“Tomorrow, you will need to rise before dawn to bathe and dress for your makeup. My lady, you should rest early,” Ruolan said as she came over and closed the window, lowering her voice in persuasion.
Censor Zi came in just then. “My lady, the Master asks you to come over.”
“So late…” Ruolan hesitated.
Whatever father and daughter needed to discuss had already been said earlier in the day, and now it was deep into the night. After a moment’s thought, Jiang Congyan still nodded.
“Help me change. I’ll go.”
The night wind was cold. She loosely tied up her hair, changed into a thicker silk cloak, and took a lantern from Zi’s hands. Under the bright moonlight, she headed toward the Lishui Courtyard.
Compared to the other courtyards filled with lanterns and celebration, Lishui Courtyard was especially desolate. It had only a single pavilion at the center, no surrounding corridors or gardens, and few servants. The vegetation was sparse and quiet.
Jiang Congyan pushed open the door. Inside, it was pitch black—no lamps were lit, the windows were shut tight, and even moonlight could not seep in. She handed the lantern back to Zi and told her and Ruolan to wait outside.
She slowly crossed the front hall, walked around the folding screen embroidered with birds and flowers on silk, and indeed saw Jiang Huai sitting there—most of his figure swallowed by darkness.
In front of him was only a dim oil lamp. Its flame flickered with the slightest current of air, casting his face into shifting shadows.
He seemed lost in thought and did not notice her arrival.
“Father?” she called softly.
Jiang Huai jolted slightly, then looked up. “Changsheng Nu, you’re here.”
Jiang Congyan set the lantern aside and sat down across from him in a proper kneeling posture.
“You called me here so late. It must be something very important.”
Jiang Huai looked at her with a complicated expression.
It was difficult to describe. In the dim light, his gaze flickered as though fragments of his past forty years appeared within it—years of restraint and helplessness, reason devoured by hatred, and… regret and guilt.
“Changsheng Nu, tomorrow you will leave Chang’an. You will leave Great Liang,” he murmured, as if speaking more to himself than to her.
“Yes,” she replied softly. “This farewell may last many years. Father, please take care of yourself—and wait for me to come home.”
“Home?” Jiang Huai repeated blankly. Then his eyes suddenly sharpened. “Yes. Home. Changsheng Nu, you must return safely.”
He finally shook off his heavy mood. His expression remained conflicted, but he soon reached into his robes and took out an object.
A seal.
Jiang Huai held it carefully, stroking it with great tenderness, as if he had already done so countless times. Its edges were worn smooth, and its surface polished to a soft sheen. Only the carved inscription on the base remained sharp and clear.
“This seal belonged to your grandfather,” Jiang Huai said.
Jiang Congyan was slightly startled. The Crown Prince Zhaowen?
By logic, his seals should have been buried with him or sealed away by the Emperor of Liang. But Jiang Huai’s next words explained it.
“It is a private seal.”
He placed it in his palm and let her see.
Under the lamp’s light, she leaned closer and finally made out the carved inscription on the base:
“Qing Gui?”
“Yes. That was your grandfather’s chosen style name.”
“Your grandfather was very different from Taizu. Taizu spent half his life in war and conquest, even after ascending the throne, still seeking to unify the realm through force. Your grandfather, though also skilled in arms, excelled more in governance. Before the empire was stabilized, he did not care about birth or status—talented people were all welcomed. Scholars from across the land gathered around him, and he never treated himself as a prince among them, but only as a man of learning among men of learning…”
Jiang Huai’s voice continued, carrying her into an era long past.
A time of ambition and brilliance. A time when a generation believed they could forge a new and better world.
The Crown Prince Zhaowen had once been the brightest star in the hearts of all scholars—until that star fell too suddenly, and the light that had barely reached the world was extinguished before it could fully bloom.
After a long silence, Jiang Huai said, “This seal has been in my possession for twenty-eight years.”
“I want to give it to you now.”
Jiang Congyan was startled. “Father…”
“I hid it for twenty-eight years,” he said bitterly, each word heavy with suppressed years. “Not daring to show it to anyone. Not even to the previous emperor or the current one. In my hands, it is no different from a stone.”
Then he looked at her.
“I want to give it to you. Perhaps one day, you can make it fulfill its true value.”
“Changsheng Nu, you should understand what I mean.”
His voice was filled with shame. He could not bear this burden himself, yet now he was trying to place it onto his fragile daughter. But he had no choice—she was about to marry Tuoba Xiao, a man who could determine the fate of the entire Liang.
The weight in his hands seemed like a mountain.
Jiang Congyan’s gaze fell slowly to the seal.
It was only the size of a thumb, made of ordinary green jade. Yet the carved seal script was elegant and flowing, showing extraordinary skill. Years of careful handling had given it a warm, jade-like sheen.
She reached out and took it from his palm.
It was light.
And yet unbearably heavy.
As light as a stone.
As heavy as the entire realm of Liang.
The legacy of Taizu and the Crown Prince Zhaowen.
She looked at it for a long moment, then closed her eyes.
“Alright.”
“Father, if you drink in the future, send someone to the Guiyuan Wine Shop. When the wine passes your throat, think of it as Changsheng Nu speaking to you.”
Before parting completely, she said this.
Jiang Huai’s eyes flickered with deep reluctance. After a long silence, he only answered hoarsely:
“…Alright.”
The next day, before dawn.
The sky was still faintly blue-purple, the moon still hanging in the air.
Ruolan woke Jiang Congyan.
She had only slept two hours and could barely keep her eyes open while washing and dressing.
Great Liang revered fire and favored red. The wedding robes were primarily red, accented with gold and black embroidery.
Layer by layer, she was dressed in ceremonial garments, until she wore full regalia befitting a queen consort—robes trailing to the floor, jade ornaments, phoenix-patterned shoes, and elaborate headdresses crowned with gold phoenix ornaments and twelve jeweled step-shaking pins reserved for empress-level rank.
Her beauty was so striking that even such heavy adornment did not overwhelm her. Instead, it enhanced her presence, like bright moonlight set in gold.
Yet beneath all that brilliance, there remained a faint, distant coolness—like someone not entirely of this world, lingering only briefly among mortals.
The palace attendants who served her were stunned into silence. They had heard of her beauty before, but seeing her in person, they realized no rumor had been exaggeration.
And then, inevitably, pity followed.
A woman like this—destined to be sent beyond the borderlands—what future could possibly await her?
Jiang Congyan sensed their gazes but did not care.
She stepped outside and looked toward the rising sun in the east. The morning wind stirred her robes, but not her spine.
Her black eyes were calm and unyielding.
She knew she was about to walk a path filled with thorns.
And she was ready to be wounded, again and again, all the way through.