"Some flowers only bloom once. Others never bloom at all."
The weight of the veil pressed against her skull like a second crown—one she had not asked for, and would never rule beneath.
Xu Feiran sat still on the lacquered wedding dais, every inch of her body restrained by tradition. Her hands, wrapped in embroidered silk gloves, rested motionless in her lap. Her back straightened by weeks of training. Her breath barely touched the air.
Outside, the palace bell rang for the third time.
She heard the palace gates groan open like ancient bones being pried apart. The Crown Prince's wedding procession had arrived. A storm of color and precision. Horses hooves clapping in perfect time. The sound of a hundred officials bowing. The trumpet of long flutes like mourning doves pretending to sing.
It should have stirred something in her—excitement, pride, fear. But Xu Feiran felt only cold.
The bridal phoenix crown was impossibly heavy. Twenty-four golden phoenixes perched atop her head, wings arched upward, each one weighed with pearls and sapphire eyes that blinked as she moved. Long red tassels dangled from her hairline, brushing against her cheeks like insects whispering secrets.
Her lips were painted blood-red, a smile shaped without permission.
No one had asked her if she wanted to marry him.
Not the Emperor, who signed the decree.
Not the Empress Dowager, who nodded once, tight-lipped.
Not even the Crown Prince himself, who accepted her name like one accepts the appointment of a new steward or the delivery of a horse.
They had selected her because she was perfect on paper.
Daughter of Duke Xu. Educated, quiet, graceful. Without scandal. Without power.
A vessel without flame.
She was not the brightest flower. But she was the most obedient.
The silk curtain in front of her face twitched, and Yue'er leaned in from outside the carriage.
"Niangniang," she whispered, using the respectful title that still felt wrong. "They are waiting."
Xu Feiran did not move.
"Your hands," Yue'er said more gently, "are shaking."
Feiran looked down. They were. Just a little.
Yue'er stepped closer, shielding her with her own body so no passing official would see. She took Feiran's gloved hand between hers and pressed it warmly.
"I'm here," she whispered. "I will be with you until the end."
Feiran nodded.
The door opened fully. Light poured in—harsh, white, reflecting off a hundred gold-threaded silks and ceremonial fans. She was led down from the bridal sedan by two eunuchs, each holding one arm with precision but no kindness. Their faces were expressionless, like furniture come to life.
A carpet of red and gold stretched before her.
At the far end, standing tall and immobile like an ink painting, was the Crown Prince.
He wore crimson robes of state, high-collared and stiff, patterned with dragons that seemed to twist in the fabric as he breathed. His hair was tied high, crowned with the ceremonial diadem. He was beautiful the way jade was beautiful—cold, flawless, and dangerous if dropped.
He did not look at her.
Feiran took her first step.
Every pair of eyes in the court was on her. She could feel them like pins pressed into her spine. Watching for stumbles. Listening for imperfections in her breath. Measuring how much love the Crown Prince would show by how close he stood.
But he didn't move.
Not when she approached.
Not when she reached the second-to-last step.
Not when the High Priest announced the rite.
"Today, under heaven's mandate," the priest intoned, "we bind His Highness the Crown Prince and Lady Xu Feiran in eternal harmony. May the heavens recognize their union."
Harmony, Feiran thought, staring at the empty space between them.
Even heaven has a sense of irony.
She knelt beside him. The ceremony proceeded like a painting being scrolled out—slow, detailed, impersonal.
They bowed to heaven.
To the Emperor.
To each other.
At the final bow, he tilted forward only just enough to fulfill expectation.
When she looked up, their eyes met.
His were unreadable.
Not cruel. Not cold. Just… indifferent. Like looking into a well and seeing no reflection.
Her heart, trained to beat with discretion, made one painful sound inside her chest.
The wedding banquet was endless.
Golden platters of duck and abalone. Spoons of bird's nest soup. Wine poured into vessels shaped like peonies. Servants glided between guests, hands hidden in sleeves, eyes down. Musicians played zithers in a minor key too delicate to cheer.
Feiran sat beside the Crown Prince, as tradition demanded, but they did not speak. Not once.
Meilin was there, of course—seated several tables away, but more radiant than any bride. She wore peacock green, bold in color and confidence. Her laughter rippled through the hall like perfume—deliberate, sticky.
Feiran raised her cup in silence.
At one point, a nobleman attempted to toast the Crown Prince and Princess together. The Prince drank politely. Feiran smiled. The toast ended. The nobleman left, puzzled by the hollow.
Only Yue'er noticed how tightly Feiran's hands were clenched under the table.
That night, the bridal chamber glowed in soft candlelight.
Gold-threaded drapes. Perfumed sheets. Peony incense trailing into the ceiling beams like ghosts remembering something.
Feiran sat on the edge of the bed. Still dressed, veil removed. The phoenix crown rested beside her like a severed head.
Her hair was stiff with lacquer. Her lips dry. Her eyes burning.
She waited.
Yue'er lit the last candle and whispered, "Should I bring tea?"
Feiran nodded, not trusting her voice.
Then the door opened.
The Crown Prince entered.
She turned quickly, standing, smoothing her sleeves.
He removed his outer robe and placed it silently on the screen. Then walked across the room and poured himself a cup of wine.
He did not look at her.
"I've prepared tea," she said softly, hoping he would hear something in her voice. Gentleness. Willingness. Something.
He did not answer.
She stepped forward.
He drank.
"I…" she tried. "I hope today was… satisfactory to Your Highness."
He finally looked at her.
The moment froze like frost on glass.
His eyes were not cruel. Not bored. They were something worse.
Empty.
He placed the wine cup down. The sound was precise.
Then he said: "The expectations of the day are complete."
And turned to leave.
She stood in silence as his figure vanished behind the carved door. It did not close. He did not look back.
When the sound of his footsteps faded, she sat back on the bed.
Yue'er returned minutes later with tea, saw the untouched cup, and the bride sitting stiffly in the silence.
She said nothing.
Instead, she knelt beside Feiran and began removing the golden pins from her hair, one by one, like unthreading a wound.
Later that night, alone, Feiran walked to the inner courtyard.
Moonlight poured like silk over the stones.
The plum trees had not yet bloomed.
She sat on the carved bench and traced the pattern of phoenixes beneath her fingers. Her face, painted and composed all day, cracked for the first time. A single tear slipped down the side of her cheek.
She let it fall.
Behind her, unseen, a figure watched her from the shadows of the corridor.
He did not approach.