Yan Jizhao's POV
"Did you dream of a garden? With moonlight?"
The words leave my mouth before I can stop them.
My new wife stares at me from the bed, wrapped in blankets, her hair messy around her shoulders. Her eyes are wide with shock.
Why did I ask that? Why did I come here at dawn? I never visit wives. I never—
The dream flashes through my mind again. The garden. The moonlight. The woman who looked like her but... different. Warmer. She'd been crying, and I'd wanted to comfort her, except I couldn't move, couldn't speak, could only watch as she said—
"In my next life, I will not love you."
My chest tightens. Those words. Why do they hurt so much?
"Your Majesty?" Her voice is carefully neutral. "I don't know what you mean."
She's lying. I can tell. Her hands grip the blanket too tightly. Her breathing is too quick.
She had the same dream.
But that's impossible. People don't share dreams. Dreams are just... dreams. Random thoughts from a tired mind.
Except this didn't feel random.
It felt like a memory.
"Nothing," I say quickly, stepping back. "I must be more tired than I thought. The wedding celebrations were long."
She nods slowly, still watching me with those careful eyes. "Of course, Your Majesty. You should rest."
I should leave. This is already strange enough—showing up at her room at dawn, asking about dreams. Emperors don't do this. I don't do this.
But my feet won't move.
Because something about her is wrong.
In the dream, she'd been full of emotion—anger, pain, desperation. She'd looked at me like I was the center of her world, even as she cursed me.
The woman sitting in front of me now looks at me like I'm a stranger. No—worse than a stranger. Like I'm a piece of furniture she has to be polite to.
"Did I wake you?" I ask, though I don't know why I care.
"No, Your Majesty. I was already awake."
Silence stretches between us. Awkward. Heavy.
This is my wife. I married her yesterday. I'm supposed to... what? Talk to her? I don't know how to talk to wives. My father never talked to his wives. He gave them orders and they obeyed.
But this wife isn't asking for anything. Isn't demanding attention or crying about being ignored on her wedding night. She's just... waiting for me to leave.
"The servants said you broke something last night," I hear myself say.
Her expression doesn't change. "A mirror. It slipped."
Another lie. Mirrors don't just slip. But I don't call her out on it.
"I'll send someone to clean it up," I offer.
"That's not necessary. I already took care of it."
Of course she did. She took care of everything—changed out of her wedding dress by herself, put herself to bed, didn't call for anyone. Most new brides would have servants hovering all night. Would demand attention, make a fuss.
She dismissed everyone and went to sleep.
Like she didn't care that I never came.
I should be relieved. A wife who doesn't demand my time is convenient. I have work to do—important work. Treaties to sign. Wars to prevent. An empire to run.
So why does this feel wrong?
"I should explain," I say stiffly. "Our marriage is political. The Oracle said—"
"I know," she interrupts quietly. "The prophecy said our union would prevent war. I understand my purpose here, Your Majesty. You don't need to explain."
Her purpose. Like she's a tool. A chess piece.
That's exactly what she is, though. That's what all political marriages are.
So why do I feel like I've just insulted her?
"I wanted to be clear about expectations," I continue, hating how formal I sound. "I won't... that is, I don't expect..."
"You don't expect a real marriage," she finishes for me. "Neither do I. You're free to live as you choose, Your Majesty. I won't bother you."
The words should make me happy.
They don't.
"That's very understanding of you," I say.
She smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "I'm here to serve the empire. That's all that matters."
Something twists in my chest. Wrong, wrong, this is all wrong—
But I don't know why.
I've never met this girl before yesterday. We've spoken maybe ten words total. There's no reason for this strange feeling of loss that's creeping up my spine.
"Well then," I say, backing toward the door. "I'll leave you to rest. There will be a breakfast ceremony later. Someone will come get you."
"Of course, Your Majesty."
I turn to go, then stop. "What's your name?"
She blinks. "Meilin, Your Majesty. Jiang Meilin."
Right. I knew that. Obviously I knew that. She's my wife. I signed the marriage documents.
But somehow, hearing her say it out loud makes my head hurt. Like there's something trying to surface in my mind—something important about that name.
"I know that," I snap, annoyed at myself. "I meant, what do you prefer to be called?"
"Whatever you wish, Your Majesty."
"That's not what I asked."
For the first time, real emotion flickers across her face. Surprise, maybe. Or confusion.
"No one's ever asked me that before," she says softly.
That can't be true. She's a noble's daughter. People must ask her preferences all the time.
But something in her eyes says she's telling the truth.
"Meilin, then," I decide. "I'll call you Meilin."
"As you wish, Your Majesty."
The formal tone is back. The wall is back up.
I leave before I can say anything else stupid.
In the hallway, General Xiao is waiting. My oldest friend, my most trusted guard. He looks concerned.
"Your Majesty? You missed the morning council meeting. Lord Wei was asking—"
"I don't care what Lord Wei was asking," I interrupt. "I had something to attend to."
Xiao's eyebrows rise. Everyone knows I never miss council meetings. Never.
"Are you feeling well?" he asks carefully.
No. I'm not.
I had a dream about my wife that felt more real than reality. I woke up with her name on my lips and tears on my face, though I can't remember crying. I went to her room at dawn like a madman and asked about gardens and moonlight.
And when I looked at her, I felt like I'd lost something precious, even though I'd just met her.
"I'm fine," I lie. "Just tired."
We start walking toward my study. I have work to do. Mountains of work. I'll forget about the strange dream, the strange feeling, the girl with the dead eyes.
Except I can't.
Because as we pass a window overlooking the garden, I stop.
There, in the morning light, I can see it clearly.
The garden from my dream.
Same trees. Same paths. Same stone bench.
"Your Majesty?" Xiao asks. "What is it?"
I stare at the garden. The dream garden that I thought was just imagination.
It's real.
Which means—
Pain explodes through my skull. I gasp, grabbing the window frame for support.
Images flash through my mind. Fast. Violent. Overwhelming.
A woman falling from a tower.
Blood in the snow.
The same woman lying in bed, skin too pale, dying from poison.
Her, kneeling in a courtyard, about to be executed.
Her, her, her—dying over and over and over—
And in every vision, she's looking at me.
Begging me.
Loving me.
Dying because of me.
"Your Majesty!" Xiao grabs my arm. "What's wrong? Should I call the physician?"
The visions stop as suddenly as they started.
I'm breathing hard, sweating. My hands are shaking.
"I'm fine," I manage. "I just... I need to sit down."
But I'm not fine.
Because I just watched my wife die five different ways.
And somehow, I know they weren't dreams.
They were memories.