LinXin spoke, “There is much that was done poorly before. We intend to begin again.”
JingYi gave the barest tilt of her head, enough to appease the watchful eyes of the guards and attendants circling the courtyard. As long as they remained in public, anything said would be fodder for gossip, something for the whole palace to discuss and dissect later.
Outside, she must keep calm. Her insides, however, knotted.
Begin again.
As if their past could be folded neatly away. As if it hadn’t marked her skin, shaped her gait, rewritten her very sense of self. She wasn’t so naive to believe apologies would come—not here, not in public—but even this peace offering, carefully worded, was something she hadn’t expected.
Should she feel wary of their intentions, or relieved? It seemed easier for now,safer,to feel nothing at all.
ShunLi’s eyes slid past her and softened a touch. “Haorán, you’ve returned.”
At once, Haorán stepped forward and dropped to one knee, head lowered, fists clasped and lowered in a warrior’s salute. “This one greets the Rising Sun of the Realm—He who wears the Golden Seal, chosen by Heaven and guarded by fate.”
He turned slightly toward LinXin and dipped his head. “And offers due honour to Her Grace, the High Princess.”
“Xu Haorán,” LinXin said, her voice even. “You’ve found our sister and brought her back to safety. For that, you have our gratitude.”
Haorán remained bowed. “Begging Her Highness’s pardon, but the one who freed High Princess JingYi from her captors was not this servant. It was Lord Alexander Wulfbane of Blackwood-Veyrde, who arrived at the final hour.”
The name struck JingYi’s chest with the strength of a battering ram. She kept her eyes open, though the rest of her wanted to fold. Even here, leagues away, surrounded by rigid decorum, Alexander’s name brought back the memory of his last kiss.
She said nothing. The ache didn’t need sound to exist.
LinXin bristled. “He lost what was entrusted to him,” she said, voice cold, “and failed to protect the High Princess from those who left their mark on her.”
JingYi’s fingers curled into her sleeve, an old habit to keep them from drifting to her cheek. Six weeks had passed since the dungeon. The bruises still clung to her skin in faint yellow and green, like wilted leaves refusing to fall.
Haorán lowered himself further, his forehead pressed to the polished stone. “This servant accepts full blame. Had I not beendefeated, Her Highness would never have fallen into enemy hands.”
JingYi waved the words away. “Enough. Xu Haorán’s loyalty is beyond question. He risked his life to protect mine and the emperor’s future bride.” She paused to gauge ShunLi’s reaction, but her brother’s face remained impassive.
“Lord Wulfbane is also not on trial here,” she added with finality. “I left his House and his name by my own will. Do not mistake my choice for his failure.”
ShunLi’s gaze shifted—first to Haorán, still kneeling, then to her.
“That is enough for now,” he said, and though his tone was even, it was enough to signal the end of the discussion. “This is not the time to reopen wounds that have barely begun to heal.”
Then, he gestured toward the open doorway behind him. “The Magnolia Palace is yours now, Sister. I would have you cross its threshold not as a guest, but as its mistress. Come. There is still much to discuss, and much to reacquaint ourselves with.”
He turned first, giving her space to follow of her own will. He paused just shy of the threshold and looked over his shoulder. “Haorán, rest for now. Later, I will hear more about the man who defeated you.”
After ShunLi disappeared into the building, JingYi hesitated for a breath before walking past the rows of courtiers, past Haorán still on the ground, past LinXin’s storm-laced silence. She never imagined she’d walk into the palace that was hers to command.
It had once been the residence of Princess MinLuö, the beloved Omega sister of the twelfth Emperor—Xûen Yánlei the Encompassing, a Sunborn sovereign who ended the Seven-Army Rebellion and forged peace with the Tzadun-Khör tribe. She returned as a young widow after a rare love match with a Tzadunchieftain. Instead of being wed again for politics, the emperor granted her the unheard-of freedom to live out her days in peaceful solitude. It was a scandal—a widowed Omega refusing remarriage—but the emperor upheld her choice and bequeathed the Magnolia Palace as her place of refuge.
And now, decades later, it opened its doors to another Omega long forgotten.
The scent reached her first—aged incense, spiced, like dried orange peel and osmanthus.
The interior lived up to the rumours. Cool light spilled through latticed screens carved with magnolia blossoms, washing over polished floors of pale porcelain. A hand-painted screen stood behind the central divan, inked with cranes in flight over a misty lake. She recognized the brushwork—delicate, fluid—a style Princess MinLuö favoured.
JingYi sat on one of the divans and folded her hands before her. This wasn’t just a receiving room—it was a space meant for solitary peace, for poems read aloud in the hush between seasons. A place built for someone who’d once chosen ink over a crown.
And now, it was hers.
The maids served tea and autumn confections—rice cakes shaped like maple leaves; scents of stewed red bean and lotus paste curled through the still air. When the final cup was set down, the attendants withdrew to the side, hands folded, gazes lowered, waiting.
