Mò Lián woke before dawn, her lashes fluttering against the dim light seeping through the window. It was winter, yet the air carried no bite—only an unsettling stillness. She turned her head and saw Huā Yuán curled beside her, sleeping soundly, her chest rising in a calm rhythm.
A small, fleeting smile touched Mò Lián's lips. Childhood memories slipped in like ghosts, and with them, a name she had not spoken aloud in years.
"Yù Xuān..." Her whisper trembled in the air.
I really miss you.
The thought lingered like a wound reopening. She pulled her knees close, staring out the open window, where the sky seemed endless and unreachable.
Then Huā Yuán stirred. At first, it was faint, a small shiver that Mò Lián dismissed. But soon, the trembling grew violent, her body shaking as though seized by something unseen. Alarm shot through Mò Lián, and she leaned in to wake her.
Huā Yuán's eyes widened and grew glassy with tears. The soundless sobs spilling down her cheeks struck Mò Lián harder than she expected. Her stomach tightened.
She reached out, wanting to comfort her, but the moment broke with the sharp echo of footsteps.
Li Fuyao entered, her voice slicing the air.
"Mò Lián!"
Huā Yuán flinched, scrambling upright, throwing her blanket aside before bowing low.
"My lady..."
Mò Lián rose as well, her gaze steady on Li Fuyao. "It is morning, my lady."
But Li Fuyao's eyes narrowed with something unreadable—surprise, perhaps even disdain.
"Mò Lián. Today, you will present yourself at the palace. Come with me."
The command left no room for protest. Wordless, Mò Lián obeyed, trailing behind her, her thoughts burning but unspoken.
When the door closed, Huā Yuán remained frozen, her breath uneven. She pressed her forehead to the floor, whispering through cracked lips.
"Lady Li Fuyao... she will be angry with me..."
She stumbled from the room; her steps frantic until her shoulder slammed against a pillar. Startled, she collapsed, knees hitting stone.
"I'm sorry, my lady! I was wrong. Please forgive me!" she begged, bowing so low her hair spilled across the ground.
But silence answered. Only a soldier passing by chuckled cruelly at her mistake.
Humiliation burned her ears. Still, she kept bowing, again and again, as if her tears might wash her sins away.
That was when the maids came. Their whispers slithered first, followed by sneers.
"Huā Yuán, that witch..."
One stepped forward, her tone like venom. Her hand cracked against Huā Yuán's face before she even lifted her head.
"Where were you last night? It's a new year. Who did you seduce this time?"
Another slap came harder, echoing in the hollow corridor.
This time, Huā Yuán couldn't swallow the pain. Rage burst through her humiliation. Her palm shot forward, shoving the maid with all her strength. The girl crashed against the same pillar Huā Yuán had bowed before.
"Leave me alone!" she screamed, her voice breaking, raw as a child's. Then she fled, her sobs scattering down the hall like shards of glass.
Behind her, the maids stood frozen in disbelief. None dared chase.
Meanwhile, the palace stirred with restless energy. Servants scurried, silk rustling, torches lit one by one. The celebration hall gleamed with rich banners of scarlet and gold, its air heavy with incense and expectation. Officials filled the Monarchy Hall, their robes pristine, their voices hushed as they waited for the ceremony to begin.
The foreign king had arrived hours earlier, but he remained outside, barred by protocol. Until the royal signal came, even kings had to wait.
Beyond the palace walls, the capital boiled with life. Crowds surged against the iron gates—citizens and foreigners alike—hungry for a glimpse of glory. Tickets to the palace were rare and highly prized; only a select few were permitted inside.
It was winter, yet warmth lingered in the air. The royals had already released their ethereal energy, enough to keep the capital from freezing. But in this season, even their power thinned, fragile against the creeping cold.
When the sun rose, striking the temple's high arc, the heavens shimmered. Sparks glittered across the skies—the signal.
The royal procession began.
Queen Yù Yuè emerged first, her every step woven with authority and grace. Her robes whispered against the stone as the people bowed. The King did not appear; he remained in the ancestral underground, drawing on the sacred energies to renew his strength.
Elsewhere, the Crown Prince stood atop the general's office beside General Yán Lǐng, his gaze fixed on the training grounds below. Recruits stumbled over their drills, their movements sluggish, unpolished.
"These children are weak," the prince said, voice cool, eyes narrowing on a boy who struggled to keep his footing.
"My lord," Yán Lǐng bowed his head slightly, "the event has begun. Perhaps it will lighten your mood."
Their eyes met, and then, without a word, both dissolved into thin air.
They reappeared in the barracks, where the alarm bell tolled. Soldiers scrambled, rushing to formation—only to find the Crown Prince himself standing beside their general.
Gasps rippled through the ranks. For many, it was the first time they had seen him in the flesh. They had imagined a tyrant, merciless. Instead, they found calm carved into a face too perfect, too still—yet his presence pressed upon them like the weight of mountains.
In unison, the soldiers dropped to their knees.
"Greetings, Your Highness!"
"Rise," Yán Lǐng commanded, though his sharp eyes flicked to the prince, gauging the subtle shift in his expression.
None dared look up. To meet the monarch's gaze was forbidden.
The lieutenant stepped forward, voice trembling as he recited the order:
"The Crown Prince has granted the capital's army... a holiday."
Murmurs broke, disbelief crackling through the air like sparks on dry wood.
The prince moved then, silent, walking among the soldiers. His aura grew heavier with each step, thickening the very air. Breath came shallow to those near him, their lungs refusing to expand too fully, as though even the act of breathing in his presence was a crime.
He stopped before a young soldier. With a single hand, he lifted the boy's chin.
The soldier trembled violently, knees buckling—but the prince's grip forced him upright, a command without words.
"What is your name?" The crown prince's voice was low, steady, piercing through marrow and spirit alike. His eyes locked on the boy's, leaving no escape.
"Wēi... Wēi... I'm Wēi Wēi," the soldier stammered, voice cracking as he fought against the suffocating pull of the monarch's gaze.
The prince's lips curved, faint, predatory. His aura spilled through the ranks like a storm, unseen yet crushing. Then, in the space of a breath, he vanished—dissolving into thin air as though he had never been there.
Wēi Wēi collapsed instantly, gasping for air, his chest heaving. The prince was gone, yet the weight remained, coiled around his lungs like chains. Every soldier felt it—that lingering pressure, a reminder carved into their bones that the monarchy's power was absolute.
As the barracks emptied, whispers spread like wildfire.
"Are we blessed... or doomed? Never before have both the Prince and the General stood before us together."
Fear tasted like iron on their tongues.
And from the Monarchy Hall, the ceremonial drums thundered—the drums of the auspicious hours.
At Temple Inn, Lord Chen sat with his in-laws and his younger sister, helping prepare the ceremonial dishes for the day's event. The air was thick with incense, chatter, and the clatter of bronze bowls.
Lord Chen's sister, restless, slipped away. She made her way toward Li Fuyao's quarters, but the rooms were already deserted—Li Fuyao had long departed with her attendants. Only a few stragglers lingered in the corridor.
Turning back, she caught sight of a line of palace maids moving with perfect unison, each balancing trays of fine wine bound for the ceremonial hall. She paused, amused at their synchronized grace. But then her eyes froze on a single familiar face in their midst.
Yù Xuān.
The recognition stole her breath.
Yet she could not follow—ordinary women were forbidden from entering the ceremonial hall unless summoned. With a reluctant sigh, she turned to leave, only to collide with something solid.
A broad chest.
Her heart jumped. She stumbled back, bowing quickly, lips pressed tight. The palace was crawling with nobles and officials—one wrong move, and she could invite trouble.
But the man before her gently caught her by the arm and raised her upright.
Lord Chen's sister lifted her gaze—and nearly froze.
General Yán Lǐng.
"Huh..." The word slipped unbidden from her lips. He was taller than she remembered, his shadow stretching long over her.
Yán Lǐng's eyes softened, if only slightly. "How are you, my lady?" His voice was calm, yet laced with authority. He had noticed her startled expression.
She nodded, struggling for composure, but her thoughts churned. That face... so familiar...
Yán Lǐng's sharp eyes suddenly shifted. He had caught sight of Yù Xuān, now stepping out of a side hall, unaware of what awaited her.
A flick of his hand, and one of his soldiers moved at once, retrieving the girl. Yù Xuān, confused but obedient, soon found herself standing before the general.
She bowed deeply. "My lord."
When she lifted her face, her eyes widened in shock. Standing beside the general was none other than Mò Lián's aunt.
Her lips broke into a trembling smile.
Lord Chen's sister was just as startled.
Yán Lǐng studied them in silence for a long moment. Then, with an unreadable glance, he turned away. "Yù Xuān," he commanded, his tone final, "take care of her." Without another word, the general strode off, his cloak sweeping behind him.
The two women blinked at each other, and then—
"Yù Xuān...!" Lord Chen's sister gasped, tugging the girl's hands.
"You are Mò Lián's friend, right?"
"Yes!" Yù Xuān's smile widened, tears of relief in her eyes. The two embraced tightly, warmth blooming in the cold, crowded palace corridor.
Lord Chen's sister had often joined Mò Lián and her friends in play during her visits, but seeing Yù Xuān here was both unexpected and bittersweet.
"What are you doing here, my child?" she asked softly.
"It's... really a long story," Yù Xuān whispered, pulling back from the embrace. But before she could say another word—
A sharp, icy voice cut through the moment.
The chief of maids stood behind her, arms crossed, her gaze full of scorn.
"There you are. Out here gossiping while your tasks are left undone?" Her tone dripped venom.
Yù Xuān's face fell. The warmth of reunion drained away, replaced by dread.
The punishment was far from over.
At the Queen's palace, Li Fuyao and her girls practiced tirelessly for the night's grand performance. They had been rehearsing since dawn, yet Mò Lián struggled. No matter how hard she tried, one step always slipped her memory.
Her companions grew restless. Annoyance turned to mockery.
"She's probably from the south," one girl sneered.
Laughter broke out. "What good can come out of there? All they know is—'Hi, patronize me, I have what you want.'"
Their giggles grew louder, forgetting they stood in the Queen's hall.
Li Fuyao had left them to practice together, promising that when she returned, every dancer would perform as one. But when she divided them into two groups, both sides flatly refused Mò Lián.
"My lady," one girl protested, "I really worked hard to perfect this step. We can't accept Mò Lián—she'll ruin everything!"
Their protests grew until Mò Lián found herself standing alone.
Unbeknownst to them, Queen Yù Yuè was watching from above, hidden in her upper chamber where the view overlooked the entire hall.
The musicians began. The dancers split into their neat lines, moving with trained grace. But Mò Lián stood solitary in the middle, the rhythm surrounding her yet not embracing her. She felt like an intruder among them.
Her gaze lifted—and for an instant, she caught sight of a figure robed in royal garments above. Her heart thudded.
She closed her eyes. Then, recalling a step her aunt had once taught her—unique, fluid, and entirely her own—she moved.
Grace poured from her. Her movements were unorthodox, unfamiliar, but captivating. Queen Yù Yuè's eyes gleamed with approval.
When the practice ended, the queen summoned her. To everyone's shock, Mò Lián was dressed personally by the Queen's attendants—her garments special, unlike the others.
By late evening, the palace gates opened to the locals. The night ceremony would take place in the great open field, now glowing with lanterns and banners.
The King himself presided, halting the winter snow with his power.
Lord Chen and his sister sat among the guests. His in-laws were present as well. The common folk waited eagerly at the borders while the officials took their seats. Then the King entered, his presence commanding silence.
The event began. For the first time in years, the Crown Prince appeared before the public.
A hush fell. The King raised his hand and cast a spell upon the air, shaping it into a vast mirror of sky. Images appeared at his will, and there, the Crown Prince was revealed.
Lord Chen and his sister exchanged a stunned look, their hearts racing.
"I have seen, alot today."
The entertainment commenced. Sword masters displayed their dazzling forms, soldiers thundered in formation, and priests invoked blessings. Finally, it was time for Li Fuyao's dancers.
The Queen raised her cup in a toast—first to the King, then to the officials.
"Today is a day of joy," she said, her gaze sliding toward her son. "I have prepared a gift of special dancers for you."
Applause swept the field.
Li Fuyao led her girls onto the stage. Their makeup was heavy, their features almost unrecognizable. Yet among them was one girl in a mask.
The King lifted his hand, and the spell mirrored their performance in the night sky for all to see.
The musicians played as Li Fuyao instructed, and the dancers swayed in rhythm. The common folk cheered, but the officials looked on with mild disinterest.
Then the Queen lifted her fingers. A spell shimmered through the air. Suddenly, the musicians lost control of their own hands. Their instruments no longer played Li Fuyao's rhythm—they played the Queen's will.
The dancers faltered, steps broken. One by one, they slipped away, leaving the masked girl alone on the stage.
The music slowed, haunting. She continued, flowing with its unfamiliar rhythm. Then the music shifted again, faster, sharper. Another spell—this time from the King.
The masked dancer trembled. Something ignited within her veins. Her movements no longer satisfied her—her body demanded more.
Suddenly, her feet lifted from the ground. She soared into the air, her voice whispering through her breath:
"Flow with the air... become one."
Gasps erupted from the crowd. She descended with a sweep of her arms, her mask falling away.
The King froze.
The dance was unlike anything seen in generations—strange, ancient, sacred. The Dance of the Phoenix.
The Crown Prince's eyes widened. His composure broke. He stared at her—Mò Lián.
Queen Yù Yuè saw the shock on both the King's and her son's faces.
The music quickened, but Mò Lián matched it with perfect ease. Her movements drew the eye like fire in the snow.
Lord Chen and his sister sat speechless. Lord Chen's breath caught. This... this is the dream I once had.
The officials leaned forward, murmurs spreading. Rare. Uncanny. Powerful.
As the music reached its climax, Mò Lián flew higher than before, hovering in the air for several long breaths before descending gracefully. Snow fell as she landed, her final gesture sealing the dance.
The crowd roared with applause. Yet the royal family remained still, caught between awe and unease.
Mò Lián turned to leave the stage—when her eyes met a face in the crowd.
Her heart stopped.
"Jùn...!" she whispered, betrayal cracking through her voice.
Her chest tightened, and tears blurred her sight. She turned and ran, her sobs breaking free.
She brushed past Li Fuyao, who reached out as if to comfort her, but Mò Lián pulled away. She didn't know where her legs carried her—only that she had to escape.
Then—
A hand seized her wrist.
"Mò Lián."