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Xie Mingshu tapped the green porcelain teacup with her fingertip. Curling tea vapor drifted across her pale cheek and softened that fleeting hint of color.
Seeing Xie Mingshu's expression, the noble girl shifted her tone.
"Still, in my view, no matter who gained that favor, their honor can't match the Duke's estate. Flowers bloom well and then fade; lasting prosperity is the true skill."
"What's the point of that?" Xie Mingshu lowered her eyes and brushed foam from the rim, her voice cool and casual. "Easing the sovereign's burdens is how great houses stand."
After that, no one dared to push further. They let the topic drift and began discussing the Flower Festival in a few weeks.
Xie Mingshu was the jewel of the Duke of Ning's household and the foremost noblewoman at court. What she said was law; none would argue.
The reason was simple. The Duke of Ning's forebears had been founding heroes; later, their line produced empress and empress dowager, bound by blood to the imperial clan—status none of the usual nobility could compare to.
Xie Mingshu was more singular still. At birth, a master from Yunju Temple had cast her fate—born with a phoenix destiny.
In Dayuan, titles usually passed down a rank unless the sovereign decreed perpetual inheritance.
That the title of Duke of Ning had remained unchanged from the founding to now was an extraordinary honor.
They owed it to marriage ties with the imperial family.
The Xie clan had missed the empress's rank for two generations, and everyone said the dukedom would soon descend.
But then a child with a phoenix destiny appeared. With that, the Duke of Ning's glory would last at least two more generations. To call it unfading prosperity wasn't exaggeration.
Xie Mingshu had grown up in a constellation of respect. Elders cherished her. Silk and gold went without saying. Even her first tutor was a great scholar personally appointed by the sovereign. Nobles in the capital yielded to her; princes spoke of her with undisguised admiration.
The aura of that innate phoenix fate clothed her in a bouquet of nobility. Without effort, she drew every gaze.
Everyone had long assumed this: whoever became emperor, Xie Mingshu would be empress.
That endless wealth and honor stirred envy. Those without such luck copied her dress. Anything she used drew lines of buyers.
Because of Xie Mingshu, the Brocade Pavilion had become the most famous dressmaker in the capital, adored by nobles; the Treasure Hall sold the same style jewelry she wore and held its heat for years. People said both shopkeepers owed the Duke's estate a kowtow.
Youwei had no heart to join their talk. She had only one thought.
Palace rewards had rules. Officials of first to third rank always received cloth—silk and brocade scaled by rank, six to three bolts; those below received merits-based rewards, simpler the lower they stood.
When the edict and ten bolts of fragrant cloud brocade arrived, Youwei hadn't thought much of it.
First, brocade wasn't rarer than silk; nobles wore it often—nothing eye-catching. Second, she assumed the sovereign sought to win ministers during a sensitive time; large rewards made sense.
But now, it didn't seem so.
After what the noble girl said, her joy grew—was the fragrant cloud brocade he had granted the very one she had imagined?
Li Chengjue had once told her about his mother, Consort Yan. He said she loved scent, and Tanluo was rich in spices.
Rumor said the King of Tanluo wore cloth spun from silkworms fed on aromatics; only the queen could share garments made from that silk.
Princes, princesses, and favored consorts received it only at the king's whim. Common use was out of the question.
Tanluo was hot, and raising such silkworms took intense labor. Their weaving lacked the finesse for fine silk.
They excelled at stitching hides and making wool and hemp textiles. Output stayed low—reserved for the royal house.
He had shared this while they watched trumpet creepers bloom in the mountains—he had promised to return from the northwest when they flowered. Youwei counted the days; a month into bloom, he truly came back.
He brought alpine azaleas they had spoken of—flowers facing snow peaks. He brought several plants. Their roots settled in moist soil, guarded by his care all the way home. When Youwei received them, pure white blooms stood at their height, and she could almost see the mountains they had faced.
She had seen lavish gifts before, but none touched her like that flower. She felt like that bloom in his arms—kept safe through night and wind, treasured beyond measure.
Holding the flower, she looked at the man and thought, no one could be better than him.
He always told her things she had never heard. Before she met him, she couldn't imagine a mountain piled high with snow while the land beside it stayed green. That picture was beyond her.
So she often begged him to tell her more. He told many stories, and she listened, delighted. Once, she asked, "Will you tell me about Tanluo?"
In that instant, the world seemed to freeze. When he didn't answer, she turned.
His light eyes darkened. A shadow she couldn't read gathered there. He asked strangely, "You want to hear it?"
She rested her chin in her hand and nodded. "Yes, I do."
His voice felt cold, like water flowing in from all sides and wrapping her without a shape.
"What's there to hear?"
She shook her head, earnest. "I don't know."
Soon she smiled, shy, hugging her knees and staring at her shoe tips, her voice low. "Maybe—it's about you. So I want to know."
The chill withdrew at once. Silence stretched until it felt like no one stood beside her. She turned and found him watching her with a complicated gaze, as if she were a stranger.
"What's wrong?" Even she sensed the shift. She looked at him, nervous. "You don't want to say?"
"…No."
She had never seen him so quiet. It felt like soft tide receded, leaving hard rock.
"I've never told anyone. I'm afraid I'll be dull."
So that was all.
Youwei let out a breath and smiled again. "You won't. I love hearing you."
After that, when he had time, he told her pieces about Tanluo. At first, he said little. She always wanted more, so he obliged.
When he brought the alpine azalea, he spoke about Tanluo's unique silk.
When she finished listening, Youwei sighed. "That's wonderful—wearing fragrance always. I wonder when Dayuan will have it. I want to smell it."
When the fragrant cloud brocade arrived, Youwei thought the Weaving Bureau had made something new; palace gifts were often perfumed. Though this scent differed, she assumed the palace had changed its blend.
She never imagined the brocade could link to Tanluo's silk.
So Li Chengjue remembered her—and what he had said to her—like she remembered him, didn't he?
The thought burst with joy, almost unstoppable. Though five months had passed without seeing him, he hadn't forgotten his words. He surely had his reasons.
With that, the noblewomen's chatter faded from her mind. Her thoughts slipped through the lattice and tried to push the moon higher, urging the banquet to begin.
Soon, a palace attendant notified them the celebration would start and asked the ladies to return to their seats. They dispersed.
Xie Mingshu walked out beside Youwei. At the door, she smiled and took Youwei's hand. "Mianmian, I haven't eaten your pastries in ages. Bring me your jade-heart custard next time. My second brother liked it too."
Youwei asked, "Only jade-heart custard? Nothing else?"
"I'd be delighted." Xie Mingshu tugged her behind the hall door. "By the way, the Jingbian guard you told me about last year—did he come today? Now that the Fourteenth Prince sits on the throne, he must have been rewarded."
Youwei's face went pale. Last year, she had wanted to tell Father she loved someone but feared his reaction to the man's station. She had hesitated for a long time.
At a feast at the Duke's estate, Xie Mingshu had seen through her concerns. Youwei had blurted it to the only friend who treated her with warmth. Xie Mingshu had comforted her and moved on.
Later, Li Chengjue revealed his identity; Youwei's worry vanished—but she couldn't tell Xie Mingshu anymore.
Xie hadn't raised it again, and Youwei thought the matter had ended. She hadn't expected the sudden question.
Youwei fumbled with her handkerchief. "Father said he isn't a good man… He ordered me to break it off…"
"That's right." Xie Mingshu only smiled. "You're so sweet and lovely. What house couldn't match you? Oh—I nearly forgot. Come with me to the Flower Festival next month. I'll send my carriage for you. How about it?"
"No need to bother you. I'll come to you."
"Don't be so polite."
Xie Mingshu let her hand go and left with her maids.
But that last thing—how they had settled it—Youwei couldn't work out, no matter how she tried. Seeing Father beckon from afar, she set it aside, lifted her skirt, and went to him.
Whips cracked three times outside the hall. The noisy Hall of Talents turned solemn in an instant. When the whips fell silent, the herald's chant carried in: "The imperial carriage arrives—"
Ministers and families rose and bowed their heads.
When the herald chanted again within the hall: "The imperial carriage arrives—"
All ministers prostrated and knocked their heads. "Ten thousand years!"
Yu Tuohai held second rank, so his table sat far from the doors.
Youwei's heart raced. She would finally see Li Chengjue. Would he feel surprised to see her?
In the hush after the shout echoed away, her sharp ears caught footsteps on carpet and the faint clink of jade pendants.
Step by step, unhurried, steady with the bearing of one who held the realm.
Night had fallen. Servants had lit the hall before dusk.
Light flooded the hall. A tall shadow fell over her. Even without raising her head, she saw the sway of the beaded diadem's shadows on the floor.
Youwei had attended countless palace feasts and knew looking directly at the sovereign's face was a capital crime.
But this moment, she couldn't help herself. Bowed to the floor, clutching the belt hidden in her sleeve, she lifted her head in a flutter of joy.
The man before her wore dark robes and red court dress, a jade belt on his waist, pendants hanging on both sides, the twelve emblems declaring imperial majesty.
She had come to see him.
He stood right in front of her now. His face, veiled by jade bead curtains, looked distant and deep.
With the one she wanted within arm's reach, her heart sank—
She could see him, but she couldn't see him.
Everyone lay prone; only Youwei knelt upright, staring at the sovereign as he passed.
All her excitement, her nervous longing after months apart, lay blocked by twelve bead curtains.
He never turned his head, never noticed the one person in the hall who hadn't bowed.
She didn't even enter his periphery.
Yu Tuohai noticed only when the call to rise came. He nearly started. Keeping his face composed, he brushed Youwei's hand and whispered, "Mianmian, are you alright?"
Youwei shook her head. "I'm fine."
She hadn't heard when the emperor called them to rise. Her burning heart felt doused.
She soothed herself. It's fine. He's the sovereign. He wouldn't glance around. Maybe this was the dignity of a king. She shouldn't overthink.
The herald opened the feast. Music rose—clear chimes of bells filled the hall.
Eunuchs and maids served wine and dishes in order to the throne and tables. Qin and se joined the melody, giving the solemn sounds a gentle grace.
After the first round of wine, the music paused. The master of ceremonies in scarlet stood below the throne and chanted: "His Majesty issues a decree—"
Ministers straightened and bowed. "We receive the decree."
The herald turned, bowed, and stepped back three paces, then held his place. "We invite His Majesty's instruction—"
A figure rose on the throne, a wine cup in hand.
He stepped down from the dais, wine in one hand, the other behind his back, and walked down slowly.
Even without lifting heads, ministers felt a gaze pass over them, heavy with latent pressure.
His low voice filled the hall as he walked.
"Today I ascend the throne. Looking back at the former reign, I see the foundations of order and the depth of decay. Bloated offices must be cut; struggling lives must be relieved; troubled borders must be calmed—these three weigh on my heart.
"Governing lies not in empty talk but in action. County and prefecture must know the people, and never let mansions feast while bones freeze in the street. The central court must speak plainly and not hide behind safety to avoid honest remonstrance. Though I am young, I will urge myself to diligence and accept remonstrance with open mind.
"This celebration is not pride but oath-taking. I ask you to join me—cleanse old habits, restore discipline. When four seas rest in peace, we will drink this cup again."
From the fifth seat on the left, a middle-aged man stepped out and bowed. "Your Majesty's words fill us with awe. The late emperor's will continues, the realm has its master—this is the blessing of all people. We will take your instruction as our rule and spend our blood and brains without failing your grace. May Your Majesty's dragon body remain healthy and Dayuan prosper in peace. We, the ministers, together wish Your Majesty ten thousand years!"
All officials echoed, "Long live Your Majesty!"
The speaker was the sitting grand chancellor, Zhuang Xiuqi—over fifty, head of civil and military officials, truly the one beneath the throne.
His table stood just after the princes and nobles—the first among civil officials.
Li Chengjue returned to the throne. When the rites ended, ruler and ministers drank together.
Music rose again—this time lighter. Dancers entered and performed in the center.
Ministers offered poems and tributes. Joy filled the hall. After several rounds, the emperor granted dishes and wine to meritorious men and promoted more than ten, issuing edicts for their advancement.
Among those raised in rank stood Yu Tuohai.
The named ministers stepped out to thank him.
Curiously, after rewarding the grand chancellor, the emperor re-titled him Left Chancellor "to share his burdens," and appointed another as Right Chancellor.
The new man wore plain cloth and held a feather fan, bearing the air of a hermit scholar—surely the emperor's strategist.
Youwei watched it all and then looked at the figure at the head of the hall. She tightened her hold on the belt in her sleeve, uncertain whether to feel joy for him or loss for herself.
At the height of the revel, a tall figure rose from the fifth seat on the left.
He stepped into the open center of the hall, faced the new sovereign, and bowed. "Your Majesty, this humble minister boldly asks—grant me a marriage."