March in Pingling brought peach blossoms in full bloom. The spring rain had faded, leaving a gentle dampness in the air. From the pavilions tucked among willows, music and soft voices floated, weaving an atmosphere of warmth and elegance.
Behind silk curtains, a lazy figure stirred, opening eyes to the golden clouds at the horizon. "Can’t I just rest a little longer…?"
The city bustled with grandeur. Music filled the halls, dancers swayed gracefully, and nobles admired from behind jeweled goblets. Yet, beneath the revelry, tension brewed. Ning Fei, the trusted envoy of the Prince of Zhennan, had come to Pingling for military recruitment. His mood darkened, however, when he caught sight of familiar faces—memories from the past he thought buried.
Amid the music, a maid led him toward a courtyard filled with the scent of blossoms. He pushed his way into a room, startling everyone inside. And there she was. Qingyan.
Once thought gone from the world, she now leaned on a chaise longue, eyes sharp yet playful. Their gazes locked—shock, longing, and fury tangled in the air. "Yixiao," Ning Fei choked, "you’re alive?"
Her laughter was both mocking and alluring. She teased, tested, and toyed with him, as if time had never passed. But her words cut deep. Life had changed her, and her carefree defiance made his heart twist.
Overwhelmed, Ning Fei stormed away, only to return moments later with an order that shocked the hall: "I want to redeem Qingyan. Name your price!"
A collective gasp swept through the hall, though no one dared to interrupt. The hall master hesitated, then said in a trembling voice, “Your Excellency, Qingyan joined the cabinet of her own will. She hasn’t signed a contract for seven years. If Your Excellency wishes to—”
Before he could finish, Ning Fei’s face darkened. He stamped his foot and cried out, “Impossible!” With that, he strode out, leaving the guests in stunned silence. Moments later, he returned, his expression composed but eyes flickering with hidden turmoil. Settling back into his seat, he forced a smile. “Why so silent? A gathering should be lively.”
The crowd hesitated, then laughter and music cautiously resumed, though whispers lingered. Ning Fei’s sudden shifts between fury and calm left them shaken, but none dared to question him.
He beckoned Yan Shu back to his side, masking the storm in his chest. Though his expression was serene, the lingering fragrance clinging to his sleeves reminded him it was no illusion—Qingyan was alive. He had to inform His Highness at once, though he could not guess how his master would take such news.
Elsewhere, Fu Yixiao stood barefoot by the window, her white gauze gown embroidered with silver threads glowing in the dim light. A light blue glass hairpin held back her dark hair, loose and flowing like ink. She stood still, graceful as an immortal.
The door creaked open. Xueying entered, startled by the darkness. Clutching her chest, she scolded, “Why don’t you light a lamp? I thought you slipped away again.” She struck the tinder, one flame after another chasing shadows from the room.
Yixiao, chin resting lazily on her hand, gave a teasing smile. “The Ghost Festival is coming soon. If you don’t go home, Uncle Ling may send someone to fetch you.”
Xueying frowned and sat down beside her. “Please come back with me. If I return alone, Father won’t let me out again.”
Yixiao smirked. “Spare me the act. If you hold scissors to your neck, who in the Ling family dares stop you?”
“You—!” Xueying balled her fists and struck her lightly. “You always bring up the past to embarrass me. One day, I’ll stay home and never step out again!”
Feigning fright, Yixiao raised her voice, imitating a weepy stage tone. “Husband, how could you be so cruel?”
Xueying burst into laughter, shaking her head. “You shameless rogue!”
But the laughter faded, leaving behind worry. Yixiao’s expression softened. “I know you’re concerned. Don’t be—I’ll be fine.”
“You’re lying,” Xueying muttered. “You’ve been hiding for years. Now that they’ve found you, they won’t stop until they drag you back.”
Silence hung between them. Then Yixiao whispered, “I’m going to Lucheng.”
“What?” Xueying jumped to her feet. “That’s madness! Do you want to walk into danger again?”
Yixiao shook her head. “Running solves nothing. Some poisons can only be cleansed by facing them directly.”
Xueying studied her, sighed, then stood. Yixiao tugged her sleeve. “Where are you going?”
“Your silver bow must be rusted by now. I’ll fetch it and polish it,” Xueying replied, walking away without turning back.
Yixiao’s eyes lingered on her retreating figure before drifting toward the longbow on the wall. A faint smile curved her lips. “Four years without use… it may be rusty. But the bow is still here. Where will you find to polish it?”
The room quieted once more, broken only by the soft crackling of candlelight.
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