"Where is everyone?" Bǎihé asked as Hépíng led her down the long corridor toward her chambers. The palace was vast as always, yet today it felt hollow—its silence pressing against the walls like an empty echo.
"Your sisters, the Emperor, and the Empress left early this morning," Hépíng replied softly. "They went south to offer condolences to the governor."
Bǎihé halted abruptly, her silk shoes brushing against the polished tiles. "What? No one told me they were going."
"It was decided late yesterday evening, but... you weren't available."
The words stung. Bǎihé fell quiet, her gaze drifting to the cold stone floor.
"I don't blame you, Gōngzhǔ," Hépíng continued with a scoff. "I blame myself—for leaving you in the care of that incompetent fool." She rolled her eyes sharply.
"Speak of the devil," she muttered as Yíchén appeared a few paces ahead, balancing a lacquered tray of dishes. Haoyu walked behind, overseeing a group of servants who carried more trays laden with steaming dishes toward Bǎihé's quarters.
Outside her room, Haoyu sat beneath the shade of the veranda, fingers tapping impatiently against the low wooden table as he waited.
"Are you sure she's fine, Yíchén?" he asked, his tone laced with worry.
"She drank too much," Yíchén answered plainly, "but she slept relatively well."
"Unlike you. You look as though you haven't slept at all."
Yíchén said nothing at first, then after a pause murmured, "We must execute our plans soon."
"Keep your voice down," Haoyu hissed, glancing around nervously. "We're still inside the palace."
"Once one of my men delivers further details, I'll depart for Gǔ. I must inform my father of the next step."
"So soon?" Haoyu's brows furrowed.
"Yes. I cannot linger here any longer. And remember, Haoyu—" Yíchén's gaze hardened. "I am not here to serve."
Haoyu exhaled, giving a small nod of understanding. His eyes softened briefly as he noticed something. "What happened to your lips?"
Startled, Yíchén touched the corner of his mouth, finding the faint trace of a bite mark. "I must have cut it this morning," he muttered, expression flat.
"Ahh." Haoyu nodded absently, but his attention drifted back toward Bǎihé's door.
Inside, Bǎihé sat before her bronze mirror. Her reflection looked back at her with haunted eyes. She remembered every detail of last night—or thought she did. Yet, it all blurred together like a dream caught between waking and sleep. It wasn't her who kissed him. It couldn't have been. She felt as though another presence had taken hold of her, as though her body had moved without her will.
She wouldn't have kissed him. Not Yíchén. She barely knew him, let alone loved him. Even intoxicated, it wasn't like her. And yet... the memory of her lips against his lingered, tinged with a strange mixture of longing and regret. The pressure of his mouth, the warmth of his arms—it haunted her.
There was something unusual about General Kong, something she couldn't name. But she clung to one certainty: the kiss was a mistake. A drunken slip. She would apologize, privately, away from Haoyu. For the kiss meant nothing compared to the truth in her heart. Her heart belonged to Haoyu—and she could not bear to lose him over one meaningless moment.
Yet another weight pressed down on her chest. She had missed the condolences for Huan. Her family had gone without her, and she alone had been absent. Was I truly that selfish, she thought bitterly, as Chúndù said?
Later, refreshed and dressed in pale silk robes, she stepped outside to find Haoyu waiting beneath the shade. A small table was set, trays of food carefully laid out, their fragrant steam curling into the air.
"Here," Haoyu said, rising to gesture her into a seat.
"Thank you so much, Haoyu."
"Eat as much as you like. They've prepared all your favorites. And here—" he pushed a small porcelain vial toward her—"a remedy for the hangover, should your head ache."
"Thank you," Bǎihé said again, bowing her head with genuine gratitude. She picked up her chopsticks and began eating quickly.
"Slow down a little," Haoyu chuckled.
"Sorry. I was just... very hungry."
"Come closer."
Bǎihé tilted her head but obeyed, leaning toward him. Gently, Haoyu brushed his thumb across her lips, wiping away a smear of sauce.
"Every time, Bǎihé," he teased softly. His hand lingered against her cheek, tender and warm. "You're beautiful."
Her cheeks flushed, and she looked away quickly. Yet when she lifted her gaze again, it fell—just for a moment—on Yíchén, standing silent in the background. She wasn't sure why her eyes sought him. She quickly turned back to Haoyu, who offered her another dish.
"Here, try this one."
She smiled faintly, accepting.
As they ate, a young man in a white apron stepped forward, bowing deeply. "Would you like more water?"
"Yes, please," Haoyu gestured.
The man poured carefully, but his hand slipped, knocking over a cup. Water splashed across the table. Yíchén moved swiftly to assist, handing him a folded handkerchief.
Hépíng stood to the side, arms crossed, rolling her eyes at the clumsy attempt—and at how quickly Yíchén, the esteemed general, stooped to help.
"I... I'm so sorry, Gōngzhǔ Fāng, Wángzǐ Feng," the man stammered nervously as he wiped the spill.
"It's all right. An accident," Haoyu assured him.
"Thank you, sir." The man gave a small smile as he returned the handkerchief to Yíchén.
"No worries," Yíchén replied evenly, resuming his post.
The man bowed again, retrieved the jug, and left quietly.
Bǎihé returned to her meal, the warmth of Haoyu's gaze lingering on her as the cicadas hummed faintly in the distant palace gardens.