She was their only biological child they ever gave birth to!
Yueshuang's lips moved faintly, whispering something even the healer could not hear. Her chest rose and fell unevenly, like a flame fighting the wind.
The healer lifted one trembling hand and pressed a jade stone over her heart. Instantly, the light inside her flared again, a silvery burst that filled the hall before dimming to nothing and the jade cracked.
Everyone instantly froze.
"What, what does that mean?" Duke Yuwen asked hoarsely.
The healer lowered his hand slowly. "It means her heart cannot hold what lies within it much longer. The more she defies her limits… the faster it burns."
" Can she be cured?" Madam Yuwen's voice was barely a whisper.
The healer hesitated, then bowed his head, "I do not know, Master, Madam. Her condition is beyond medicine. It may be a curse… or something far older than what our art can mend."
Madam Yuwen's tears fell freely now. Duke Yuwen's jaw tightened as he turned away, unable to bear the sight of his daughter lying still.
"Then what are we to do? What are we supposed to do? Watch her vanish?" he asked quietly, his voice hollow... " Do we let her die before her time?"
The healer looked toward the window, where the crimson moon still hung high, its light pouring across the marble floor like blood.
"When the moon burns that red," he said, " it marks a turning of fate. Whatever this illness is… it did not come from her alone."
For a long moment, no one spoke. They stayed there still, helpless and defeated.
Then, from the corner, one of the attendants whispered tremblingly, "My lord… There are old records of heart-borne fire. It was said to appear once every hundred years, when a clan's blood begins to change."
Duke Yuwen's eyes immediately turned cold, "Enough. Not another word of that superstition."
But his gaze lingered on his daughter's still form, her skin faintly glowing beneath the crimson moonlight, and even he could not shake the feeling that something far beyond sickness had begun to stir inside her.
The hall had grown eerily quiet. The air itself felt heavier, as if the very walls were listening. The scent of medicine and burning incense mixed with the faint metallic tang of fear.
The healer slowly gathered his tools, his fingers trembling slightly as he sealed the cracked jade stone inside a silk pouch, "I will stay through the night," he said softly, " to monitor her pulse. But I advise no one to disturb her rest. If the rhythm breaks again…" He didn't finish the sentence. Clearly, it was a warning of anything happening.
Madam Yuwen clutched her daughter's hand tightly, unwilling to let go, "Shuang'er… you must hold on. You must." Her voice was barely more than a breath, trembling between hope and despair.
Duke Yuwen stood still beside them, the shadows of the candlelight deepening the lines on his face. His eyes were red, but dry, too proud to weep, too broken to speak. "Guard the room," he ordered finally, his voice low. " No one enters without my word."
The servants bowed and retreated, their footsteps soft as ghosts.
Outside, the crimson moon began to sink lower, its light fading slowly from scarlet to silver. But even as dawn crept toward the horizon, the faint shimmer beneath Yueshuang's skin refused to fade. It pulsed once… then again… steady, unnatural, alive.
Madam Yuwen brushed a trembling hand over her daughter's hair and whispered, "Please… whatever you've taken from her, give it back."
But no answer came through, what accompanied her was only the low hum of the night and the quiet, steady flicker of a life caught between worlds.
And as Duke Yuwen turned to leave, a faint light flared from Yueshuang's chest, just for an instant, and then vanished into silence carrying his wife away.
It was the last sign before the room went still, leaving only the echo of her heartbeat… uneven, fragile, and strange.
Outside, the first rays of morning pierced through the windows, touching her face with pale light, beautiful, fragile, and forever changed.
The world was quiet when she opened her eyes.
The smell of herbs lingered in the air, they were faint and bitter. Somewhere nearby, a candle burned low, its flame trembling as if afraid of the stillness.
Yueyao blinked slowly. Her body felt heavy, her throat dry, and her chest tight with pain. The ceiling above her was painted white with silver patterns, beautiful, distant, and unfamiliar.
She tried to move her fingers but they felt stiff, as though they had forgotten how to obey her. Her heart gave a weak, slow thump.
For a long moment, she just stared at the room. The silk curtains swayed gently, catching bits of light from the moon outside. There was no sound except the quiet ticking of a clock and her own breathing.
Then the memories rushed through her mind, they were not hers.