In the sixty-third year of the Qingyuan reign of the Wei Dynasty, March arrived cloaked in haze and gentle rain. The city, fresh with the green of spring, shimmered under a silken veil of mist. Rainwater kissed the earth, leaving it fragrant and glistening.
At the Xu family residence in the capital, roof tiles gleamed with the wash of rain—a meticulous array of half-moon tiles from Yunzhou. When the moon shone, it was said they sparkled like fireflies. These tiles were costly, a treasure of craftsmanship and time, yet for the Xu family, whose silk and satin trade spanned the empire, they were mere trifles. Lord Xu, tutor to the current prince, had two sons. The eldest, Xu Zhiheng, a Hanlin scholar at a young age, was celebrated throughout the capital. At eighteen, he had married He Yan, daughter of the military He family. A union of intellect and valor, scholar and warrior, they were the perfect match.
"Madam, what would you like?" a maid asked, crisp and attentive, presenting a steaming cup of tea.
"I'm going out for a walk," He Yan replied, swallowing the tea.
"But it’s raining outside..."
"No problem. I have an umbrella."
The maid hesitated, glancing at the young woman before her. Xu family women were elegant, refined. But He Yan’s emerald-green feather-gauze satin gown, exquisite though it was, seemed mismatched against her silent grace. She was beautiful, her features heroic and eyes like crystal-clear lakes—though she could no longer see.
Three months after marrying into the Xu family, illness had struck, leaving her blind. Medical remedies failed, and she withdrew from the outdoors. Yet now, accustomed to a life without sight, she walked to the pavilion beside the courtyard pond.
The rain whispered, the pond rippled, red carp darted for food—yet all of it was invisible to her. The beauty of spring was hidden, like her own invisible self. Memories of Xu Zhiheng at fourteen lingered—warmth in his smile, the gentle offering of his hand. Now, though he treated her politely, there was a distance she could sense but not name.
Years in the army had taught her to face men as an equal. But as a woman, she was lost. So she endured, silent witness to Xu Zhiheng’s tender moments with his concubine, He Shi, until she retreated into peace.
Seated in the pavilion, the past surged. Spring rains, the warmth of alcohol among soldiers—memories of courage and battle washed over her. A sudden rush of heat made her cough blood into the air.
Footsteps approached.
"Xiao Die?" she called.
Silence. Then a voice: "Madam, you have good hearing."
He Shi’s sudden pride, so unlike her usual gentle self, made He Yan wary. She was a mere decoration in this house; a blind woman posed no threat. Why now?
"What’s the matter?"
He Wanru touched her hairpin—a gift from Xu Zhiheng. Then, as if recalling the blind woman before her, she withdrew and said softly: "Madam, you're pregnant."
He Yan froze.
"The doctor confirmed it a few days ago."
Joy flickered—but He Wanru’s next words were poison: "What a shame."
"What a shame?" He Yan demanded.
"The child… cannot be kept."
He Yan’s eyes, though blind, blazed. "Madam, how dare you!"
He Wanru’s calm arrogance stoked a fire within. "I know everything I should and shouldn’t. General He, such a secret… how dare the He and Xu families tolerate you?"
He Yan listened, stunned, as the tangled history unfolded: the stolen identity of He Rufei, the false public face she had been forced to bear, the secret poison that had stolen her sight. The world she had trusted—her family, her husband—was a battlefield darker than any she had faced in war.
"The poison… you were watched. If you die, they breathe a sigh of relief. You have only yourself to blame."
He Yan laughed—bitter, hollow, defiant.
Blame her? For taking He Rufei’s place? For proving herself on the battlefield? For being born a woman in a world that measured worth by men’s deeds? She laughed, and her voice rang sharp as a sword.
"What are you laughing at?" He Wanru demanded.
"At you," He Yan said, her words deliberate, each syllable slicing the air. "At your ridiculousness. I die for a secret… do you think you could have survived knowing it?"
He Wanru sneered.
Guards surged forward.
"Kill her!"
Willow branches, soft and pliant, became He Yan’s weapons. She was blind, but her body moved like a storm, striking ten attackers with a grace that belied her helplessness.
Yet the poisoned tea had left its mark. A hidden blade, a brutal shove, a plunge into icy water—suddenly, her struggle was overpowered. The pond engulfed her, and she sank, limbs flailing, senses fading.
She heard fragments: marching songs, letters read aloud, panicked cries…
"I’m drowning—someone, my wife—"
She longed for home.
But there was nowhere to go.
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