Chapter 38
I woke not in silence, but in the breath between heartbeats —
where the world feels paused, and the soul has yet to decide
if it will return.
There was warmth, and the scent of peach blossoms soaked in grief.
My body remembered agony, though my mind did not yet know its name.
My fingers twitched in search of something —
someone —
A child?
A man?
Myself?
But all I found was stillness.
like the sky just after a storm has spent itself.
A hush not of peace.
but of aftermath.
My name… do I still remember it?
It tasted heavy. Like ink dragged too long across parchment.
Was I still me, or merely what remained?
I think there was love once.
A song. A promise.
A baby’s cry?
It hurts — this blankness.
I asked to forget.
I drank to forget.
But I wonder…
what did I trade to be free?
Three Years Later
Protocol has a sound. Silk whispers. Boots halt. A hundred voices still as one. Everywhere I walk in the Nine Heavens, immortals bow — men and women older than mountain ranges, their pale gold and white robes brushing against the inlaid jade tiles as they lower their heads to me. I wonder if they sense the discomfort hidden beneath the mask of serenity I’ve perfected over these last three years.
The weight of their reverence feels like chains of gold — beautiful, valuable, and utterly imprisoning. High Goddess.
Sometimes I catch myself listening for a single voice of an immortal my age that might speak to me as an equal, or searching the sea of lowered heads for eyes that might meet mine without fear or calculation. But there is only the rustle of silk, the perfect choreography of deference, and the hollow echo of my own thoughts, bouncing endlessly back at me from behind the walls I’ve built.
The title trails me like a shadow I never chose. I doubt I’ll ever grow comfortable with it. Wherever I go, pale-robed attendants scatter to the edges of my path, their long bell sleeves fluttering like startled cranes. Behind gold-threaded fans, they whisper the moniker they dare not speak aloud. Ice Princess.
My spine straightens without thought when a servant’s gaze lingers too long. My face settles into the mask I’ve worn since childhood — jaw tight, eyes forward, lips pressed into a line so thin they might vanish. Still, the reverence follows me like a cloak of lead.
A crane drifts between glass-spun bridges overhead, its reflection rippling across a still lotus pool where I pause, seeing my own face mirrored there — a perfectly composed mask.
I turn a corner and stop short. The scent of wisteria and star jasmine hits me first, then the sight: dozens of lacquered trunks — white as snow, crimson as autumn maples, pale celadon as spring bamboo — crowd the terrace below, stacked precariously high. Servants dart between them like minnows in a rushing stream, their slippered feet tapping out a frantic rhythm over jade stone.
Mother stands at the center of the whirlwind, her perfect composure fraying at the edges like fine silk caught on thorns. Father remains beside her, a statue of imperial calm that feels almost unnatural amid the chaos. Around them swirls a constellation of celestial nannies and attendants, pink-robed and harried, chasing after five immortal toddlers who dart and tumble like living thunderbolts through the flurry of trunks and silk.
Once, I might have laughed at the spectacle — tassels tangled beneath tiny feet, pearl droplets flashing in sunlight, trunks stacked higher than a mortal inn’s rooftop. But things are different now. I have yet to decide if these changes are for better or worse. While I slept away three years of my life, the immortal realm continued its relentless march forward.
When Stepmother Bai Lianhua passed into the next realm, the missing shard of Mother’s soul she carried returned, making her whole again. Yet wholeness came at a cost: Mother fell into a two-year coma, her consciousness drifting somewhere beyond reach. No one truly knows if her slumber was caused by the soul’s return… or grief too deep to wake from.
Upon waking, one of the first things she did was adopt Father and Bai Lianhua’s five children. Somehow, impossibly, it worked. The union is strange, yet seamless — a pattern woven without knots. My younger siblings call her A’niang without hesitation, their little voices bright and sure. It’s proof of a child’s unclouded gaze: how they see beyond skin, beyond names, straight into the soul.
Third Prince Baiyu stands with his shoulders squared beneath embroidered robes of midnight blue, his small fingers gripping an abacus of polished sandalwood and jade. His brow furrows with the gravity of an ancient sage as he points and directs his siblings with the authority of a general commanding troops.
Third Princess Meihua, his twin with identical obsidian eyes but wildly different spirit, has conquered the highest trunk, her peach-blossom silk skirts billowing around her ankles as she throws back her head in unbridled laughter that echoes across the courtyard.
Fourth Princess Zhilan sits cross-legged on the sun-warmed tiles, her plump cheeks working furiously as she gnaws on the crimson tassel of her jade rattle, leaving it darkened with drool, her eyes half-closed in concentration as if decoding celestial secrets.
Fourth Prince Suyin, with hair escaping its topknot in rebellious wisps, has wrapped his arms around a massive celadon trunk, his tiny feet planted wide, face flushed scarlet with effort as his tongue pokes out between milk teeth.
Fifth Prince Ruoyu, barely steady on his feet, navigates the treacherous sea of silks and trunks, his bare toes curling against the cool jade floor, golden ribbons trailing from his sleeves and tangling between chubby legs as he calls “Mama-mama” in a voice that rises and falls like silver wind chimes.
Then Mother’s voice cuts across the terrace, sharp as a guqin string pulled too taut, the sound vibrating with maternal authority. “Why is there so much luggage for such little children?” The jade ornaments in her hair chime softly with celestial resonance, catching the immortal light that seems to pool around her like liquid gold.
She plants her fists on her hips, and the hundred-pearl belt of the Fox Empress answers with a soft chime, the sound carrying the whisper of ancient magic. Each bead glimmers faintly, holding within it a drop of essence from the sacred Qingqiu springs — a reminder that she is no mere immortal, but the living heir of a lineage older than most realms.
The crimson and silver tassels on her belt sway as though caught in a breeze no mortal could feel, stirred by the same divine wind that once bore her through the Ghost Wars when her name Si Yin alone made the demon army falter. Her lips tighten, pale against the flush of rising temper. Her nose pinches ever so slightly — a small, elegant betrayal of growing irritation. And then, her eyes lift, slow and deliberate, those ageless fox eyes. She rolls them heavenward in a gesture so sharp and imperious that even the attending cloud spirits flinch, their ephemeral forms retreating an inch from the sheer weight of her authority.
“Their things should be tiny, to fit their bodies,” she says, pinching her thumb and forefinger together until barely a sliver of light passes between them, her jade-ringed fingers catching the morning sun. Then she spins in a whirl of white silk and golden ornaments, her fox-eyes flashing amber in the light as she sweeps her arm toward the mountain of trunks. “Yet this excess—” her voice rises like a guqin string pulled too tight, “—this absurd abundance confounds me!”
Father doesn’t so much as blink, his obsidian eyes fixed as immovable as the North Star. “All this is necessary,” he replies evenly, his voice a calm blade slicing through chaos, each syllable measured with precision. “Three weeks in Qingqiu requires this and more.”
He gestures toward the trunks with one long-fingered hand, the sleeve of his midnight-blue robe falling back to reveal the ancient jade bracelet that has encircled his wrist for ten thousand years. His other hand rests at the small of his back as he recites the inventory like a war general tallying troops. “Clothes for morning, noon, and evening. Books of poetry and calculation. Study materials for calligraphy and history—”
“In Qingqiu,” Mother interrupts, her voice slicing through Father’s inventory like a silver dagger. She lifts her chin with theatrical grace reminiscent of Zhe Yan. “We’re less uptight. Less bound to such trivial matters as clothes and books. And why,” she continues, her fingers splaying dramatically against her chest where nine-tailed fox embroidery shimmers with each indignant breath, “in the name of the Heavenly Dao itself, would children who have eternity before them need study materials?”
She snaps her fan shut. The fan’s golden tassels swing wildly as she smacks Father’s chest with it, hard enough that I hear the dull crack of jade against silk. “Ye Hua,” she says, her voice honeyed yet sharp as plum wine, “when we run out of clothes, we swim nude in the lotus ponds until Migu washes them all.” Her eyes glitter with mischief as she tilts her head toward the children. “Don’t we, children?”
“Naked swimming! Naked swimming!” The chant erupts from my younger siblings, their tiny fists punching skyward as they bounce on their toes, faces alight with the thrill of forbidden joy.
Father’s stiff shoulders drop a fraction, the only visible surrender in his otherwise perfect composure. “Swimming without clothes invites illness,” he says, each word measured like medicine. His gaze shifts to the hovering attendants. “The nannies accompany them. This matter is settled.”
Mother sinks to her knees in a whisper of white silk, her eyes level with the children’s. Her lips curve upward as she tilts her head, a barely perceptible side-to-side motion that contradicts father’s decree. “Tell me, little ones,” she murmurs, voice honeyed with conspiracy, “With Dege Yingpei, Jiejie Changchang, and me to watch over you in Qingqiu, what use have we for all these extra hands?”
“A’niang! A’niang!” they chorus, tugging on her sleeves. “We only need A’niang!”
And for a moment, I am struck still.
I watch as Mother gathers Ruoyu — the youngest — into her lap when he stumbles over a tassel, his tiny body crumpling like a discarded silk handkerchief.
She murmurs something soft, words too quiet to catch, as she smooths the damp strands of hair from his tear-spiked lashes with the pad of her thumb. He burrows against the hollow of her throat like he has always belonged there, his small fingers clutching at the white jade pendant that hangs between her collarbones leaving fingerprint smudges on the cloudy surface.
A sensation spreads through my chest like ink dropped in water, its tendrils reaching places I’ve forgotten existed. I try to grasp it—this feeling without a name. Is it jealousy of their easy affection? Or hunger for something I once had? Perhaps it’s the shadow of memories surrendered, the ghost-pain of an amputated past. My fingers disappear into my sleeves. My face hardens to porcelain. The High Goddess. The Ice Princess. Yet beneath this perfect facade, an emptiness pulses like a second heart
Father clears his throat, the weight in his voice cutting through the cheerful chaos of toddlers and trunks. “How is Changchang?”
The question lands like a dropped guqin note — soft, but vibrating with meaning.
Mother’s hands pause mid-motion against her sleeve, her face settling into something deliberately untroubled. “It’s just a phase,” she says with a dismissive flick of her wrist. “At her age, rebellion is as natural as breathing. I was far worse at her age, ask anybody.”
But Father’s jaw tenses, his gaze fixed on some distant point beyond the celestial gardens. “Even when other children her age grew too proud for such things, she still called me Baba,” he says. “Changchang would take my hand in public without hesitation.” The words emerge strained, his voice dropping to a whisper that carries more vulnerability than I have ever witnessed from him.
Mother exhales softly. “Give her time. She’s been diligent in her studies on Kunlun, but lately, she’s been spending her days in Qingqiu. We don’t ask what she does — children need space to grow without constant prying. She’ll come back when she’s ready.”
Father’s lips part, like he might argue, but he swallows the words, the silence stretched taut as silk. I see the way his hand curls slightly, fingers flexing as if missing the palm that once held his.
Then his eyes shift, dark and searching, and the air thickens. “Do you think Ying’er is alright?” Father asks, his voice barely above a whisper. “She who speaks even less than I do. After her trial, she was gone for so long. Sleeping, you said. I need to know where.”
Her answer resonated without pause, like a struck bell in the quiet room. Her face smoothed, settling into that familiar mask—the one I’d seen when caught in some petty mischief. Not a muscle betrayed her secrets; her expression was as still as a polished stone. “She slept within the Sacred Five Mountains in her dragon state,” she said, each word as precisely measured, coolly smooth as jade beads sliding across a silken string. “Under Zhe Yan’s protection. As you’ve been told.”
Then, with that particular aloofness she wields like a blade, that standoffishness that angers people without understanding why, she adds dryly, “We all know this.”
But Father’s jaw tightens, his gaze sharpens — twin embers beneath ice. “Then why didn’t Zhe Yan tell us while we tore the realms apart searching for her?” His voice is quiet, but it cuts deep and presses. “Something doesn’t add up. I know what you’ve told me, Qian Qian..Bai Qian. But I feel—” Father has yet to get accustomed, and some old habits are hard to break.
He stops, searching her face, though mother remained perfectly still. Father’s question lingers in the air: “I feel there’s something you, Zhe Yan, and Ying’er are not saying.”
Something inside me flinches. Not outwardly — I’m careful — but deep beneath the ice. The words strike a hollow I didn’t know was there, like a fingertip tracing the fault line of a forgotten scar. And then it happens — a flicker.
For the briefest breath, I feel the weight of something small cradled in my arms — impossibly light, softer than down, warmer than sunlit silk. There’s the faintest echo of a melody, my voice hoarse from singing, the edges of a lullaby dissolving into silence and fire.
I blink, and it’s gone.
I’ve trained myself to dismiss these… flashes. Shifu Zhe Yan said mortal trials have side effects like lingering shapes without names. But each time they come, my lungs seize as if memory itself has claws.
I step forward before Father can continue, letting my pale sleeves whisper against the jade tiles, my shadow slipping between them like a veil. “Are you talking about me?” I ask, my voice cool, steady.
The terrace stills. The servants freeze mid-motion. Even the toddlers pause, small ribbons drifting around their ankles like stalled comet tails. Father looks at me sharply, his expression unreadable save for the tension gathered between his brows. He does not answer right away — a silence that feels heavier than words.
Mother reacts first, her face smoothing into the kind of careful calm only she can wield. “Ying’er, why would we speak of you behind your back?” Her tone is light, playful even, but I see the faint widening of her eyes — too much. That’s when I know she’s lying.
And beneath it all, another fragment stirs. A soft, keening cry. A pair of golden-flecked eyes staring up at me from somewhere I can’t reach. A scent of my soul dissipating in the wind.
Bai Qian~
I cut Ye Hua a sharp glare — a warning keen enough to slice, though he seems immune to it. His lips are pressed thin, mine the same, though for different reasons. His are restraint; mine are secrets.
I school my voice into lightness, soft as peach petals, knowing full well the children can smell lies as surely as foxes sense storms. “Ying’er, why would we ever speak of you behind your back?”
Those eyes; her gaze doesn’t waver. It never does. That’s the dangerous thing about my daughter — even when she knows nothing, she carries herself as though she knows everything.
But I can see it. Beneath her stillness, there’s a fracture. A faint tightening of her jaw. The way her lashes lower — not slow enough to be deliberate, not fast enough to be careless. As though a shadow passed across her thoughts and vanished before she could name it.
She remembers something; I think. Not words, not images, but the shape of what’s missing.
The orchard invades my thoughts, a vision of that day beneath a blizzard of pale pink blossoms, their delicate fragrance a cruel mockery. Zhe Yan’s hands, slick with her lifeblood, trembled as he peeled back the crimson-soaked silks—the metallic tang of blood still clinging to my memory. Her dark hair, a tangled mess against the grass, revealed the Phoenix Mark, burning like a brand against her pale skin. The sigil, a sacred crest no Celestial should ever possess, pulsed with an unholy light, only appearing under duress or intense emotion. My daughter, bless her calculated heart, wouldn’t be losing control like that anytime soon, if ever.
Only those who endure the Trial by Phoenix Fire are branded with that mark. And only Phoenixes ever survive it. The flames within the Tree of Origins burn hotter than any mortal sun, searing straight into the soul. High Immortals would wither. High Gods and Goddesses would scar for eternity. No one but an immortal of flame and ash — born with fire woven into their marrow — could walk into that inferno and emerge whole.
Yet Ying’er — my daughter — is no Phoenix.
She was born Celestial. A dragon whose magic flows like water, whose very essence should have recoiled, extinguished by such fire. Zhe Yan and I scoured every scroll, every ancient record, searching for an answer. We found none.
Perhaps it was her affinity for the elements, the rare gift she inherited — the ability to bend air, water, earth, and flame to her will. Perhaps water itself shielded her heart while fire remade her flesh. I still can hear the lullaby caught in her throat when we found her, her voice cracked raw from singing. A song meant to soothe…her dead child.
She begged me. So I gave her mercy — though mercy has teeth.
Now, standing here in the open air, Ye Hua’s gaze burns against my cheek like sunlight through glass. He doesn’t see her fragility, not like I do. To him, she is whole. To me, she is a lake beneath thin ice — one misstep, one careless question, and she will fall through into waters too deep for her to survive again.
“Since you’re not talking about me,” she says with that cool, brittle composure she wears like armor, “I’ll go meet Ruilin.”
I open my mouth to protest — too sharply, too fast. My voice climbs octaves before I can leash it. “Why are you meeting Ruilin?”
Her chin lifts, black lashes cutting like strokes of ink against her fair skin. She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t want to, and she won’t.
It’s a mystery where she gets her stubborn streak from.
I kneel, busying my hands with straightening the Third Princess’s hair ribbons — a pointless distraction, but one that keeps me from looking Ying’er in the eye. My voice drops to near-whisper, feathering the air. “Ying’er… focus on your healing gifts. Cultivate yourself further first. We can revisit this marriage… later.” But when I glance up, I’m speaking to empty air. She’s already gone.
Ye Hua is still here, watching me. His gaze pins me in place, unyielding, quiet as winter frost. “I know,” he says, voice low and certain, “that you’re hiding something.”