Chapter 25
Yi Nuo~
“From here, you can see everything,” Ruilin murmured, a gentle sentimentality in his voice as he gazed across the horizon as if still in awe of it. “My mother used to come here to escape the burdens of being Empress.”
From Eagles Peak, Xiongfeng Terrace, he gestured north to the Chizui valley, where the forests stretched like a shadowy tapestry, their ancient trees whispering secrets on the breeze. Eastward, rust and ochre canyons clawed at the sky, their rugged cliffs burning under the relentless sun. West, the misty valleys held an air of ancient mystery where mythical creatures danced in the dim light. To the south, the sky blazed with a fiery sunset, an endless display of oranges and reds hinting at the magnificent Tree of Origins just beyond view.
As the sun retreated, it splashed the sky with an unholy blaze of vermillion, rose, and gold, painting the clouds. Those clouds, torn yet luminous, their edges gently brushed with the cool blue of approaching night. Below, the great river curved through the valley like a sinuous ribbon of copper and opal, whispering its way and mirroring the heavens.
“When illness stole her wings, my father built a magical cloud ladder so she could still reach these heights she cherished. But eventually, even those steps became too much for her, so he created this bedchamber in the sky. Here, she could sleep above the clouds, embraced by the stars she adored. Father always insisted it was purely to ease her breathing.”
“He was too cautious, I think, to admit he’d have moved heaven and earth for her. My father admired and emulated his role model, the previous Skylord, a man who scorned such romantic devotion. Father wanted to be like him, a proper ruler, so he hid his deep love for mother, just as the current Skylord, Ye Hua, did with his first wife. After mother died, he couldn’t bear to return, claiming regrets and her lack of presence. But I felt her then, and I still do.”
Ruilin spread his cloak across the rocky terrace and knelt, inviting me to join him. “Just like now. Her spirit is here and giving our marriage her blessing.” He guided my hand to his cheek, the touch both tender and sincere. With a gentle kiss on my knuckles, he affirmed his promise. “We mustn’t keep Mother waiting. She’s eager to meet her daughter-in-law.”
He reached into the folds of his richly embroidered robe against his fingers. He withdrew a packet bound in crimson silk, its sheen catching the sunlight. Tiny, no bigger than a sparrow’s heart, it pulsed with fire and light. Slowly, deliberately, he untied the silk, revealing a slim cord so deeply red it seemed to throb with life. “Fate’s thread. Once tied, we are bound by fate.” he whispers. “She braided it on her wedding day, and before she passed away gave it to me.”
With his gaze lowered he tells me this wasn’t how he envisioned marrying me, nor do I deserve such a rushed union. To him, he believes I deserve to be celebrated, admired, showered with the grandeur of a thousand suns and ten thousand blessings. But he hopes that I, his bride, will understand the depths of his love and urgency. He confesses, “I’ve been waiting and I can’t endure a single moment more without making you my wife.”
“When everything is settled, we’ll have an official ceremony in front of everyone, as you truly deserve. Nothing less than the most magnificent wedding imaginable. The grandest this realm has ever seen.” I turn to him, my eyes dewy with emotion, and gently cup his cheek. Our lips meet in a sudden and tender kiss, a whisper of warmth and connection, and I speak the most truthful sentences ever spoken by me, “Ruilan, this is perfect. All I need is you.”
Perched on a platform high above the swirling clouds, with only the wind and sky as our witnesses, we began by bowing to pay our respects to heaven and earth. Then, we honored our ancestors before finally bowing to one another. He wrapped a silky cord around our wrists, its soft texture acting as both a physical connection and a symbol of our eternal union.
There were no fireworks, no bridal procession, no grand celebration, yet for me, it was absolutely perfect.
He stands, lifting me effortlessly into his arms, sweeping me up as though I weigh no more than a feather. The wind is a living thing. It lifts our hair so that the two black rivers merge, streaming out behind us like twin pennants, the obsidian strands shimmering blue and violet in the last, dying light. My arms wrap tightly around his broad shoulders, feeling the living warmth of his skin radiate through the silk of his robe and seep into the layers of my attire. He holds me with a ravenous intensity, like a man who has been starved for centuries, yet his grip remains tender and reverent, as if he’s a priest handling a sacred relic.
His hands tremble slightly, as if I might slip away in the silence between our heartbeats. He presses his lips to mine—not with the feathery trepidation of youth, but with the devotion of a man who has already lost me once and intends to never lose me again. His mouth tastes of blood peach and honeyed plum wine, the flavors of the wedding feast we never had, of all the ancient sweetnesses I would give up for a chance to live and die a thousand times at his side. He kisses me as if trying to imprint every detail of this moment onto the fabric of the universe: the exact temperature of my body, the rhythm of my pulse, the tiny, involuntary quake at the nape of my neck as his fingers tangle in my hair.
He carries me several steps away from the edge of the terrace—though edge is a misnomer, for it is less a boundary than a gentle spill into emptiness, the embankment sloping away to expose the entire Phoenix Realm.
All the while, Ruilin’s gaze is locked to mine. When we are not kissing, he is simply looking—drinking me in as if he is dying of thirst, as if my face is the only oasis remaining in a ruined desert. I feel, for the first time, wholly seen. Nakedness, I realize, is not a matter of skin, but of spirit, and before this man I am as bare as the moon at its zenith.
“I love you, Ruilin.” My heart races, skips, then rights itself. The sound of his breathing, ragged and tangled in my hair, sets the cadence for my own. He lifts me again, so that my toes barely graze the stone, spins me into the warm cavernous bedroom until we are both dizzy with delight. I laugh, an unguarded sound, and am shocked to find it is my voice, unbroken and alive.
He lowers me to the velvet cushions of the sky-bed, its silks the blue-black of midnight, the brocade thick with threads of gold and pearl. I sink into the softness, but Ruilin never relinquishes me; he kneels above, his eyes sharp with wonder and worship. As if this is the first time, he studies every inch of exposed skin—my collarbone, my throat, the erratic flutter of my pulse as it leaps under his fingers.
“My mother said love is the only sacred fire that grows brighter the more it is divided,” he whispers, pressing his lips to the bend of my wrist. “I never truly understood until you.” He runs his thumb along the edge of my jaw, a feathery caress that makes my mind go blank and my body burn with desire for him.
The warmth of his breath, a gentle caress against my skin, the pressure of his body, a solid and comforting weight, silenced the clever words that danced on the tip of my tongue. His hands, exploring the delicate cage of my ribs with a tender reverence, sent electric shivers racing down my spine; the scent of his skin, a rich and familiar comfort, washed over me like a sweet, lingering perfume. In that fleeting moment, a sharp and crystal-clear understanding blossomed within me: every love story I had ever heard or read was but a mere prelude to this extraordinary depth of intimacy. I had thought I understood what it meant to make love, but in this moment, I realized with a startling clarity that I had been utterly mistaken.
Making love begins with the soft rustle of our clothes, a prelude to the unspoken promises exchanged in a lingering gaze. Ruilin’s eyes, pools of dark amber seem to penetrate my very being; a warmth spreads through me, a silent understanding. His touch, feather-light at first, then increasingly insistent, maps the contours of my body, arousing shivers of anticipation. His kiss, a blend of gentle exploration and urgent need, tastes like moonlit honeysuckle, a sweetness that ignites a hidden fire. The pressure of his tongue, a tantalizing dance, awakens a yearning I never knew existed, a sensation both shocking and exquisitely satisfying.
Ruilin’s hands move with exquisite patience at first, cradling my back and the base of my head, supporting me as if I were the most fragile instrument ever crafted. But the hunger that has been banked for weeks can only be contained for a breath, and soon the gentleness gives way to a more urgent mutual need. He devours me, and I devour him, our mouths opening and closing over each other, lips bruising and teeth clashing, tongues tangled in a contest of possession and surrender.
Our desire for each other is not a river; it is a flood, washing out everything in its path.
He slides a hand through the heavy fall of my hair, the weight of it coiling around his wrist, and with the other traces a line from the corner of my mouth to the edge of my jaw, over the arch of my neck, down the ridge of my collarbone. I gasp moaning, and he inhales the gasp as if it is the last air on earth, breathing me in. He holds me tighter, then looser, as if he cannot decide whether to anchor me or let me float free, and soon I am not sure whether I am a woman or a cloud or simply an idea that has taken temporary flesh.
My palms run over the planes of his chest, the lines of muscle and bone shifting beneath silken robes, and I realize that I am cataloguing his body as if I still can’t believe he’s mine. My hands memorize the subtle hollows, the hard ridges of his shoulders, the fine, almost invisible scar under his chin. I want to know how long ago he got it, what clumsy or heroic moment marked him. I want to know every story that ever burnt itself into his skin.
He runs his hands up and down my arms, slow at first, then faster, then up under the sleeves of my gown, and then suddenly I am half-dressed and did not even notice the garment loosening. He hums as my dress pools to my sides and my breasts are revealed; the color rising in both our cheeks, and for a heartbeat he stares, then bows his head in reverence, pressing his lips to the curve of one, then the other, his fingers trembling as he touches them. I do not know whether the trembling is desire or nerves or the shock of how easily we have come unbound. Perhaps all three.
He whispers my name, “Yi Nuo,” and it is a benediction, a spell, a wish. The way he says it dissolves the old shame, the layers of armor I’ve worn all my life since learning of my real mother. He pulls me down onto the nest of cushions until we lie side by side, our bodies aligning in a way that feels inevitable, ordained. He trails his fingers over each part of me, mapping the terrain, tracing the places where I have been hurt or loved or ignored. He touches the scar on my inner forearm, the one I got vaulting the monastery wall as a child, and I shiver. He kisses it, very softly, and looks up at me to see if it is allowed, if I will permit him to love even the parts of me I never wanted to show.
He kisses down my throat, pausing at the hollow above my heart, lingering there as if to listen to my pulse. Then his tongue flicks out, tasting the salt at my neck, and I feel each molecule of sensation as if laser-etched onto my marrow. I teach his hands, guiding him to where I want and need him most—the hollow of my hip, the curve of my waist, the slope of my ribs, the crest of my breast, the small pulse that beats wildly at the base of my throat. Each time he explores a new spot, he does so with an intensity that borders on reverence.
When he finally bends to kiss me again, it feels as if the world has tilted and the Heavens trembled. We stumble awkwardly, novices in the dance of desire, yet that only sharpens the urgency, making the beauty more visceral. This is not how poetics described it; it’s a scene unrefined, unstaged—pure yearning mixed with the thrill of discovery. We fumble, rolling together, laughter escaping our lips as we nearly topple a table, the silk curtains yanked from above and pooling around the bed. Our kisses merge with the whispering wind outside, a symphony building to a crescendo. When he enters me, hesitates at first, then entirely I feel his breath escape in a rush, his body trembling, and I cling to him fiercely, refusing to let go, letting nothing come between us.
He moves within me, slowly at first, as if afraid I’ll break, and I cradle his face in both hands, forcing him to look at me, to see that I am not fragile, not fading. With every thrust, every press of skin to skin, I feel more myself than I ever have. The sensations escalate quickly, too quickly, and I realize Ruilin is fighting to restrain himself, to draw out the moment, but I want none of that. I want the honesty of this—the wild, unguarded rush of our bodies and the rightness of being here, of being together, of not holding back. “Don’t,” I urged him. “Don’t hold back. I want to fall with you.” And he does, burying his face in my neck, moaning my name, and in that moment we are both unmade and remade.
He whispers, “I love you,” and it is simple and natural, and yet at this moment it is the most extraordinary thing I have ever heard. I whisper it back, and when I do, he holds me tighter.
We lie entangled for a long time, saying nothing, the silence filled only with the sound of our breathing. I listen to his heartbeat, trying to memorize its cadence, and he does the same, pressing his ear to my chest. I wonder if this is how stars feel when they collapse into each other, when all separation is erased, and the universe is reduced to a single point of blinding light. I want to stay here forever, in this bed above the clouds, and the body of the man I love beside me. I reach for his hand, and he laces his fingers through mine without hesitation.
But it does not end here.
We make love again and again, sometimes slow and tender, a gentle sway of bodies under silken sheets, skin warm against skin. Other times, a frantic tangle of limbs, harsh gasps echoing in the dimly lit room, the air thick with sweat and urgency, like the world’s ending. During our rests, his voice, low and husky, weaves tales of youthful rebellion—dodging tutors, the sharp tang of peach wine on palace rooftops with his godfather Zhe Yan who never got drunk while Ruilin rolled down and off the slanted silver tiles. Sometimes, silence descends, punctuated only by the raw, primal sounds of two souls desperate for union, a symphony of breathless moans and ragged panting breaths.
Time and we drift between making love and sleep, punctuated by peals of laughter and the gnawing pang of hunger. Yet, just as I believe our bodies have reached satiation, a fresh, fiery craving ignites. His lips, warm and insistent, trace my skin; he finds each secret tickle, each flush of heat, each scar and birthmark. I explore the subtle indentation at the base of Ruilin’s spine, the barely-there cleft in his chin, the frantic leap of his pulse at his wrists, the catch in his breath as my mouth finds him. His moan, a guttural whisper of my name, accompanies the shuddering climax as I swallow, savoring his essence.
At some deep hour, he props himself up on one elbow, his hair catching the moonlight and shining like a river of silvered obsidian. “I never believed in destiny,” he says, “until I met you. But now I think I must have been made for this, for you.” Any answer I could give would cheapen the truth, so I simply pull him down to me, and we kiss until language fails. The inky night then bleeds into a rose-tinged dawn, revealing Ruilin and me intertwined, an impossible knot of limbs. His sleep is deep, his arm heavy and warm draped across my waist, his breath a soft rhythm against my skin. The nascent light softens his features, washing away his princely facade and revealing a boyish vulnerability; his face is serene and innocent. Tracing the line of his jaw, I wonder what shadowed dreams and unspoken hopes flicker behind his closed eyelids. A fierce protectiveness rises within me, a desire to shield him from every sorrow, even Princess Changying’s arrogance. Her imperious air and casual cruelty in ending something as significant as their engagement over a simple message fills me with righteous anger. Who does she think she is?