The vast bronze doors of the Grand Hall groaned open, spilling a flood of incense-laden air onto the marble steps. Sunlight lanced through the open space, painting molten gold across the ceremonial carpet that stretched toward the Dragon Throne.
Meng Qingzhou stepped forward.
The world outside the hall had been loud — drums booming in synchronized waves, court musicians drawing sharp, bright notes from flutes and guqin. Inside, the sound seemed to fold in on itself, heavy with the weight of a thousand watching eyes.
Every minister, envoy, and court lady present had been hand-picked to witness this day. And every one of them seemed to share the same thought, stamped across their carefully polite expressions: This man is unworthy.
Whispers rose like the rustle of dry leaves.
"Is this truly the Empress's choice?"
"No cultivation… no background… no voice."
"Shameful, if not for her beauty."
Qingzhou's gaze didn't flicker. He walked at a measured pace, his black wedding robe threaded with silver embroidery — an image of a soaring crane, wings outspread, chosen by the Empress herself. His silence was not the silence of a crushed man, but that of a blade kept sheathed.
Halfway to the dais, a minor minister stepped slightly into his path. It was a calculated risk — nothing overt enough to be called obstruction, but enough to force Qingzhou to pause or sidestep. A test.
Qingzhou stopped. His eyes met the minister's, and in that heartbeat of stillness, the other man faltered. Something unreadable passed between them — the quiet weight of a presence not as powerless as it appeared. The minister bowed awkwardly and moved aside.
The carpet led him to the foot of the dais. Above him, on a throne carved from a single block of dark jade, sat Empress Xie Lianhua. She was radiant beneath her phoenix crown, but her eyes were sharp — scanning the room, measuring friend from foe. When her gaze found Qingzhou, a thread of something warmer glinted there.
The master of rites, an old man with a voice like cracked stone, stepped forward and raised his ceremonial tablet. "By mandate of Heaven, we gather to join Her Imperial Majesty Xie Lianhua and Meng Qingzhou in sacred union…"
The words rolled on, ritual phrases like polished stones worn smooth by centuries of repetition. But underneath, the tension thrummed. Every official in the room waited for the same thing — the moment when the officiant would turn and bid Qingzhou speak his vow.
A man who cannot speak, standing before the empire, at the most public moment of his life.
The officiant's hand lifted, the final line on his tongue.
Qingzhou's fingers curled slightly at his side. His gaze didn't shift from the Empress's eyes.
The hall seemed to lean forward.
And then—