The northern warehouse was colder than Qingli remembered.
Much colder.
The abandoned structure sat at the far edge of House Wen’s estate, isolated from the main residences and servant quarters.
It had once been used to store grain and supplies during harsh winters, but years of neglect had reduced it to little more than a decaying shell.
The wooden walls were warped with age.
Several roof tiles were missing.
Wind slipped effortlessly through countless cracks and gaps, carrying the chill of the early spring night into every corner of the building.
The cold seemed to seep into everything it touched.
Into the floor.
Into the walls.
Into the bones.
Darkness filled the warehouse.
Dust coated every surface in thick layers.
Broken shelves leaned against the walls, while abandoned crates and splintered furniture sat forgotten in the corners.
Cobwebs stretched between beams overhead, undisturbed for years.
The warehouse was not a place meant for people.
It was a place where unwanted things were discarded.
Forgotten.
Ignored.
Left to decay.
Much like the daughter House Wen had locked inside it.
Qingli sat against the far wall.
The rough wood pressed against her injured back, sending fresh waves of pain through her body.
She had long since abandoned any attempt to sit comfortably.
There was no comfortable position.
Not anymore.
Every breath burned.
Every movement hurt.
The twenty lashes had torn through skin that already carried the faint scars of previous punishments.
Fresh blood stained the back of her robes, the fabric sticking painfully to the wounds beneath.
The cold only made everything worse.
Each passing hour seemed to draw more warmth from her body.
Yet somehow…
Qingli remained calm.
Not because the pain was insignificant.
Not because she was unaffected.
But because she had learned long ago that panic solved nothing.
Pain came.
Pain passed.
And until it passed, all she could do was endure it.
So she sat quietly in the darkness.
Listening to the wind.
Listening to the old building creak around her.
Listening to her own breathing.
Above her, a narrow gap in the roof allowed a thin beam of moonlight to enter.
The pale silver light cut through the darkness, illuminating countless dust particles drifting lazily through the air.
Qingli found herself watching them.
The tiny specks floated and danced within the moonlight.
Weightless.
Graceful.
Free.
For a moment, they reminded her of peach blossom petals.
The memory surfaced immediately.
A grove hidden deep within the mountains.
Pink blossoms swaying gently in the spring breeze.
Sunlight filtering through flowering branches.
Warm laughter carried by the wind.
Dark eyes watching her from beneath a peach tree.
The memory felt so vivid that she could almost hear his voice.
“You came back.”
“I was in the area.”
“Of course you were.”
A faint smile appeared on her lips.
Small.
Fragile.
Yet undeniably real.
The contrast should have hurt.
Just days ago, she had been sitting beneath open skies, feeling as though the world had finally widened beyond the walls of House Wen.
Now she sat alone in a freezing warehouse, bloodied and punished for daring to step beyond those walls.
And yet…
She found that she could not regret it.
Not even now.
Not while her wounds throbbed.
Not while the cold seeped into her bones.
Not while she sat abandoned in the darkness.
Because the memories remained.
Untouched.
Safe.
Entirely hers.
They could lock her away.
They could punish her.
They could try to remind her of her place.
But they could never erase the week she had spent truly living.
The realization brought a quiet warmth to her chest.
A warmth stronger than the cold surrounding her.
For the first time that night, Qingli closed her eyes.
And instead of seeing the main hall of House Wen…
She saw peach blossoms.
Hours passed.
The moon climbed higher into the night sky while House Wen gradually fell silent.
One by one, the lanterns throughout the estate were extinguished.
Servants retreated to their quarters.
The main residence fell dark.
Even the guards seemed quieter.
As though the entire estate had gone to sleep.
Only the northern warehouse remained awake.
And the two women waiting outside it.
Lan Yue sat with her back against the locked door, pulling her cloak tighter against the cold.
The spring night had grown bitterly chilly, but she barely noticed.
Every few moments, she found herself glancing toward the warehouse.
Listening.
Waiting.
Praying.
The silence on the other side terrified her.
Then—
Soft footsteps approached through the darkness and Lan Yue immediately looked up.
Relief flooded her chest when she saw the older woman walking towards her.
“Nanny.”
Nanny Zhao emerged from the shadows carrying several thick blankets draped over one arm and a large basket in the other, her face was grim.
No.
Not grim.
Furious.
Absolutely furious.
Lan Yue had known Nanny Zhao for most of her life.
She had seen the woman worried.
Sad.
Disappointed.
She had never seen her angry.
Not like this.
Her eyes burned with a fury so cold that it frightened even Lan Yue.
“Move.”
The single word left no room for argument and Lan Yue scrambled to her feet, together, they approached the side wall of the warehouse where several loose boards had warped over the years.
Nanny Zhao set down the basket, then leaned closer to the wall and her voice softened immediately, her anger disappeared and replaced by concern.
“Qingli.”
Silence answered.
A heartbeat passed.
Then another.
Lan Yue’s stomach twisted.
Finally, a weak voice emerged from inside.
“I’m here.”
Relief hit so suddenly that Lan Yue nearly burst into tears and at this point she was fairly certain she had cried enough for an entire year.
Nanny Zhao closed her eyes briefly as the tension in her shoulders eased.
“Can you stand?” she asked softly.
A pause followed, long enough to tell them everything.
Then—
“I think so.”
The answer was quiet and strained.
Lan Yue’s eyes immediately filled with tears, because Qingli never complained, and if standing required any thinking, then the pain must be unbearable.
Beside her, Nanny Zhao’s expression darkened.
The old woman stared at the warehouse wall.
For decades she had served House Wen.
She had raised children within these walls.
She had watched generations come and go.
She had endured countless injustices because she believed loyalty and patience would eventually be rewarded.
Tonight, for the first time in her life, she felt something dangerously close to hatred.
Not anger.
Not disappointment.
Hatred.
For the family she had devoted her life to serving.
Without another word, she carefully pushed a folded blanket through the loose gap beneath the wall.
Then another.
Then a third.
The blankets disappeared into the darkness.
Next came the basket.
Food.
Medicine.
Bandages.
Anything she had been able to gather without attracting attention.
Lan Yue immediately knelt beside her and added a waterskin.
“Miss.”
The moment the word left her mouth, the voice inside softened.
“Yue’er.”
Lan Yue had to bite her lip or otherwise she would start crying all over again.
“You scared me.” The confession escaped before she could stop it.
For a moment, only silence answered.
Then—
“Sorry.”
Lan Yue froze, and anger filled her chest.
“No.” The word came out sharper than intended and she quickly wiped her eyes.
“No.”
Inside the warehouse, silence followed.
Lan Yue clenched her hands.
“Stop apologizing.” Her voice cracked.
“You always apologize.”
The tears returned despite her efforts.
“You apologize when you’re hurt.”
Another tear slid down her cheek.
“You apologize when other people are cruel. You apologize when none of it is your fault.”
Beside her, Nanny Zhao lowered her gaze.
Then quietly said, “Your maid is correct.”
The words settled into the darkness and inside the warehouse, Qingli slowly lowered her head.
Nanny Zhao’s voice remained gentle, but there was something fierce beneath it.
Something that had waited years to be spoken.
“You spend your entire life apologizing for things that are not your fault.”
The old woman swallowed.
“You apologize for existing.”
The words struck harder than any whip.
Outside, Lan Yue began crying openly again and inside the warehouse, Qingli closed her eyes.
Because they were right.
Every word.
The night wind whispered through the gaps in the warehouse walls.
Somewhere in the distance, a bell chimed.
Then finally, Qingli whispered,
“I know.”
The admission was so quiet it was almost lost to the wind.
Yet both women heard it clearly and and they both froze.
Because it was the first time Qingli had ever said it aloud.
The first time she had acknowledged the truth they had spent years silently witnessing.
Not once.
Not ever.
Had she deserved any of it.
Not the neglect.
Not the loneliness.
Not the punishments.
Not the life House Wen had forced upon her.
Inside the darkness, Qingli rested her head against the wall.
Outside, Lan Yue and Nanny Zhao sat beside the warehouse door.
Separated by wood and iron.
Later, still locked inside a cold warehouse, Qingli curled beneath borrowed blankets as her body ached and her wounds burned.
Yet before sleep finally claimed her, she found herself touching the jade pendant hidden within her sleeve.
Feeling the smooth stone felt warm against her fingers, and for the first time since the punishment…she smiled.
A small smile.
One nobody else could see.
Because no matter how cold the warehouse became…no matter how cruel Wen Residence remained…no matter how much they punished her…
They could never take away the memories beneath the peach blossoms.
And deep inside her heart, Qingli already knew that some memories were worth every punishment in the world.
By the middle of the night, the temperature had dropped sharply.
Cold wind slipped through the gaps in the old wooden walls, carrying damp air into the dark building.
Qingli sat curled beneath the blankets Nanny Zhao had smuggled inside.
Her body ached.
Every breath hurt.
The wounds across her back burned as though they had been set on fire, yet none of that worried her.
Because pain was familiar, and because pain had always been part of her life.
What worried her was the cold, because no matter how tightly she wrapped herself in blankets, she could not stop shivering.
Outside the warehouse, Lan Yue remained stationed beside the locked door.
No matter how many servants came to persuade her, she refused to leave.
Refused to sleep.
Refused to eat.
Refused to abandon Qingli to the cold darkness on the other side of the wall.
The maid sat with her knees drawn tightly to her chest, her cloak wrapped around her shoulders against the early morning chill.
Her eyes were red from crying, but the glare she gave anyone who dared pass by was sharp enough to send most servants turning in the opposite direction.
No one wanted to approach her.
No one wanted to be the target of her anger.
So, they avoided the northern warehouse altogether.
Lan Yue did not care.
Let them avoid her.
Let them whisper.
Let them pretend they had not watched Qingli be beaten bloody and dragged away like a criminal.
She would remember every face that had looked away.
Near dawn, soft footsteps approached through the dim courtyard.
Lan Yue immediately lifted her head, her body tense and defensive until she saw the familiar glow of a lantern and the elderly woman carrying it.
“Nanny Zhao.”
Her voice was hoarse from hours of crying.
Nanny Zhao stepped into the weak circle of lantern light, her face grave beneath the deep lines of exhaustion.
She carried herself with her usual composure, but the moment her eyes fell on Lan Yue’s pale face, her expression changed.
Something was wrong.
Very wrong.
“Yue’er,” she said quietly.
Lan Yue scrambled to her feet at once, nearly stumbling in her haste.
“Nanny Zhao.”
The old woman’s eyes moved past her to the warehouse door.
“Has she spoken?”
Lan Yue’s lips trembled.
She shook her head.
“Not since midnight.”
The words seemed to drain what little warmth remained from the morning air.
Nanny Zhao’s expression darkened immediately.
For a moment, the old woman said nothing.
Then her grip tightened around the lantern handle.
“Move.”
Lan Yue stepped aside at once.
Together, they approached the warehouse door.
The old wood was damp with night mist, the rusted lock still fastened firmly in place.
No matter how many times Lan Yue had pressed her ear against it throughout the night, no sound had come from inside for hours.
No movement.
No answer.
Nothing.
Nanny Zhao lowered herself carefully beside the narrow gap beneath the warped wooden boards.
The lantern trembled slightly in her hand, casting restless shadows across the ground.
She leaned close to the opening.
Her voice, when she spoke, was softer than Lan Yue had ever heard it.
“Qingli.”
No answer.
Nanny Zhao’s heart sank.
“Qingli.”
No answer came.
For one terrible moment, the world seemed to fall completely still.
Nanny Zhao’s heart sank.
“Qingli.”
Her voice was firmer this time.
Still gentle.
Still controlled.
But beneath it, fear had begun to show.
Silence answered her.
Beside her, Lan Yue’s face drained of color.
“Nanny…”
The single word trembled.
Nanny Zhao did not wait.
She immediately knelt lower and pushed her hand through the narrow gap beneath the warped wooden wall.
The opening scraped against her sleeve, splinters catching at the fabric, but she ignored it and reached blindly into the darkness.
Her fingers searched across the cold floor.
Dust.
Wood.
Then—
Skin.
The moment her fingertips brushed against Qingli’s wrist, Nanny Zhao froze.
For half a breath, she did not move.
Then her expression changed completely.
Fear sharpened into fury.
And then she cursed.
A very unladylike curse.
Lan Yue stared at her in shock.
In all the years she had known Nanny Zhao, the old woman had never cursed.
Never.
Not when servants insulted them.
Not when Zhao Meilin punished Qingli.
Not even when Qingli had been beaten so badly she could not rise from bed for days.
But now Nanny Zhao’s composure shattered.
Lan Yue’s stomach dropped.
“Nanny Zhao?”
The old woman’s hand remained pressed against Qingli’s burning skin.
Her face had gone frighteningly pale beneath the lantern light.
“She’s burning.”
The words were low.
Tight.
Filled with barely restrained anger.
Lan Yue went still.
Burning.
For a moment, she could not understand the word.
Then the meaning struck her.
Fever.
Qingli had developed a fever.
Locked inside the freezing warehouse.
With open wounds across her back.
Without proper treatment.
Without warmth.
Without anyone but the two of them waiting helplessly outside the door.
Lan Yue’s knees nearly gave out.
“No…”
Her voice cracked.
“No, no, no…”
Nanny Zhao withdrew her hand and stood so quickly that the lantern flame flickered wildly.
Her expression was no longer merely worried.
It was dangerous.
The kind of anger that came after years of silence had finally been pushed too far.
“I’m going,” she said.
Lan Yue looked up through her tears.
“To whom?”
Nanny Zhao’s eyes burned.
“To anyone with enough sense left in this residence to open this door before they kill her.”
Several servants gasped as Nanny Zhao stepped into the main hall.
She entered without permission.
Without announcement.
Without lowering her head.
Without fear.
The boldness of it stunned everyone present.
For decades, Nanny Zhao had been a quiet shadow within House Wen.
She had served faithfully, endured silently, and bowed when she was expected to bow.
She had never raised her voice.
Never overstepped.
Never spoken out of turn.
But now she walked into the hall as though rank and rules meant nothing.
Zhao Meilin looked up sharply, displeasure flashing across her face.
“What is the meaning of—”
“Open the warehouse.”
Nanny Zhao’s voice cut through the room like a blade.
Cold.
Clear.
Unshaking.
The hall fell silent.
Zhao Meilin stared at her, as though she could not quite believe what she had just heard.
“What?”
Nanny Zhao stepped forward.
“Open the warehouse.”
Her hands were clenched tightly at her sides, but her voice remained steady.
“Miss Qingli has a fever.”
For a brief moment, nobody spoke.
The words settled over the hall with terrible weight.
A fever.
After twenty lashes.
After being locked overnight in the abandoned northern warehouse.
Even the servants understood what that meant.
Zhao Meilin’s expression tightened.
“She is being punished.”
Nanny Zhao’s eyes flashed.
“And if the fever worsens?” The old woman took another step forward.
“What then?”
The question struck the room like thunder.
Zhao Meilin’s lips parted, but no answer came immediately.
For the first time in years, the mistress of House Wen found herself momentarily speechless.
Nanny Zhao’s voice trembled when she spoke again, but not from fear.
From anger.
From grief.
From twenty-two years of watching a child suffer in silence.
“Twenty-two years.”
The words were quiet at first.
Then stronger.
“Twenty-two years that child has endured everything this household has done to her.”
The entire hall froze.
A servant standing near the doorway lowered her eyes.
Another went pale.
No one breathed too loudly.
No one dared interrupt.
Because nobody had ever spoken to Zhao Meilin this way.
Ever.
Not servants.
Not relatives.
Not even those who disagreed with her behind closed doors.
But Nanny Zhao no longer seemed to care.
“She has been ignored. Forgotten. Locked away. Punished for faults that were never hers.” Her voice shook harder now, but she forced every word out.
“She has swallowed every insult, every injustice, every cruel command placed upon her.”
Her eyes reddened.
“And still, she never hated you.”
Zhao Meilin’s face darkened.
“Nanny Zhao.”
The warning in her voice was unmistakable.
But for once, Nanny Zhao did not stop.
“She called you Mother.”
The words landed with devastating softness.
“She called him Father. Even when neither of you treated her as a daughter.”
The hall went deathly still.
Zhao Meilin’s expression changed.
Only slightly.
But enough.
Nanny Zhao’s eyes glistened, yet her gaze remained fierce.
“Punish her if you must. Hate her if that is all your heart can manage. But do not pretend this is discipline.”
Her voice lowered.
“This is cruelty.”
A sharp gasp came from somewhere near the wall.
Zhao Meilin rose slowly from her chair.
“You forget your place.”
Nanny Zhao looked at her.
For the first time in decades, there was no obedience in her eyes.
Only heartbreak.
Only fury.
“No,” she said quietly.
“For the first time, I remember it.”
The room seemed to stop breathing.
“My place has always been beside that child.”
Her voice broke.
“And if this household will not protect her, then I will.”
For a long moment, Zhao Meilin said nothing.
Neither did anyone else.
The silence that followed was not empty.
It was trembling.
Unstable.
Dangerous.
And in the center of it stood Nanny Zhao, an old nursemaid who had spent twenty-two years bowing her head— and had finally decided she would bow no more.
An hour later, the warehouse door finally opened.
Lan Yue rushed inside immediately.
The sight nearly brought her to tears.
Qingli lay unconscious beneath the blankets.
Her face was pale.
Far too pale.
Her lips had lost all color.
Perspiration covered her forehead despite the cold.
The fever was severe.
“Miss.”
Lan Yue dropped to her knees.
“Miss.”
No response.
The maid grabbed her hand, tightly, as though letting go would somehow make things worse.
On the other side of the capital, Shen Jiarong was enduring another lecture inside the Imperial Palace.
Unfortunately, this lecture involved both the Emperor and the Empress.
Which meant it was twice as dangerous.
The Hall of Tranquil Harmony was warm with afternoon sunlight.
Incense curled lazily from a bronze burner, and palace attendants stood quietly along the walls with their heads lowered, pretending very hard not to listen.
Jiarong sat below the raised platform, his posture straight, his expression composed, and his patience rapidly thinning.
Across from him, Emperor Li Xuanyou folded his arms.
“You disappeared.”
Jiarong lowered his gaze.
“Yes.”
“You were ambushed.”
“Yes.”
“You were poisoned.”
“Yes.”
“You nearly died.”
“Yes.”
Xuanyou stared at him.
Jiarong stared calmly back.
The Emperor’s eyes narrowed.
“And somehow,” Xuanyou said slowly, pointing at him, “you still look happier than you have in years.”
Silence fell.
A very dangerous silence.
Jiarong immediately regretted agreeing to sit down.
Across the room, Empress Yunzhi lifted her teacup to her lips.
Her movements were graceful and unhurried, but the smile forming behind the rim of the cup was impossible to miss.
It was slow.
Knowing.
Far too pleased.
Jiarong turned his gaze toward her at once.
“What?”
Yunzhi blinked innocently.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You’re thinking something.”
“I often think things.”
“You’re thinking something troublesome.”
“Probably.”
Her smile widened.
Jiarong sighed.
This was going badly.
Very badly.
Xuanyou looked between his wife and his younger brother-in-law, his expression sharpening with sudden interest.
“Wait.”
Jiarong’s headache began immediately.
Xuanyou leaned forward.
“Yunzhi.”
“Yes?”
“Do you know something?”
“I know many things.”
“About him.”
Yunzhi set her teacup down with delicate precision.
“I know enough to find this amusing.”
Jiarong closed his eyes briefly.
When he opened them again, Xuanyou was staring at him with the expression of a man who had just discovered a far more entertaining topic than political affairs, border defense, or assassination attempts.
“Oh.”
The Emperor sat straighter.
“Oh.”
Jiarong’s expression remained perfectly blank.
“There is no ‘oh.'”
“There is absolutely an ‘oh.'”
Yunzhi nodded.
“A rather large one.”
Jiarong looked at her.
“Sister.”
The warning in his voice was subtle.
Yunzhi smiled.
It had no effect whatsoever.
Xuanyou pointed at him again.
“You were smiling.”
“I was not.”
“You were.”
“I was recovering from near death. Perhaps my expression was distorted.”
Xuanyou scoffed.
“Do not insult my intelligence.”
Yunzhi’s smile deepened.
“You have been distracted since you returned.”
“I was injured.”
“You were injured many times before,” she replied smoothly.
“You never stared out windows like a lovesick scholar afterward.”
Jiarong went still and the palace attendants immediately lowered their heads even further.
Xuanyou’s eyes widened.
“Lovesick?”
“I said nothing of the sort.” Yunzhi waved her hand dismissively.
“You said lovesick scholar.”
“I was being descriptive.”
Jiarong pressed two fingers to his temple.
“I regret coming here.”
“You were summoned,” Xuanyou reminded him.
“I regret surviving long enough to be summoned.”
Yunzhi laughed softly, and the sound only made Xuanyou more delighted as he leans forward staring Jiarong straight in the eye.
“So there is someone.”
“There is no one.”
“Terrible answer.”
“A very terrible answer,” Yunzhi agreed.
Jiarong looked at both of them and realized, with growing resignation, that he was surrounded.
He had survived assassins.
Poison.
A blade coated with enough toxin to kill three men.
And yet somehow, this conversation felt more dangerous than all of that combined.
Xuanyou leaned back, folding his arms again.
“Let me guess. Someone saved you.”
Jiarong said nothing.
The silence lasted one heartbeat too long.
Yunzhi’s eyes softened with triumph.
Xuanyou slapped his knee with a laugh.
“I knew it.”
“You knew nothing.”
“I knew enough.”
“You guessed.”
“And I guessed correctly.”
Jiarong looked away, which was a big mistake, because the moment he did, his thoughts betrayed him.
A hidden grove of peach blossoms.
A weathered shrine in the rain.
A young woman kneeling beside him with blood on her sleeves and calm determination in her eyes.
A voice telling him not to move.
A laugh beneath the trees.
A hand accepting the jade pendant he had pressed into her palm.
The memory came so vividly that he nearly forgot where he was.
Nearly.
Yunzhi watched him with quiet attention.
For a moment, her teasing faded.
“She must be remarkable,” she said gently.
Jiarong’s gaze returned to her.
The question was not spoken directly.
Still, he heard it.
After a long pause, he answered quietly, “She is.”
The admission changed the room.
Xuanyou’s amusement dimmed into something more thoughtful, and Yunzhi’s expression softened further.
Jiarong seemed to realize what he had said only after the words had already left him.
He immediately looked away again.
Xuanyou, to his credit, did not laugh.
Instead, he studied him for several moments before saying, “Do you know who she is?”
Silence.
Yunzhi’s brows lifted slightly.
Jiarong exhaled.
“No.”
Xuanyou stared.
“You don’t know?”
“No.”
“Her name?”
Jiarong’s jaw tightened.
“No.”
The Emperor looked genuinely stunned, then he turned towards his wife.
“He nearly died, was rescued by a mysterious woman, came back smiling like a fool, and does not even know her name.”
Yunzhi nodded solemnly.
“It is quite serious.”
“It is not serious,” Jiarong said.
Xuanyou looked back at him.
“You admitted she is remarkable.”
“That does not mean—”
“You smiled.”
“People smile.”
“You do not.”
Jiarong had no answer for that.
Yunzhi picked up her teacup again; her smile was soft, but her eyes were far too perceptive.
“The banquet will bring nearly every noble household in the capital together,” she continued.
“If your mysterious healer belongs to one of them, you may see her there.”
Jiarong should have dismissed the idea immediately.
He almost did.
But the words settled in his mind before he could stop them.
If she belonged to one of the noble families…
If she attended the banquet…
If fate truly was strange enough to bring her before him again…
His fingers tightened slightly around the teacup.
This time, he was careful not to let anyone notice.
Unfortunately, Yunzhi noticed anyway.
Her smile deepened.
Xuanyou looked delighted.
Jiarong set down his tea and rose to his feet.
“I should take my leave.”
Xuanyou laughed.
“You’re running away.”
“I am recovering from severe injuries.”
“You were perfectly fine a moment ago.”
“My condition has worsened.”
Yunzhi covered her mouth, trying and failing to hide her laughter.
Jiarong bowed respectfully, his expression as calm as ever.
But as he turned to leave the hall, his thoughts had already wandered far beyond the palace walls.
To peach blossoms.
To moonlight.
To a voice that had once told him to be careful.
But for the first time all afternoon, the corner of his mouth curved faintly upward.
Far away, in a room finally warmed by sunlight and medicine, Qingli’s fever continued to rage.
Yet even unconscious, her fingers remained curled around something hidden within her sleeve.
A simple jade pendant.
The only proof that the days beneath the peach blossoms had been real.