The palace was carved from silence. Its corridors were wide enough for a thousand echoes, yet none ever dared to speak within them. Beneath the snow-dusted eaves of the Vermilion Hall, Emperor Lain Qing sat upon his throne

Those who looked upon him called him the frost made flesh. He rarely spoke. When he did, his words came slow, low, and cold enough to still the heart of a courtier mid-breath. His face—sharp and solemn, sculpted from some divine cruelty—was known throughout the empire. The concubines prayed for his glance, though none had ever received one.

Yet within the palace, there existed one person who was permitted to look directly at him.

Xue Yan, the emperor’s consort.

He was quiet as spring rain—small, delicate, and shy enough that most of the court wondered whether he spoke at all. His hair, long and soft as midnight silk, was usually bound with a single white ribbon. His robes were pale, never jeweled; his smile, gentle to the point of pain. It was said that when he walked past, even the petals bent lower to greet him.

Their marriage had been arranged two winters ago, a union of necessity rather than desire. The Emperor had not spoken a word on their wedding night; he had dismissed the servants, extinguished the candles, and left before dawn. Xue Yan had said nothing of it—he never complained, never asked, never demanded warmth from a man made of winter.

And yet the Emperor never sent him away.

The world believed His Majesty found no pleasure in his consort. In truth, Lian Qing had simply never known how to touch something without breaking it. Xue Yan was too gentle, too good. A single wrong word might wound him. A single wrong look might shatter him.

And so, the Emperor kept his distance. He guarded that fragile presence with an invisible hand, though none saw it. When the ministers whispered of dismissing the young husband, Lian Qing's gaze alone silenced them. When a concubine dared to gossip of Xue Yan's obscurity, her family vanished before the moon turned full.

Still, within the Vermilion Hall, they lived like strangers beneath the same sky.

Though wedded, they had never shared a bed. The palace maids whispered that the marriage had never been consummated. Perhaps they were right. Yet, there had been one night—just one—when the walls between them nearly fell.

The Emperor had drunk more than usual that evening, his composure loosened by too much Baijiu. Xue Yan had already retired when the door slid open with a faint sound. Lian Qing had stepped inside, his robes half undone, his hair unbound. His eyes were unfocused, softened by wine.

Xue Yan had risen from the bed in alarm, but the Emperor’s hand caught his wrist before he could bow. The touch was warm—startlingly so—and far gentler than Xue Yan had imagined those calloused hands could be. Lian Qing had traced his fingers along the curve of his back, then his waist, his voice low and hoarse with something unspoken.

But then, without warning, Lian Qing had faltered. His grip loosened; his head lowered to Xue Yan's shoulder. Within moments, his breathing deepened. He had fallen asleep standing there, the faint scent of wine and frost clinging to him.

That morning, the courtyard lay wrapped in mist. The air was cool, the plum trees bare of all but a few trembling petals. Xue Yan sat beneath them, alone, his needle gliding in and out of the silk stretched across his lap.

A quiet rustle broke the stillness.

He looked up—and froze.

Emperor Lian Qing stood only a few paces away, his dark robes heavy with dew. No guards, no attendants. Just the two of them, alone beneath the trees.

Xue Yan's breath caught. He lowered his gaze quickly, bowing his head. “Your Majesty,” he murmured, voice soft as falling snow.

Lian Qing said nothing. He watched the boy’s trembling hands, the faint thread of red silk tangled between his fingers. His shadow stretched over the embroidery frame.

“You rise early,” the Emperor said at last, his tone calm but edged with something almost human.