“…Reporting to Your Highness, everything has been settled. I personally watched the two men cut their own throats; their bodies were burned on the spot. Their families have been given silver and sent beyond Yanmen. They never knew for whom they were working, so nothing will be traced.”
Gao Cheng, tall and thin, dressed in dark robes, stood like a shadow beneath the curtain.
Li Chongjun listened quietly, his arm resting on the railing, fingertips pressed to his temple. His long eyes were dark in the gloom. After a long silence, he asked briefly: “How are things in Chang’an?”
Gao Cheng paused: “The daughters of the Lu and Cui clans have entered the palace, each conferred the rank of Jieyu.”
Li Chongjun exhaled slowly, gave a cold laugh, and said no more.
The Cui and Lu families—foremost among the Five Great Clans and Seven Prestigious Lineages—produced most of the empire’s scholars. The emperor’s first wife had been a Lu daughter; after her death, he remarried the current Empress Cui. By coincidence, neither bore children.
Using this as a reason, the emperor had named his eldest surviving son among the concubines, the Fourth Prince, as crown prince—the later Prince Zhenxian—seemingly to counterbalance the power of the noble clans.
But in the autumn of the twenty-fifth year of Chongyuan, Crown Prince Zhenxian committed suicide. A great number of his retainers from humble origins, who had risen through the examinations, were implicated—executed or exiled. At the same time, the palace welcomed the two new consorts of the Cui and Lu clans.
It was clear: whichever bore a son would become the mother of the next crown prince.
The outcome was obvious.
Seeing the game lost, the emperor suddenly recalled his dispensable son, Li Chongjun, and promised him marriage with a daughter of the Yang clan—another of the Five Great Clans. It seemed His Majesty was not resigned, sacrificing one son was not enough; now it was Li Chongjun’s turn to serve as a pawn.
The reaction of the noble clans was predictable.
On the third day after the imperial decree, Li Chongjun discovered someone had tampered with his carriage.
Well then.
Since they wanted him dead, he would help them along.
A carriage accident was too dull—nothing compared to an assassination in the bustling streets. He deliberately courted danger, hiring two desperate men to stage a shocking attack. It would frame the Cui and Lu clans, further enrage the emperor, and delay his return to the capital, buying the entire winter to watch events unfold.
The only unforeseen element was her appearance. And what surprised him even more was that she was foolish enough to try to save him.
Winter days were short, and night quietly swallowed the light of the sky.
In the stillness, Gao Cheng silently turned, removed the gauze cover from the nearby lamp, and drew flint from his sleeve to strike a spark.
“No need.” Li Chongjun suddenly spoke. His voice was hoarse from long silence.
But the flame had already caught. Gao Cheng quickly turned back, and in that moment of dim firelight, he saw Li Chongjun frown. His pale lashes trembled faintly, veiling the unfathomable darkness of his eyes.
Those long accustomed to darkness always struggled to adjust to sudden light. Yet as Li Chongjun faced the glow, he seemed to recall something pleasant. After a pause, he asked: “By the way, have you gone to the Lin family?”
His mother’s surname was Lin. She had been born to hunters on the outskirts of Chang’an, once a palace servant in Shanglin Park who trained horses. She became a low-ranking concubine, bore an unfavored prince, and never brought prosperity to her family. They lived on a small stipend, still a humble household.
Gao Cheng replied: “I have. As Your Highness instructed, I told them that once you return to the capital, in two months, Miss Sui and her elder sister will be sent to them, to live and recover there. Each month, silver will be provided from the residence. They agreed at once.”
Li Chongjun said nothing. His journey back to Chang’an was perilous, the future uncertain. He had arranged a place for her near the capital—his maternal family, whom he could control, where he could see her, yet without drawing attention. It would spare many troubles. That he would do this for her surprised even himself.
Such a woman—shallow, ignorant, full of sly but trivial cleverness—at first, he had despised her. Yet later, for the same reasons, he found her somewhat amusing.
She had followed him for two years, glimpsed sides of him unknown to others. Keeping her was a hidden danger; killing her would have been cleaner. But he had not killed her. Instead, he schemed to hide her away, taking risks wholly unnecessary—so unlike his usual self.
He felt danger, yet also satisfaction. Perhaps only because she was the first to come to him in a moment of peril. Not for gain, not for duty—simply because she was foolish, foolish enough to nearly die for him.
That night, when he had cried out “Stop!” with all his strength, he knew then—he could not kill her.
Had a more perceptive attendant noticed his faint smile, they would surely have flattered him: “Your Highness treats Miss Sui so well—it is truly her blessing.”
But Gao Cheng understood none of this and only stood there, wooden and silent.
Li Chongjun could only scoff at himself, resting his chin on his hand as he said lazily: “That fool has been stammering before me for months. Who wouldn’t see through her little thoughts?—The assassin didn’t kill her, yet she threw herself into danger. So stupid. If I don’t take care of her, where else could she go?”
He glanced sideways out the window, his tone full of contempt, though the corners of his lips were lifted.
Tonight, the heavy snow had just cleared; the panes were clean, the moonlight especially bright.
Not far away, beneath the osmanthus tree, Sui Sui pressed her hands together, praying devoutly to the moon for blessing—hoping she might soon escape.