Then, his stern expression softened into something sadder, more understanding. A faint, weary smile touched his lips.
“You are right,” he said quietly. “In this place, perception is power. But JingYi, you are the rare thing this court cannot comprehend: a person who became powerful without manipulating perception. You overcame its cruelty by being real, even when ‘real’ was all you were allowed to be.”
He closed the distance between them. With a tenderness that disarmed her, he cradled her cheek—the marked cheek, the testament to her lifelong struggle for a truth no one wanted.
“The court can play their games,” he murmured. “Your only duty now is to the self you fought to become. Not to me. Not to this legacy of lies. You arefree.”
For a long moment, she only looked at him—the brother who had once been a silhouette in a palace of shadows. Then she turned back to the pond, watching the carp glide beneath the water’s skin.
She’d chosen once before, stepped away from Alexander—not to punish, but to free them both so they could heal. So she could learn the shape of her own soul, apart from his.
This choice felt different. It was not an ending, but a new beginning, built on her own terms.
She chose herself.Forherself.
CHAPTER 71
ALEXANDER
Su Lian’s older brother, Su Jiang, was a master of his craft, and he knew it well. His reputation, as the sister had proudly proclaimed, was not simply for beauty, but for soul. His piecesbreathed.
When he learned their late father’s beloved limyerite crystal—long kept in a glass case—was finally going to a new home, he’d been thrilled. To shape it, to be the one to transform its sleeping potential into something lasting and luminous? It was the kind of commission artisans prayed for. He’d even praised Alexander’s quick sketch, running a thumb along the parchment with a grunt of approval.
“Not bad for a noble,” he’d said, with what might’ve been a smile. “You want elegance. Clean lines. Symbolic, not gaudy.Hn.”
Then, Alexander revealed the deadline.
“A fortnight?” Su Jiang squawked.
He looked from Alexander to Su Lian as if they’d both gone mad and reached for the nearest broomstick.
“Not possible!” he bellowed, jabbing the handle in Alexander’s direction. “Not possible at all! A piece like this takesweeks.Months, even. You want it cut, polished, set—blessed, I assume—all in fourteen days?”
Alexander opened his mouth.
“Don’t even answer,” Su Jiang snapped. “My soul is too fragile.”
Su Lian coughed discreetly into her sleeve. Alexander clasped his hands behind his back and raked his mind for what he could say to persuade the craftsman.
“Master Su, I understand it’s ambitious. But it would mean a great deal. Not just to me, but?—”
“—to the gods, the ancestors, the spirits of the stone, I’m sure,” Su Jiang said darkly, folding his arms. “You nobles always want miracles. Well, I’m no spirit medium. I’m a man with one pair of hands and a mountain of unfinished commissions.”
Su Lian leaned in and whispered, “Lord Wulfbane, I’ll speak to him.”
With a confident smile, she approached her brother and murmured something swift and sharp in his ear. Whatever she said, it produced the desired effect. Su Jiang froze mid-rant, the sketch still trembling in his hand. His brow twitched. Then, slowly, his expression shifted. Indignation melted into reluctant interest, then something dangerously close to excitement.
He cleared his throat with performative gravity. “Leave this with me. I will begin tonight.”
When Su Lian returned, Alexander arched a brow in question.
The woman’s whisper was laced with triumph, “I only told him what all great craftsmen long to hear: His creation will be admired by many when High Princess Xûen JingYi, Lady Wulfbane, wears it to court. Not just here in Xûen-Sarai, but in Tremore as well.”
The days unfolded in a blur of language, ink, and crystal dust. He moved himself out of Scholar Wen’s house and into the backof the Su family shop. There, he had no time for idle longing or self-pity, not with the Su and Xian households sweeping him into their current like a boat in spring flood.
Mornings began with language lessons on the back terrace, where MeiMei tutored him in the structure and the six tones of Xûengua, while her father sat nearby, correcting his pronunciation with dry, unflinching precision.
“Again,” he would say, without looking up from his own ledger. “You’re calling her a steamed bun, not a flower. Not many women will find that a compliment.”
