Yīngtáo had been at this for a week now — chasing that elusive shimmer of light, while her mind drowned in clouds of unsteady thoughts. Every passing day, her hallucinations grew sharper, clawing into her waking hours. Still, she forced herself to handle requests, to respond to praises and royal petitions, for she could not risk faltering before the council.
All week, her mother had said the same words: "Let go. Be one with the world." But Yīngtáo felt she had not even reached the threshold of that state of mind.
At last, her patience broke. She snapped, her voice cracking like dry wood.
"This is useless," she said, pressing her hand hard against her forehead.
"Yes," her mother replied simply, her tone maddeningly calm.
"You have to—"
"Let go? I know."
Her mother's eyes, unreadable as still water, softened just a little. "The young man in the palace cells... he carries part of your past."
"He's a traitor," Yīngtáo shot back, her voice unsettled, trembling.
"Do not chain yourself to your pain. Understand it, and only then can you release it," her mother said as she rose, moving toward the door.
"Mother... not having you by my side was a wound too deep to forget."
Her mother stopped at the door. Silence hung between them, heavy and suffocating, before she finally turned.
"And yet you came to understand why you were taken from me. And in that understanding, you healed. You let go."
With that, she turned slowly, her robes whispering against the polished floor, and left through the carved doors.
Yīngtáo sighed. Outside her window, the bronze bell swayed. Its red string, once strong, was worn thin, the threads fraying, barely clinging on against the wind.
⸻
Bǎihé, by contrast, had slept surprisingly well. Shadows still flickered in her dreams, but none solidified enough to haunt her. For that small mercy, she was grateful.
She dressed in a light lilac hanfu, the fabric delicate as morning mist. Hépíng assisted in silence, fastening jade earrings and smoothing the makeup across her cheeks. They exchanged barely a word. Yesterday's unspoken heaviness lingered. Still, Bǎihé's eyes kept straying toward the small pouch on her table.
"Gōngzhǔ Fāng!" a maid called from outside. "Wángzǐ Feng has come to see you."
Bǎihé froze, startled.
"I can send him away, if you wish," Hépíng said gently.
Bǎihé shook her head quickly. "Tell him... I'll be with him in two minutes."
The maid bowed and departed.
Bǎihé seized the pouch and stormed toward the door. She slid it open, revealing her floral courtyard once more, vibrant beneath the wind's caress.
Haoyu stood beneath a tall tree, Yíchén at his side. This time, Yíchén's hair fell loose, dark strands swaying in the breeze, his scholar's cap absent.
Bǎihé stepped forward, her lilac robes flowing like river water. She bowed, as did Haoyu and Yíchén.
"Shall we have some tea—" Haoyu began.
"No," Bǎihé cut in sharply. "Let's walk in the city."
Haoyu only nodded.
⸻
The city was subdued, strangely quiet — no hawkers' cries, no merchants crowding the streets. Something must have been happening. But Bǎihé cared little. She had come here for one reason alone.
They walked in silence until stopping at a modest noodle shop. The smell of beef broth drifted from the kitchen, heavy with herbs and garlic. They sat opposite each other at a rough wooden table, Yíchén hovering nearby like a silent shadow.
At last, Haoyu broke the silence. "I am sorry."
Bǎihé's chopsticks froze. She raised her eyes slowly, her voice sharp as a blade. "Why?"
Haoyu faltered.
"You went away to the military for two years," Bǎihé snapped, her voice trembling, "and not once did you write to me. Not once. Did you forget me so easily?"
"I could not send letters to anyone—"
"But you promised," she hissed, leaning forward, eyes blazing. "You promised you would find a way, no matter what it took."
"I promised before I left. I was not prepared for what awaited me." His tone was quiet, almost pleading.
"Lies!" Bǎihé's cheeks flushed red. "I learned the truth. Every soldier had a three-month window each year to write home. I wrote to you almost every day in those windows. And do you know what I received?" Her voice cracked as her hand trembled over her chopsticks. "Nothing. Not a single reply. I waited, I prayed, I worried until my chest ached—and still, silence. And then, when you returned... eight months passed, and still not a word. Not a visit."
A tear slid down her cheek. She laughed bitterly through it. "All I heard of you was that your courtyard overflowed with the most beautiful women in the country, a spectacle to mark your so-called manhood." She scoffed, slamming her chopsticks down, the sound cutting the air.
Haoyu said nothing, his silence only feeding the fire in her chest.
From her sleeve, Bǎihé drew the small embroidered pouch and placed it on the table with trembling hands. She laid down a handkerchief too, white silk stitched with a small rabbit.
"Do not reach for me again," she whispered, her voice sharp but breaking. "My father's celebration is over. Leave Límíng."
She rose, but Haoyu's hand shot out, catching hers.
"End the engagement," he said.
She froze, staring at him in disbelief. "What?"
"If this pain is too much to bear, then end it. I will not blame you."
Her breath hitched, her heart hammering painfully in her chest.
He released her slowly. "But please... sit. Allow me to explain."
Her legs gave way, and she sank back down, her voice weary. "Go on."
"I am sorry," Haoyu said again, his voice low but burning. "If I could turn back time, I would never have left for the military. I would have written, despite everything. But at seventeen, I was a fool — young, proud, and afraid. I was confused."
"Confused with what?" Bǎihé's voice trembled.
"My feelings for you." His words shook. He reached across the table and took her palm, his hand warm, desperate. "Bǎihé... I think I love you."
Her eyes widened, her heart twisting. "And before? Did you not love me then?"
"I did," Haoyu admitted, his voice cracking, "but at seventeen, with you only sixteen, I forced it. I thought it was my duty because of our engagement. I pretended. I told myself I loved you because it was easier than facing the truth. But after I left... I realized how much I truly cared for you. And that realization terrified me. I was confused, ashamed, afraid. That is why I never wrote. I was drowning in feelings I could not control."
Bǎihé's chest heaved, her hands trembling in his.
"And the women in my courtyard..." Haoyu's voice tightened, raw with urgency. "They were my father's command, not mine. I summoned them only to obey tradition. I swear to you, I touched none of them. I would never dishonor you so." He squeezed her palm hard, eyes pleading. "I swear on my life."
Bǎihé's lips quivered. Tears welled in her eyes. "I should hate you. I want to hate you. But I can't." Her voice cracked, breaking into a sob. "I forgive you. Because I still... like you."
Haoyu exhaled as though he had been holding his breath for years. A faint, trembling smile curved his lips.
"Then let's forget the rest, for now," Bǎihé whispered. She lifted her chopsticks, her hand still trembling. "Our noodles are cold, Wángzǐ Feng. Shall we order fresh ones?"
Haoyu gave a small laugh, shaky with relief. "Yes, of course, Gōngzhǔ Fāng. Miss!" he called to the server, his hand still holding hers tightly, unwilling to let go.
And in the flickering warmth of that small noodle shop, amidst the steam of broth and the weight of broken promises, it almost — almost — felt like a happy ending.