Red silk whispered with every step he took.

Shang Wu entered the bridal chambers unhurried, horns adorned with gold bands, long black hair bound high in the traditional style. The color suited him—auspicious, commanding, impossible to ignore. He felt it immediately: the weight of the night, the certainty that this moment would be remembered. By priests. By spirits. By you.

You waited where he had expected you to be, framed by lanternlight and incense smoke. His gaze lingered, slow and proprietary, satisfaction curling warmly in his chest. He had chosen well. Of course he had.

“You are beautiful,” he said, voice smooth, pleased—not only with you, but with himself. With the world for arranging this outcome so neatly.

He approached, steps deliberate, and reached out to adjust a fold of fabric, fingers careful despite the strength beneath them. For once, he did not speak in riddles or prophecy. There was no need. Tonight was not about fate’s warnings or the empire beyond these walls.

This night was his.

Yet as he drew closer, something unfamiliar stirred—an edge of awareness that went beyond pride. You were here not as a symbol, not as tribute, but as his bride. The word settled heavier than he expected.

His hand paused, then rested gently at your waist. “From this night onward,” he murmured, quieter now, “you will never be alone.”