Perspective: Zhuge Yui Lan
Even within the vast imperial Zhuge domain — where every wing seemed to belong to a different world — there was one place that never failed to take my breath away: the palace where I stood now.
Since each of my father's wives possessed her own estate, there was no single architectural standard across the island.
Some were monuments of stone and austerity; others, temples of silk, color, and vanity.
But few compared to the structure that now rose before me.
The palace seemed to grow out of the mountain itself, its curved towers climbing in harmonious layers, reaching for the heavens in reverence.
The tiles were a deep, near-black blue, their edges traced with fine lines of silver frost that glittered beneath the soft twilight.
When the wind blew, flakes of ice fell like crystal dust, reflecting the last lilac hues of the fading sky.
The steps leading to the grand hall were wide and solemn, carved from bluish-gray jade coated in a translucent film of thin ice — the kind that never melted, even under spiritual light.
Each step echoed with a faint, brittle sound, like distant shattering glass.
On either side of the staircase, trees bloomed with violet leaves and flowers, dense and soft as veils of silk.
Their petals, tinted in shades of purple and white, resembled frozen fragments of dawn.
Some had already fallen upon the stone floor, forming a carpet that the wind rearranged constantly — weaving fleeting patterns that looked like messages from the Dao itself.
The water encircling the staircase remained half-frozen, a thin layer of ice over a mirror-still surface, reflecting the golden light spilling from the hall's windows.
That blend of golden warmth and violet cold was almost hypnotic.
This palace had always seemed to me the perfect balance between winter and dream.
The outer walls were painted in deep lilac tones, with dark wooden panels adorned by slender lines of silver.
Between the columns, spiritual lanterns cast a soft violet glow, their light dancing within the frozen crystals as though breathing with the wind.
It was beautiful.
Beautiful — and melancholy.
The kind of beauty meant to be admired from afar, because any touch, any trace of warmth, might break it.
As I gazed around, I felt the cold creeping through the sleeves of my cloak.
The air of Zhuge Island was always frigid, but here, before this palace, the cold seemed to possess its own will — as if it were an extension of my mother's very presence.
The ice didn't conceal the colors; it made them shine brighter.
The violet of the flowers, the silver of the tiles, the white of the snow — all blended into one hue, as if the world itself breathed a single color.
For a moment, my gaze climbed to the top of the staircase, where the golden light pulsed faintly behind closed doors.
That was the heart of this small empire within the empire — the place where my mother's decisions were made in silence, and where, inevitably, I would have to enter.
I took a deep breath.
The air pierced my chest with its familiar sting — a gentle kind of pain that reminds you where you are and who you are.
Then, with my violet cloak fluttering behind me, I stepped onto the ice.
The sound echoed through the still air.
The mistress of this palace was one of my father's consorts — Ling Hua Zi, though no one had called her by her full name in years.
Within the empire, she was known simply as Violet.
And honestly, I had to admit — the name suited her perfectly.
The servant who greeted me at the entrance didn't dare speak aloud; he only bowed and led me through the corridors bathed in the violet light of spiritual lanterns.
The air was filled with a faint fragrance — frozen blossoms and plum tea — that seemed to follow our every step.
When the sliding doors to the main hall opened, I found her exactly as I had imagined.
Seated before a small lilac-jade table, Violet held the flawless posture of one who had long mastered the balance between grace and authority.
The teapot before her released a thin wisp of steam that rose slowly, swirling like mist around her silhouette.
The soft trickle of tea filling the cups was the only sound in the room.
She wore a xianxia-style robe of spiritual silk, entirely in shades of violet and black.
The fabric shimmered faintly, reflecting the lamplight as if every thread contained a fragment of dawn.
Wide sleeves unfolded like wings, and the high collar — adorned with amethyst stones — framed her neck with elegance.
Delicate silver chains crossed her chest, holding three central gems, each one gleaming with a cold, hypnotic glow.
Her long, slightly wavy hair flowed like dark lavender rivers, catching every flicker of spiritual fire from the lamps.
Small purple-jade pins held part of it in place, forming a perfect balance between luxury and restraint.
But what truly held one's gaze were her eyes — a deep, translucent blue, like a frozen lake.
Calm. Patient. Impossible to read.
Even wrapped in serenity and beauty, there was something in Violet that the air of the palace could not hide — a quiet sense of power.
Not the kind that demands submission through force, but the kind that commands respect through stillness.
She lifted her gaze the moment I entered, the gesture so subtle I almost doubted it had happened.
A slight nod, an almost imperceptible glance — acknowledgment enough for someone like her.
"Yui Lan," she said softly, her voice low, melodious, and firm. "It's been a long time."
I joined my hands in a respectful gesture and bowed slightly.
"Stepmother Violet."
She smiled — a small, reserved smile, yet genuine.
Then she motioned to the seat before her.
The steam of the tea rose between us, mingling with the violet glow of the lanterns and the chill of the room.
For a moment, it felt as though the world outside — with all its tension and whispers of war — had faded away.
But I knew nothing about this woman was mere appearance.
Her serenity was only another form of control.
And as I sat across from her, I understood that this conversation — no matter how calm it seemed — would carry the weight of a storm contained within silence.