Within mere hours of the announcement, the streets of Límíng City bloomed with life. Lanterns were strung from one rooftop to another, swaying gently in the breeze. Flower petals were scattered across stone paths like soft confetti. Market carts vanished from the roads, shopkeepers shuttered their stalls, and families retreated indoors to prepare.
Though the palace gates were reserved for nobles and dignitaries, the common folk celebrated in their own way—peeking from windows and balconies, eager to catch a glimpse of their emperor as his return was announced by heralds making their way through every alley and rural path.
The streets themselves had become sacred ground, closed off to all but the elite. The city's outer gates were forbidden to the common man, guarded by lines of soldiers in polished bronze armor. And from all directions, came the arrival of nobles—dynasty leaders, city governors, foreign emissaries—arriving in luxurious carriages, astride stately horses, and adorned in shimmering hanfu robes and glimmering headpieces that glittered in the dimming evening light.
Yet time stretched on.
Fifty minutes had passed beyond the hour of the Emperor's expected return. The sun had dipped low, painting the sky in soft lavender and burning crimson, casting long shadows across the towering Límíng Palace.
Bǎihé and her sisters stood at the entrance of the grand palace hall. The hall, built just beyond the main gate, had become a bustling corridor of wealth and perfume. Guests poured in one after the other, their greetings boisterous, their footsteps trailing the rich scents of sandalwood, jasmine, and imperial lotus.
Inside, the space was vast—its ceilings high, beams carved with golden dragons, and long silk banners flowing from above. Rows of nobles sat waiting, whispering in eager curiosity.
Huánghòu Juan stood poised at the entrance, her every motion elegant and precise, as she greeted each guest personally. The soft clinking of ornate hairpins and the rustling of silken robes filled the air as ladies glided past her like living art.
Beside the empress stood her daughters—Lán, Chún dù, Bǎihé, Huān, and Bào—all with heads respectfully bowed as guests entered.
Bǎihé, like her sisters, wore formality like a second skin, but her heart fluttered with unease. She barely registered the faces of the arriving nobles. Her mind was elsewhere. The hour was late, and still... no sign of their father.
She stood dressed in a soft, light green hanfu, its silk fabric embroidered with gentle waves and plum blossoms. Her long, brown wavy hair flowed behind her, with a single section pulled into a simple bun, fastened by a silver leaf hairpin. As always, her presence was effortlessly radiant.
Her hazel eyes glanced sideways at her sisters, each equally silent in their anticipation. Only their mother remained still and serene, showing no hint of concern.
Then—the silence cracked.
A shout rang through the palace walls, loud and urgent.
"Huángdì Hòu is here!"
A horn bellowed in the distance, long and low, followed by the rhythmic beat of drums—each strike echoing like the pulse of the earth itself. The steady thunder of hooves followed, growing louder, closer, commanding.
And then—he appeared.
Huángdì Hòu, Emperor of the Límíng Dynasty, rode through the palace gate on a magnificent stallion, his figure regal and commanding even in twilight. Though in his late forties, his posture was strong and proud, his presence unwavering. A red cape trailed behind him, embroidered with a delicate yet bold cherry blossom—the emblem of the Límíng Palace—billowing in the cool evening breeze.
Behind him marched his elite military guard—no ordinary soldiers, but the emperor's personal protectors—stoic, alert, synchronized. They stopped precisely behind him as he dismounted, guiding his steed with effortless grace.
Bǎihé and her sisters dropped to their knees. All present followed, except Chún dù, who bowed her head deeply in reverence. Only Huánghòu Juan remained standing, unshaken.
The emperor stepped forward, his boots brushing against the polished stone.
With a warm smile stretched across his face, he walked toward his daughters.
"Get up, get up!" he called, his voice full of joy, a father breaking through the shell of formality.
"Welcome back, Father," they said in unison, their voices soft yet bright with emotion.
He gazed at them, his heart full. Joy lit his eyes. Guilt lingered in the lines of his face. A year and more may not have seemed long to the outside world—but to a father who had not seen his children, to an emperor who had left his kingdom in the hands of others—it felt like eternity. And now, standing before them all, he was both proud and quietly remorseful.
His eyes shifted to his empress. She offered him a small, formal bow—the briefest flash of a smile crossing her lips.
"Welcome back, Huángdì Hòu," she said calmly. "Our guests are here to grace your presence."
"Then let us not keep them waiting," the emperor declared, his voice resonant. "Night has fallen—let us feast and celebrate our triumph in the city of Mòshuǐ!"
He raised his arm with pride. "Come, my companions!" he called to his soldiers, and the palace doors opened wider to receive the ruler of the realm.