Chapter 34
Feng Ming~
The air reeked of plums and lotuses in bloom, but all I could taste was the acrid bite of jealousy. They danced like lovers lost in a world of their own creation, careless and bright and maddeningly near. I had stood in the shadows of that east corridor, my palm feeling warm even through the wood, unable to breathe — as though a fishbone was stuck within me.
I didn’t think I could despise him more, but I was wrong. There he stood—Crown Prince Ruilin. Gilded in light like some favored child of the heavens. The perfect heir, the Phoenix Realm’s golden boy. His presence radiated effortless charm, a magnetic pull that drew everyone in. His voice—low and warm—wrapped around her like silk. His hands—those divine hands that trained to wield celestial swords and inscribed sacred scrolls—now brushed the swell of her belly like it was sacred, as if he’d been anointed by the cosmos to protect this fragile life.
Yi Nuo. His hidden bride. His soft little mortal folded herself into him with the sort of disregard for gravity, as if no conspiracy existed in the universe to keep them entangled. Her laughter, genuine, sharp and clear as crystal, sliced through the quiet courtyard, sending a shiver along my spine.
The scent of jasmine curling off her black hair the first time I saw her stayed with me like a scar or haunting. I couldn’t stop myself from wondering what she’d smell like squirming under me, completely bare of all that virtue draped on her as a silken fabric; innocence dissolving in the fiery blaze of lust.
The way they touched. Like the world had no rules. Like no one was watching. Like they had the right.
Shameless.
He kissed her like a man who had been starving — deep and messy, greedy. As if he could swallow her soul down through her mouth, consume the essence of her with each frantic kiss. She let him. She clung to him, her fingers tangling in his hair and pulling him close as if afraid he would fade into mist, staring at him as if he were her entire universe. I was watching, grinding my teeth behind a cold jade pillar like some wretched spirit chained to stone. Something scraped raw inside of me, hollow and ugly — it was the gnawing.
I didn’t mean to stay long. I swear it. I just wanted to confirm what I already knew in my heart, or rather my stomach — that curve on her beneath those robes was no play of light nor simply too much lotus cake. She was pregnant. With his child. Here was a seed that should never have been planted. But he didn’t just visit her. He came back home for six days.
Six bloody days of pretending to play house, while the rest of us skirted and tiptoed around him, acted like we didn’t notice how he owned her body as well as soul. Six mornings she stayed curled under his arm, sunlight in her hair (a halo of warmth that filled me with such yearning), and a craving to feel what Ruilin did. Six afternoons of my witnessing her fingers caress his cheek, hand or thigh — each touch implying silent promises that continued to twist the knife deeper in my chest.
Six nights — and those were the bad ones. I heard them.
Through walls of jade and moonstone, I heard the gasps. The moans and panting breaths. The way she cried out his name, over and over, like a spell woven from desperation and desire. No shame. No restraint. Just hunger. Need. She begged him for his cock like a harlot, and he gave it to her. Over and over and over again—their bodies entwined in a dance of primal ecstasy that echoed through the halls, a symphony of sin that played just to taunt me. I didn’t think such lustfulness could come from her lips.
I lay in bed every night, sleepless, sweating, fists clenched so tight my nails cut skin. My eyes burned hot and dry. My jaw locked, pain blooming just under my ear—sharp and stubborn, like something I’d been biting back too long. I told myself I was revolted. Disgusted. But it wasn’t disgusting. It was something deeper. Blacker. It was jealousy and not just for the sex.
For the way she looked at him, my moronic brother. Though he has changed. She has made him a man, but still is it necessary to stare at him like he hung the fucking moon. Like every breath he took was a miracle. She saw him. All of him. Only him. She was fearless in her love. It didn’t scare her. She chose him.
Ruilin, that smug bastard, lapped it up like nectar, basking in the glow of her adoration—while I couldn’t get my fill of her. So I watched as she stood beside him—light against gold, soft against something sharp. The sun cast a halo around her, illuminating the delicate curve of her jaw, the way her hair danced like silk in the breeze. Vibrant, alive, impossibly herself—and tethered to him. Ruilin. As if she belonged there. As if they were meant to be. As if that was the natural order of things.
But it wasn’t.
She was never meant for hands like his—too careful, too privileged, too used to getting what he wanted without ever bleeding for it. I closed my eyes—just for a breath—and let the image bloom behind them: her beneath me, not him. The memory of her laughter echoed in my mind. Her voice catching, breaking, moaning my name like it meant something. Her body arching into mine—not out of duty, but desire. Because she chose me. Not Ruilin. Me.
I could soften her. Break her open slowly, layer by layer, until she was raw and exposed. Until she was mine, piece by piece. I’d burn the sky just to watch her fall—no, to watch her fall for me. To see her shatter, not in his arms, but in mine. To take what Ruilin thinks is sacred and make it mine.
I laughed, low and bitter—the sound of a jagged edge in the moment’s stillness.
A sigh escaped from my lips before I could suck it all back in — soft, choked and ripped away by the wind. The air tasted of an approaching storm — charged, waiting to be snapped. I knew it well. I was raised on that flavor. Chaos, loss, the stink of things falling apart — that was what my lullabies sounded like. My inheritance. But any day now … Any day soon and I won’t taste the bitterness on my tongue. It’ll be warm breastmilk for Ruilin’s heir shooting down my throat — sweet victory.
However, not yet. Not right now. So I wait. And I watch. A devoted shadow, always a step behind, out of reach.
The heavens offer no mercy, and fate is never fair or kind. Love like theirs? It can’t last. It flickers prettily, like a lantern before the wind snuffs it out. All that laughter, all those breathless I love you’s are mere illusions. Just lines in a play that always ends in ruin. And when it does—when the stage collapses—I won’t be there to catch the pieces. I’ll be there to crush what remains.
Yi Nuo~
I want this to never end. These days passed like petals off a dying blossom—graceful, silent, inevitable. In the warm hush of the Eastern Palace, we moved as if the world beyond its red lacquered gates had vanished. Ruilin didn’t speak of the Nine Heavens or the summons burning in his pocket, and I didn’t ask. We built a sanctuary out of denial, fragile as spun sugar, and just as sweet and just as easy to shatter.
Mornings were slow. We wandered beneath the cherry trees, the air thick with the perfume of petals and earth, our fingers brushing, tangling, letting go. In the afternoons, he would coax me down onto floor cushions embroidered with stories from ancient legends, but ours was the only story I could hear. He would trace idle circles over the swell of my belly like he was memorizing a future neither of us dared name aloud and hum to the baby who loves his voice.
At night, the silence changed. We made love without words, reverent and unhurried, as if to delay the moment we’d be ripped apart again. There was hunger in it, yes—but also tenderness, melancholy, hope. We didn’t reach for each other in passion alone, but in prayer. A ritual of skin and breath, a promise made flesh.
But no joy is untouched by shadow.
It was the fourth day when I felt it. No—saw it. Just a flicker at first. A ripple of movement behind the moon lilies near the garden wall. A flash of green silk too fine for a servant. My gaze snapped toward it, but he was already gone.
Feng Ming. His name alone makes me shudder. I know that gaze. He’s not the first. Men have stared at me like that before, but Feng Ming’s gaze isn’t just lustful. It’s cruel, cold and full of hate. The kind of look that makes me think he would kill me after using me for whatever sick purpose he entertains in his twisted mind.
The second time, I caught the glint of his eyes behind a paper screen. He vanished the moment my head turned, but I found the wildflower garland Ruilin made for me crushed as if stomped on. He never approached, never made a sound. But I could feel him—the way you feel a winter draft curling under a closed door.
I didn’t tell Ruilin. How could I? What could I possibly say? That his brother—the one with the honeyed voice and wolfish stare—was stalking us like a vulture circling something still alive? Ruilin already carried too much on his shoulders. I could see it in the way he touched me at night, like he was afraid I might slip away if he let go. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t give him one more reason to worry. So I stayed quiet. I clung to the small golden things, the precious beautiful things that made me feel safe.
The way he kissed each fingertip before sleep. The bubbling laughter we shared when he tried (and failed) to wash my hair in the hot spring behind the Jade Terrace. I’m too big for us to fit in the bathtub like before. The look in his eyes when he lit the lanterns himself just to see their glow settle across my bare shoulder. And then came the sixth night.
Rain tapped soft against the stone paths like a lullaby with no words. Ruilin held me in our bed, our bodies warm beneath the silk canopy. His thumb brushed my jaw, and his voice came like a hush across my skin. “The Skylord agreed,” he said.
I blinked up at him. “To what?”
“My request,” he said, smiling with the joy of a boy, the bearing of a prince, and the patience of a man who had waited eons. “He’s granting it—the elixir. It’s for you, so we’ll never be apart again.”
I stared at him. The breath caught in my throat, then spilled out in a half-laugh, half-sob. For a moment I forgot to be afraid. “I’m proud of you although I never doubted you,” I whispered, pulling him close until our foreheads met. “I know you have to go, but don’t worry about us. I’ll write to you every day. I swear it.”
He smiled against my mouth. “I’ll return before the baby comes. No matter what the skies demand. Let the Skylord punish me—I’ll tell him to shove it up his tight immortal ass.”
I laughed harder than I should have picturing Ruilin telling off the ruler of the heavens. We kissed again, slower this time. Not to deepen the moment, but to linger in it. Afterward, we lay tangled in each other, hearts thudding in quiet harmony. His robe was clutched in my fist even as sleep began to pull me under. I wanted to hold on. To pretend I could keep him tethered here a little longer.
But behind the haze of warmth and candlelight, a thought pricked the edge of my peace like a thorn through silk. Feng Ming is still watching, and whatever he wants, it isn’t just envy. There was hunger in his stalking and silence. A waiting kind of hunger. One that made me clutch Ruilin tighter in the dark.
Ruilin~
The sun rose slowly that morning, dragging its golden limbs over the horizon as though reluctant to begin the day. I shared its hesitation. I lay still beside her, not daring to breathe too deeply, afraid the spell would break. Her hair fanned out across the pillow like black silk, cheek pressed soft against her forearm. My eyes traced her every curve—memorizing the shadows at her collarbone, the slope of her shoulder, the faint rise and fall of her breath.
She stirred—just slightly. A flutter of lashes, a wrinkle of her nose. Then, without opening her eyes, she flung a pillow at my face.
“I knew it. You’re staring at me again,” she muttered, voice thick with sleep. “It’s creepy to stare at someone while they sleep.”
“I’m allowed,” I said, catching it easily. “I’m your husband, and it’s my last morning. I should be allowed to be insufferably sentimental.”
She didn’t argue.
We dressed in silence, not cold but cautious—like speaking too loudly would make reality crash down faster. Her hands fumbled on the last knot of her sash. Mine itched to reach over and help, but I let her have the moment. She wouldn’t meet my gaze. While I—I couldn’t stop looking at her. I was starving for her—every blink, every breath. As if the moment I looked away, she’d vanish like mist. The love between Yi Nuo and me is so achingly fragile and real, it’s like trying to hold moonlight in my hands.
“You’ll be back before she arrives,” Yi Nuo said quietly, finally lifting my hand to rest it against her belly. Her smile was thin but brave, the kind that tried not to crack.
“She?” I echoed, voice low. “You’re sure?”
She nodded. “She told me. In a dream. She had your eyes… brown with those golden flecks like warm amber.” Her lips quirked. “But my nose. Thank the heavens.”
I let out a quiet laugh, breathless. “Then I’ll come back before she takes her first breath. I’ll break the heavens in half if I have to. I’ll be there when you go into labor. I’ll stay in the room. Hold your hand. I’ll even count your contractions. I’m a modern man—progressive, fearless.”
Her eyes sparkled. If I wasn’t already in love with her, I would have fallen in love anew. “Too bad I’m a traditional woman,” she teased. “You’ll faint. Men always do. If they saw what we went through, they’d stop asking us to give birth entirely.”
I grinned, but my chest ached with the kind of pressure that made it hard to breathe. We stood facing each other, holding hands like the only thing anchoring us was each other’s touch.
Outside, the courtyard was already stirring with soft wind. Plum blossoms tumbled from the trees in slow spirals, blanketing the earth like snow. Beyond the garden wall, the Celestial carriage gleamed in waiting, flanked by silent guards in white armor. Duty loomed like a shadow stretching longer with every heartbeat.
I kissed her. Once on her lips. Once on her brow. Then both her hands, as if I could kiss this moment into permanence. My voice caught in my throat. “I shouldn’t go,” I choked. “Let the Skylord wait. I’ll send word. I’ll plead illness. I’ll—”
“No.” Her fingers cupped my face, cool and sure. “You must go. This is for us. So we can stop hiding. So I don’t have to live like a shadow beside you. If you don’t go, we lose everything we’ve built.”
Her eyes burned with certainty. “Ruilin,” she whispered. “I trust you. Now you must trust me.”
I pulled her into my arms one last time, burying my face in her hair. Sandalwood and jasmine. Home. My body was already protesting the distance I hadn’t even taken yet. I turned and walked away, feet heavy, spine stiff. But I only made it as far as the gate before I stopped.
The ache in my chest turned unbearable. My legs moved without consent—dragging me back. I ran. Past the colonnade. Past the jade fountain and the wisteria arch. My heart pounded louder than any war drum. She was still there. Right where I’d left her. Hand on her belly. Eyes already waiting for me.
I didn’t speak. Just wrapped my arms around her and held on, like I could tether myself to this one moment forever. “I know,” she whispered into the crook of my neck. “I don’t want you to go either.”
My breath shook in my lungs.
She pulled back, cradling my cheek. “But you have to. For me. For her. For us.”
I nodded—barely. Like a child trying to be brave.
“I’ll write to you every day,” she promised, brushing my hair from my brow. “Even if your replies don’t come. I’ll still write.”
I kissed her again. This time deeper. Longer. I needed her breath in my lungs, her heart pressed to mine.
“I’ll write back,” I swore. “I’ll return before the moon turns thrice. Swear to me—you’ll wait for me. You’ll be here when I return.”
“Where else would I be?” she said, smiling for real this time—blindingly, unwavering. “Where you are is home.”
I stepped away slowly this time; the ache pulsing with each step. The Eastern Palace gates closed behind me with a groan like thunder—final, echoing.
Just like that, I was gone. But not really. Because the best parts of me remained in her. With her—waiting.
Consort Lie Xi~
The doors to the East Pavilion had scarcely shut behind the Crown Prince before Meizhen entered, silent as breath, robes whispering against lacquered floors. “Empress, he’s gone,” her dowry maid said, bowing low.
Lie Xi stood unmoving at the lattice window, gaze fixed on the vanishing trail of the Celestial carriage. Her sleeves belled like wings against the marble sill, bracing her against the weight of the sky. “How long?” she asked, her voice even, almost detached.
“Who can tell? But Prince Ruilin knows he’s racing against the clock. His goal is to give her immortality.”
Lie Xi turned with imperial grace, golden finger coverings grazing the small ceramic pots and containers on her vanity. “Then we move in three days. The sleeping tonic?”
Meizhen bowed. “Prepared. The servants will take their tea and dinner at the second bell. But what about Yi Nuo? She won’t drink what she hasn’t brewed herself, and she’s refused all food sent from outside the Eastern Palace.”
“Clever,” Lie Xi murmured, tucking her silk handkerchief into her sleeve. “Mortals survive by suspicion. But once the servants collapse, she’ll be alone. You will borrow Lue Lue’s face and bring her hawthorn tea—infused with red peony and oxtongue root.”
Meizhen’s eyes flickered uneasily. “The early labor tonic… she’ll suffer, bleed heavily.”
“That is the idea.” No theatrics. No remorse. Lie Xi’s cold tone was steel.
Her gaze fell to the stack of parchment she kept near—Meizhen’s careful forgeries. Letters written in Yi Nuo’s hand, perfect to the stroke. “Ruilin will receive these, each a doting note from a wife who misses nothing. As for his replies, I’ll read them first. Burn or rewrite as needed. Then—silence, and she will be told that Princess Changying has returned. Let her mortal’s heart believe he has forgotten her.”
Meizhen hesitated. “And the child?”
“My child,” Lie Xi answered without pause. Yet it wasn’t her voice she heard first, but her reflection. Her sister’s face reborn in sharper lines. For one brief, unbearable instant she saw the late Empress again—the elder sister who once wore this hairpin, this title, this man’s love. Lie Xi’s lips curved bitterly. Jiejie, forgive me. I have always been in your shadow. But even shadows learn to kill the light.
Lie Xi stated feeling nothing, not a single emotion within her. “The moment it breathes, it is mine. Bathed in crimson, wrapped in prophecy. A Phoenix son born of fire.”
Silence thickened between them. Meizhen finally asked, “Can the healers and midwives be trusted?”
“They are my people. Doctor Guo values his daughter’s health. Head Midwife Chao drowns in debt. Each hand that touches that child will have sworn silence—whether in gold or in fear.” Lie Xi surprised herself with the emptiness of her own voice. So detached. Am I as hollow as Feng Ming?
She had long scorned her son for his cruelty, his lack of restraint. Yet now she wondered if there was any difference between them. She schemed, she poisoned, she killed—hadn’t she done so before? The thought slid in like a knife. The late beloved Empress—my jiejie. Everyone still believes it was illness, an untimely decline. But I know the truth. The teas I brewed, the powders I mixed into her cosmetics and medicine chest. I told myself it was mercy, that she was too delicate, too weak for the throne, too unloved by the Emperor to bear it. But no. It was me. My hand. My hunger.
She suddenly laughed aloud as realization dawned on her. Perhaps Feng Ming and she were the same—two predators circling the same feathered prey, baptized in fire. Circling closer and closer, not to admire the Phoenix’s brilliance, but to strip it bare—to rip apart its divine plumage until nothing remained but bone and ash. She inhaled deeply and practically smelled the stench of burnt flesh and hair, but the picture in her mind was exquisite. Atop that pyre of ruin, a new throne would rise for her newborn son… and she, at last, would reign as not just the Empress but Empress Dowager. A position of seniority that even the Emperor deferred to.
“You’ll induce yourself too? Empress, that’s too dangerous. The pain—Empress, the pain will be immense. What if the mortal’s child—what if your child — dies from being premature?” Meizhen blanched.
“If the other child doesn’t live, then that is fate. Time is not in my favor so one must take chances. There can be no switch without two cries in one breath. My child is already dead—but its body will serve its purpose.” Lie Xi carefully reapplied her rouge. Even in childbirth, she would look her best. “I have endured worse, but prepare the opiate just the same.” Lie Xi whispered. Her fingers touched the phoenix hairpin at her vanity—her sister’s, reforged as her own. She pinned it with finality. “I will labor in the Western Maternity Pavilion. Our physicians know what to do. Once the switch is made, the living infant will be wrapped in my clan’s colors.”
“What of His Majesty? The Emperor is still in seclusion.”
Lie Xi’s smile curled like smoke. “When he returns and sees a Phoenix heir in my arms, he’ll kneel to fate. He will crown me Empress at last.”
Meizhen attempted to ease the tension. “I’m sure the Emperor will favor you once he sees the little prince. Surely he’ll understand the depth of your love.”
Lie Xi’s eyes shifted skyward, to where peach blossoms drifted like falling hours. “Favor me? Affection?” Her voice cracked, low and sharp, before turning colder and hard. “Love is no shield. It cannot protect me. It blinds, and blind women leap from Zhuxian Terrace.”
Meizhen swallowed. “And the Crown Prince? Won’t he notice?”
Lie Xi’s laugh was soft, disdainful. “Ruilin could never fathom such darkness. His mind is clear, unsullied. He thinks too purely. He will never suspect the hand that moves the surrounding shadows.”
She turned back to the reflection in the mirror. Her sister’s face—her own face—looked back. Not a woman. Not a sister. Not even a consort. A villain… and she accepted it.