She rose. Her knee complained, stiff from kneeling too long on cold wood. She didn’t mind the ache. It was hers. Every part of her was hers now.
At the door, she paused and looked back one last time. The girl who had hidden there was not hiding anymore. She stood in the doorway, a woman grown, ready to walk out.
She closed the door. The sound was soft, final.
Outside, night had fallen. She hadn’t even noticed the hours passing. The moon hung low, casting silver over the overgrownpath. Crickets sang in the weeds. The air smelled of damp earth and night-blooming flowers—scents that had nothing to do with rot or memory.
She drew a breath. Deep. Clean. Filling her lungs with the present.
Rapid footsteps reached her ears. She turned just as the broken gates swung open. Haorán stood silhouetted against the moonlight, lantern in hand, chest heaving. When he saw her, panic drained from his face—relief rushing in to take its place.
“Your Highness.” He bowed. “Your handmaidens are frantic. No one saw you leave Magnolia Palace.”
She inclined her head. “I needed a walk.”
His gaze moved past her to the crumbling manor, then returned to her face. Recognition flashed in his eyes, the look of a man who had seen his own share of ghosts.
“Why did you return to the place that pains you so?” he asked.
JingYi looked back and simply said, “To let go.”
Haorán studied her for a moment. Then he nodded, a simple acknowledgment from a man who, she believed, understood some journeys required no explanation.
“Shall I escort you back, Your Highness?”
She meant to say yes. Meant to end this night. But her eyes caught on the broken fence—the gap where she and LinXin had often met in secret. Repaired once, splintered open again. Like an old wound, refusing to close.
She had heard ShunLi’s story, but she knew—somewhere deep and certain—that LinXin’s tale was not yet finished.
“Can you take me to Plum Blossom Palace?”
His eyes widened slightly. But he didn’t say anything, only bowed and raised the lantern, casting light into the darkness ahead.
LinXin’s palace was not far from her own residence. They were the only two Omega High Princesses, occupying equally desirable buildings within the Imperial Palace complex. At this hour, the lanterns that lined the covered walkways burned low, casting flickers across the wide flagstones. The guards at LinXin’s gate bowed when she and Haorán approached, but none dared to question her for coming so late.
LinXin’s maid let her inside straightaway while Haorán waited in the courtyard. She followed her to the receiving room where, beneath a hanging scroll of cranes in flight, LinXin stood in her robe, belted loosely, her hair unpinned and falling in soft waves. Though she was calm, there was surprise in her eyes.
Once alone, JingYi wasted no time. “There’s something you weren’t telling me this afternoon. What was it?”
LinXin didn’t speak right away. Her posture, always so composed, faltered. She looked younger in this moment, unsure—as if they were children again, hiding in the darkest corners of a garden.
“Your return should mark a new age in our relationship,” LinXin finally said. “One built on honesty and truth, not secrets and fear.” Her throat bobbed with each swallow. “But I do fear . . . you’d despise me if you knew.”
JingYi’s brow furrowed. “Knew about what?”
LinXin’s gaze turned glassy. She took a step forward. “Do you remember when we were little? When I would sneak away to visit you at the Withering Orchid Manor?”
JingYi nodded slowly. “You used to slip through the broken fence in the garden after curfew. I’d wait there with a blanket and two cups of barley tea.”
“And when they repaired the fence, we still found a way to meet.” LinXin gave a quiet, almost wistful laugh.
“We held hands through the gap. You always came with stories. I never had any. Only shadows. My mother’s bitterness. Her weeping.”
LinXin took another step. “Do you remember when, shortly after your mother died, I showed you . . . a little trick with the light?”
Her sister opened her hand. A flame stirred to life in her palm. No ordinary flame. Not red or orange, it shimmered silver at the edges, and at its heart glowed a bright fuchsia light, pulsing as if alive.
“Yes,” JingYi replied, staring. “I remember. You used to call it your ‘sleep light.’ You let me hold it in my palm for a while, said it chased away nightmares.”
