once more.

Uninterested in further scrutiny, he sneered openly at the closeness between king and queen.

Roga, who had been completely absorbed in Yerong, finally snapped back to reality, his heart brimming with joy and satisfaction.

“Come, let me introduce you. This is one of my finest swords, assigned as the guardian of Weizhou. Hehuai, meet my beloved wife.”

A natural smile graced Roga’s handsome face. He held a deep affection for this unpretentious man, recognizing his unwavering loyalty and devotion, closer than even blood.

“Long live the queen. I beg your forgiveness for my offense,” said Hehuai, dressed simply in a robe of azure silk lined with white fox fur at the collar, catching the breeze as he spoke. His eyes, like a cat’s, gleamed with a concealed sharpness as he gave a respectful yet sly smile.

He Du, meanwhile, retrieved the dark arrow from the tree with a practiced hand that made Hehuai pause.

Yerong took the arrow, her slender white fingers tracing its shaft, before speaking quietly, head still lowered.

“Is the general’s name Mo?”

Both Roga and Hehuai paused, the latter disguising his surprise with practiced ease.

“The name is carved here—Mo Hehuai…”

Softly repeating his name, memories flooded Yerong’s mind with striking clarity: roughened palms, gentle lips, the mingled taste of tenderness and pain. In moments of blurred recollection, his patience and delicate touch… Yet none of that mattered now.

Thinking this, she slowly reached up to remove her cloak, lifting her head.

“I am unable to see, so I could not witness General Mo’s skill with the bow. A pity. For a moment, I truly thought you meant to shoot me.”

Her beauty, under the sunlight, seemed almost translucent, her face freezing him in place, blue-hued rouge beneath her eyes like flowers blooming in frost.

Momentarily stunned by this frigid beauty, Hehuai’s eyes misted, his gaze and pupils narrowing, his entire form stiffening.

The wind blew, carrying down more snowflakes, the chill in the air growing stronger until Yerong coughed softly.

“You are careless, Hehuai. For your offense, you are forbidden to draw a bow within the palace.”

Roga, having observed everything, dismissed it as Hehuai’s disdain for the Yè clan, unconcerned as he pulled Yerong closer. “He didn’t mean it, I assure you. Now, come to Linyang Hall with me; it’s far too cold out here.”

At Roga’s reprimand, Hehuai tilted his head, his finely drawn, nearly feminine features bearing an expression of utter indifference. Roga glared at him, but Hehuai simply followed, smiling as he did, though in the depths of his eyes, a hint of contemplation lingered.

Freshly added red sandalwood charcoal glowed warmly in the brazier, crackling in cheerful bursts, filling the hall with spring-like warmth. As they entered, the attendants quickly removed the gilded wine jug simmering behind a copper screen, and a pair of slender red-sleeved hands presented it on a lacquered tray. Instantly, the rich aroma spread, thick as silk, wrapping the air.

With Roga’s steady hand guiding her, Yerong took her seat. The rustling of robes and the soft clink of hair ornaments filled the space, followed by a gentle, deferential voice.

“Greetings to His Majesty, and to the queen.”

“You may rise.”

A hint of tension flickered in Roga’s gaze as he stole a glance at Yerong, noticing the almost imperceptible furrow in her brow. Quickly, he helped her remove her cloak with a warm smile.

“The Lady Wu’s willow dance is the most graceful of all. Hehuai, this time you must appraise it carefully.”

Lady Wu bowed before beginning, as lilting music played, her coral and amethyst hairpin swaying gently with each graceful step. Her silken robes floated with each movement, casting a brilliant red haze, as though a sunset had taken shape—undeniably captivating. Her waist swayed like a willow, and her painted lips shone with a vivid red, her dark eyes glancing toward Roga with a look both alluring and filled with unspoken longing.

Seated behind a low table, Hehuai admired the dance yet stole sidelong glances at the woman on the throne. Having shed her sable cloak, Yerong was dressed in somber black, her hair adorned with gold and jade, her complexion pale as snow, tinged with an ethereal frailty. Kneeling beside her, He Du silently placed various delicacies on her plate.

Before entering the palace, he had heard of the queen’s preference for black, her blindness, her sharp temper. He had wondered how such a woman could bewitch an enlightened king, never imagining she was the very woman with whom he had once shared a fleeting spring evening.

Gazing at her composed, distant face, an unresolved fury brewed within him, eventually spilling out in a wild, tooth-baring grin.

“Please, Your Majesty, try this Feiye wine. I brought it back especially for His Majesty.”

Taking the crystal wine cup from He Du, Yerong lifted her sleeves, lowering her lashes, her trembling lashes veiling her eyes as she took a delicate sip. Then, raising the cup toward Hehuai, and toward Roga, who looked on with a smile, she revealed a fleeting, distant expression.

For a brief moment, she seemed lost in thought, her brows knitting, memories weaving across her gaze. Unseeing, her mouth curved into a faint smile as the pale wine quivered in her cup, casting a flash of splendor upon her face.

“A remarkable wine—smooth and full-bodied, with a chilly sweetness lingering in its aftertaste.”

The soft scent of rue settled over the Linyang Hall as the beautiful dance continued, though none paid it any mind.

Hesitantly, the king wrapped an arm around her slender shoulders, his brow creased with a touch of envy.

“Good as it is, do not indulge too deeply. You’re still recovering.”

Before she could respond, Hehuai’s eyes darkened as he spoke.

“This Feiye wine is a specialty of Guazhou. Has Her Majesty been to Guazhou?”

Yerong’s long lashes quivered slightly, casting a pale blue shadow beneath her eyes.

“I have only passed through.”

“Guazhou’s fifteenth-night lantern festival is far more famous than even Feiye wine.”

The wine’s intense heat surged in her throat, waves of it crashing within her. She covered her mouth with a gold-embroidered sleeve, coughing softly.

Startled, Roga gently patted her back, hoping to ease her discomfort, only for her to tense under his touch.

From below, Lady Wu, still dancing, cast a look of envy and jealousy.

As Roga withdrew his hand, Yerong turned her gaze toward Hehuai, her eyes glistening, cheeks flushed a soft pink as if tinted by the lightest veil.

“Is that so? Then I must make time to witness it someday.” After a pause, as the wine’s warmth subsided, she rose with quiet grace. “It seems I am unaccustomed to drinking—I beg leave from Your Majesty to retire.”

Her dark, shadowy figure slipped out through the palace gates, the cold seeping through the air as if filling the hall with a lingering chill. Roga, distracted, waved his golden-sleeved hand, dismissing Lady Wu with a single, sorrowful glance.

Seated below, Hehuai’s gaze fixed intently on the king, his brow furrowed with a chilling air, as sharp as a blood-soaked blade. His voice, slow and clear, cut through the silence.

“Your Majesty, she is still a Yè.”

“I know, Hehuai.” Roga looked back, his face showing a weariness, as if to remind himself. “I know.”

The snow continued to fall, blanketing the palace in a quiet, unyielding layer of white.

Leaving Linyang Hall, Hehuai walked along the palace corridor, the snowflakes brushing his cheeks with a softness tinged by cold.

Such beautiful, icy allure—it nearly suffocated, stealing breath without mercy.

Even a wise king was not immune to such perilous charms, he thought wryly.

A servant carrying an eight-treasure glass lantern cast a delicate red glow on the stone floor, thin layers of pink mist drifting like a soft veil. The frozen beauty in the air remained.

Then the servant halted, interrupting his thoughts, as a graceful shadow stretched across the ground, blocking his path.

“It’s you…”

Her dark hair gleamed like the snow’s light, and he found himself momentarily unable to look away.

Outside, the night was deep, wind howling through the eaves, and she seemed to have been waiting there for a long time.

“Are you leaving now, Hehuai?”