After she finished dressing, Jiang Congyan boarded the carriage that had come to receive her and set out for the ancestral temple.
The matter of the imperial marriage concerned the diplomatic relations between two states. The Emperor of Liang had long since offered sacrifices to Heaven and Earth, and in the Hall of Listening to Government he had formally proclaimed the envoys and appointed the chief officiant for the wedding procession. Today, Jiang Congyan—escorted by the welcoming officials—was to go before the emperor and the court, report to the ancestral temple, and then formally depart from the imperial city.
Standing at the foot of the steps, she was guided by officials of the Taichang Temple up the long stairway toward the temple hall. Perhaps the ceremonial robes and headdress were too heavy; each step felt difficult.
When she finally reached the top, she saw the assembled ministers standing on both sides, and the Emperor of Liang at the front. They stood solemnly, but their expressions were almost lifeless.
The Minister of Rites stepped forward, unfolded a bamboo scroll, and read a set of blessings. Then came the Emperor, who also spoke before the temple. Jiang Congyan paid little attention. She mechanically performed her role, reciting lines that had long been prepared.
At last, all ritual procedures were completed.
She was helped into a gilded carriage drawn by four horses—an honor usually reserved for the Empress.
More than a carriage, it resembled a ceremonial palanquin. It was topped with a multicolored canopy, its four pillars lacquered in gold and hung with jade pendants and golden bells. There were no solid walls; instead, crimson silk drapes and jeweled tassels hung from the roof. Inside, a seat was placed, and her trailing skirts spread out as she sat with her hands folded.
From outside, one could vaguely see a dignified silhouette. When the wind lifted the silk curtains, glimpses of her radiant figure appeared.
Around the main carriage were several accompanying vehicles in accordance with protocol, painted in blue, red, yellow, white, and black—representing the five directions: east, south, center, west, and north. There were also supply carriages and attendants holding ceremonial canopies. Ministers with red sashes walked ahead, and the imperial guards cleared the way. The grandeur was unmatched—perhaps only an imperial wedding could compare.
After three heavy drumbeats, the procession slowly left the imperial city amid music and song.
At the city gate, many people had gathered to see her off. Among them were Madam Zhao, smiling uncontrollably; noble ladies and wives of officials, solemn yet sighing; and the Sixth Princess, her eyes swollen red and streaming with tears, reluctant to part. If not for the attendants holding her back, she might have rushed forward to cling to the carriage.
Jiang Congyan gave her a slight nod, sending a silent reassuring glance.
She even saw the Fifth Princess—usually willful and naïve—whose face now carried an unfamiliar complexity. There was no joy in having escaped the fate of marriage; instead, there was a quiet melancholy, as if she had suddenly stepped beyond the ivory tower carefully built for her.
Only now did she realize how fragile that sheltered world had been.
Outside it, everything was enough to shatter sixteen years of peace in an instant.
Knowing the Liang princess was departing for marriage that day, the citizens of Chang’an crowded both sides of the road. The Xuanyang Street was packed shoulder to shoulder.
All eyes were fixed on the magnificent central carriage. Everyone knew the princess was being sent to the Xianbei king in order to secure peace.
Though they understood how dishonorable it was for Liang, a shameful thought still lingered in their hearts—they hoped she could truly bring stability to the realm.
The surrounding tribes loomed like tigers: Xiongnu, Qiang, Di, Xianbei, Jie. Even the southern and eastern barbarians were restless. Border conflicts erupted frequently. Since the defeat at the Cliff Pass ten years ago, the Emperor of Liang had ceased large-scale campaigns, ordering only defensive garrisons.
He could no longer afford another defeat.
The nomads had seen his weakness. In recent years, raids had become increasingly frequent, and the Central Plains lived under their shadow.
Now, by forming an alliance through marriage with Xianbei, Liang hoped to restrain the Xiongnu and buy itself more time.
Amid the noise of music, song, and human voices, Chang’an displayed a prosperity that seemed almost unreal—like the final brilliance of a dying dynasty gathered in one place.
Inside the gilded carriage, Jiang Congyan sat quietly with lowered lashes. Her expression was calm, neither joyful nor sorrowful. The voices outside drifted over her like smoke.
The light filtering into the carriage was hazy and dim. She looked like a lifeless painted statue enclosed in a jeweled carriage, passing slowly through the gazes of thousands who looked up at her with hope and longing.
They wished she could bring peace to Liang like a divine maiden.
How absurd.
A nation that never allowed women into its halls of power now pinned its survival on a single woman.
The procession finally reached Xichang Gate, where Tuoba Xiao’s escort was already waiting, along with a thousand elite Yulin guards led by Xie Shao. They wore polished silver armor and rode tall horses, imposing in formation.
Yet their sharpness felt superficial. Their eyes lacked the hardened killing intent of men who had truly survived battle. In contrast, the Xianbei cavalry beside them radiated a brutal, unrestrained ferocity.
Their armor was not as polished, some even stained with rust and old blood. Their blades differed in style. But their bodies were strong, their gaze like wolves and hawks, each man exuding the aura of countless battles.
At the center stood Tuoba Xiao on a black warhorse. Today he wore full ceremonial attire of the Xianbei king, a jeweled crown upon his head, a red gem hanging at his chest. His tall frame was sharply outlined by his belt and armor.
His brow ridge was high and striking, his phoenix-shaped eyes fixed forward with an icy green light.
When the crimson bridal carriage appeared, his gaze sharpened, as if it could pierce through the veils and see the woman inside.
Through the gauze curtains, he could only make out a straight, poised silhouette—ornate robes, a high coiffure, and a crown glinting faintly in gold.
Even that blurred outline was enough to stir anticipation. His horse shifted slightly beneath him.
He had seen her in plain white like a blade of cold frost, seen her aloof and distant as snow, even seen her blood-stained beauty—but today, he wanted to see her in bridal robes made for him.
Without a word, Tuoba Xiao dismounted.
His boots struck the ground with steady force as he walked toward the carriage. He pushed aside attendants and imperial guards, stepped directly before it, and with a single motion, lifted the curtain.
Jewels clinked softly.
Bright sunlight poured in.
Jiang Congyan narrowed her eyes briefly, then adjusted to the light. Only then did she recognize him.
He stood tall enough that, even beside the high carriage, they were nearly eye level.
A flicker of surprise passed through her dark eyes, but she was not afraid. After a brief pause, she regained her calm composure.
“Does the King of Xianbei have business with me?” she asked lightly.
Tuoba Xiao did not answer immediately. His gaze roamed openly over her face, lingering as though he intended to carve her features into memory.
It had been many days since he last saw her. He had missed her.
He had once sent her an invitation to meet, but she refused, saying she was too busy preparing for marriage. At the time, he had been irritated—he was a king; anything he wanted had always been within reach.
And yet after the anger came anticipation.
Soon, she would belong to him.
No longer could she refuse.
Nor would he allow it.
Today, as he saw the bridal carriage from afar, he could no longer restrain himself and came forward.
They said a bride was at her most beautiful on her wedding day. Now he agreed.
She was indeed breathtaking.
The lavish bridal robes transformed her entirely—like a fully bloomed peony, both dignified and tender, her complexion soft and luminous, as if one might pinch her and draw out floral dew.
And beneath that delicate beauty were eyes like deep night skies, sharp and bright like cold stars. When those eyes turned toward him, something in his chest stirred.
The irritation that had lingered for days vanished completely.
Only satisfaction remained.
He finally said, smiling:
“You look very beautiful today.”
Then he let the curtain fall, turned away, mounted his horse, and the procession moved forward again.
Behind them, the crowd erupted into commentary—criticizing the barbarian’s lack of etiquette, lamenting the princess’s fate, pitying her beauty wasted on a foreign king.
Jiang Congyan sat quietly inside the carriage, listening to fragments of their voices.
Then she almost smiled.
They pitied her, yet none of them would stop it. They could not, and would not. Because this marriage was necessary for survival.
It was not just pity for her.
It was grief for a fading age.
The carriage passed through the gate of Chang’an.
As it crossed the towering city walls, Jiang Congyan could not resist turning back one last time.
The ancient capital stood vast and solemn in the sunlight, its stone walls worn by time.
Chang’an.
A city spoken of for centuries, a name that held the weight of countless histories—emperors, heroes, songs of prosperity and ruin.
She had not lived here long. It had not given her many memories.
And yet now that she was leaving, the thought that she might not return for years—or ever—that it might fall to war within five years—that she might never come back at all…
A strange heaviness rose in her chest.
How odd.
Farewell, Chang’an.
May we meet again.
She lowered the curtain, turned forward, and looked toward the boundless world ahead—vast sky, endless earth, birds cutting across the wind.
She could only go forward.
Only forward.