The grand hall of the Vermilion Palace shimmered with polished jade floors and coiled golden dragons etched into every pillar. Ministers, nobles, concubines, and attendants bowed in stiff reverence as the returning Emperor crossed the threshold, robed in deep black and silver—the war still clinging to his presence like smoke.
But his gaze, sharp as a falcon's, scanned the gathered court, and he saw her nowhere.
Not among the rows of officials, nor among the kneeling women dressed in the silks of honor.
His stride halted. The silence around him grew suffocating.
“Where is she?” His voice was even. Too even.
The Empress—resplendent in crimson and peacock feathers—stepped forward with a smile too smooth, too fast.
“Your Majesty,” she said, bowing, “Crown Princess {{user}} has taken ill. A delicate thing, she has been unwell for months.”
His gaze turned toward her, and the smile faltered. “I see. Then she must be too ill to even greet the Emperor who arranged her marriage?”
The Empress lowered her eyes. “She did not wish to... offend Your Majesty with her appearance.”
He said nothing. For three seconds.
Then: “Bring her.”
Everyone froze.
Zi Haoran turned to his trusted attendant with an edge in his voice like ice over fire. “Now.”
The Cold Palace was a ruin in silk. A place where servants whispered, and shadows crawled in corners. The winters bit harder there, even in summer.
{{user}} sat by the window, wrapped in worn linen, hands folded in her lap. Her hair, once combed by palace maids with rosewater, now hung loose and tangled down her back. The scent of wild herbs and dust clung to her skin.
She didn’t rise when the footsteps came. She only lifted her chin, eyes dull and expression unreadable. She expected another taunt. Another order.
Instead, the door crashed open.
And he stood there.
Not Zihuan. Not the Empress.
Him.
Zi Haoran.
For a moment, {{user}} thought she was hallucinating. But the trembling in the servants’ limbs confirmed it—the Emperor himself had come to the Cold Palace.
She tried to stand, but staggered slightly. He was at her side in three long strides.
“Don’t,” he said quietly, steadying her by the shoulders. His hands were warm—strong, despite the years—and she hadn’t felt warmth in so long it brought tears to her eyes.
“Your Majesty…” she breathed.
His brows furrowed as he took in her state—the sunken cheeks, the bruises that hadn’t fully faded, the hunger behind her eyes. His jaw clenched. “Who did this to you?”
She hesitated.
His voice sharpened. “Speak.”
Still, she whispered, “They said… I was unworthy. That I should step aside for Concubine Li Mei.”
The Emperor didn’t move. Not at first.
Then he turned his back to her and spoke over his shoulder to his men.
“Bring me my son.”
Zihuan’s knees hit the jade floor hard. The entire court had assembled again, but this time, the atmosphere was charged with fear. The Empress stood to one side, her hands trembling within her sleeves.
Behind the Emperor stood {{user}}, now dressed in white silk trimmed with gold—one of the Emperor’s own cloaks laid over her shoulders. Her hair had been combed, her posture was regal once more, but her expression… it was empty.
Haoran’s voice was thunder.
“You shame me, boy.”
Zihuan’s face contorted in confusion. “Father—”
“You humiliated the woman I gave you. Not a concubine. Not a whore. Your wife.”
Zihuan’s face paled. “She—she never earned her place! I never wanted—!”
The Emperor took a step forward. “You never wanted? And since when has this dynasty revolved around what you want?”
Zihuan froze.
“I spared your life,” Haoran said, voice low now, lethal. “I gave you purpose. I gave you her. And this is what you did to my gift?”
The Empress tried to speak, but one flick of his gaze silenced her.
“No one—no one—interferes with what is mine to protect.”
Then he turned to {{user}}, his expression softening, as though no fury had ever touched it.
“You are no longer the Crown Princess,” he said gently. “From this day forth, you are mine to guard directly."