The twenty-third year of the Yong’an era, winter.
Heavy snow fell like goose feathers, driven by a biting wind that slammed against the glazed tiles of the Beishuo imperial palace with a cold, rustling sound. Inside Yong’an Hall, the charcoal fires blazed, yet they could not penetrate the chill radiating from the imperial concubines and princesses who knelt across the floor.
Beishuo had been defeated, and Dayin’s iron cavalry pressed against their borders. The sole condition for peace was to send the legitimate princess to Dayin for a political marriage, to wed the Emperor of Dayin, Xiao Yan—a man rumored to be a mass murderer, cold-blooded and bloodthirsty.
Aboard the dragon throne, Emperor Yong’an’s expression was somber. His fingertips gripped the armrests of his throne tightly as his gaze swept over his trembling daughters, finally landing on the Fifth Princess, Murong Yan, who was weeping piteously.
Murong Yan was the Empress’s legitimate daughter. Raised in the lap of luxury and pampered since childhood, how could she be willing to go to a den of tigers and wolves like Dayin? Her shoulders shook with her sobs, her makeup was ruined, and she clutched the Empress’s sleeve tightly, her voice shrill: “Father! Your daughter will not go! The Emperor of Dayin is bloodthirsty by nature; if I go, I will surely die! I beg Father to withdraw the decree!”
The Empress immediately bowed her head, her pearl hairpins becoming disheveled as she spoke with an uncompromising strength. “Your Majesty, Yan’er is our Beishuo’s legitimate princess, a precious gem. How can she be sent to an enemy country to suffer humiliation? The Xiao clan controls the Dayin court, and the Emperor of Dayin can barely protect himself. If Yan’er marries him, it will be like a sheep entering a tiger’s mouth!”
The mother and daughter played their parts in unison, and the hall was filled with voices pleading for mercy. No one dared to accept this death-sentence of a marriage decree.
Emperor Yong’an’s brow furrowed into a tight knot. He waved his sleeve irritably, his gaze finally shifting to the most remote corner of the hall.
There knelt a girl with a frail figure.
She wore a set of plain, washed-out winter clothes, the fabric too thin to block the biting wind. Her shoulders were slender, yet they were held in a stubborn, straight line, like a lone bamboo growing tenaciously in the wind and snow. Her head was lowered, her raven-black hair falling beside her cheeks and veiling most of her face. She was so quiet it was as if she didn’t exist, looking entirely out of place amidst the wailing and clamor of the crowd.
She was the Seventh Princess of Beishuo, Murong Zhao.
Her biological mother, Consort Jing, had passed away early. Since the age of eight, she had been abandoned in the Cold Palace, forgotten by all. For ten whole years, she had lived as the most insignificant speck of dust in the imperial palace.
Emperor Yong’an’s voice was flat and devoid of warmth, as if he were disposing of an inconsequential object. “Zhao’er.”
Murong Zhao slowly raised her head.
A pair of dark, bottomless eyes met his. There was no panic, no sense of grievance, and not even a trace of a plea; there was only a stagnant, silent coldness. She saw clearly the cold-heartedness of the father on the dragon throne; she saw the flash of ruthlessness and calculation in the Empress’s eyes; and she saw the triumph and relief hidden beneath Murong Yan’s tears.
Through ten years in the Cold Palace, she had long since seen through the indifference of this palace.
The so-called father and daughter, the so-called sisters—to her, they were nothing more than the most unfamiliar of strangers.
“You shall go to Dayin for the marriage in your sister’s stead.”
A single, light sentence decided her fate.
There was no inquiry, no discussion, and not even a shred of guilt.
She was an abandoned daughter, a lowly life raised in the Cold Palace. Even if she died, no one would grieve for her.
Murong Yan’s crying stopped instantly. She stole a glance at Murong Zhao, her eyes filled with schadenfreude—the one who should have died was her, but now that it was being replaced by this lowly seventh sister, it couldn’t be better.
The Empress’s lips curled into an imperceptible cold smile, as if a monumental problem had been solved.
The entire hall fell silent. Everyone’s eyes were on Murong Zhao—some with pity, some with mockery, some with malicious joy—but not a single person stood up to speak for her.
Murong Zhao slowly bent forward, her forehead lightly touching the freezing floor. Her voice was clear and calm, yet every word was distinct. “Your daughter obeys the decree.”
With that one response, the matter was settled.
No one asked if she was willing, no one asked if she was afraid, and no one even offered a word of appreciation for her sacrifice. She was like a discarded old object, tossed out at will to block Dayin’s iron cavalry and preserve the legitimate princess’s wealth and status.
When she stepped out of Yong’an Hall, the wind and snow had grown even fiercer.
Cold grains of snow pelted her face, causing sharp pain. Murong Zhao stepped into the deep snow. Her thin boots had long since been soaked through, and the chill crawled up from the soles of her feet, numbing her legs. Yet she did not stop for a moment, her spine remaining as straight as an arrow.
Su Yue followed closely behind her. The young maid’s eyes were rimmed with red, and tears fell uncontrollably. Her small, frozen-red hands clutched Murong Zhao’s sleeve tightly as she choked out, “Princess! How could you just agree! You are also the Emperor’s daughter—why didn’t you fight for yourself? Why should the legitimate princess be pampered while you are sent to your death?”
Su Yue was her only companion in the Cold Palace. Their ten years together were the only warmth in this freezing palace.
Murong Zhao stopped and turned to look at her. Her dark eyes remained as calm as still water, yet beneath that calm lay a sharp edge that only she understood.
“Fight?” she repeated softly, her tone tinged with a hint of self-mockery. “Fight for what? If I had won and the Fifth Sister was forced to go, the Empress would have hated me for the rest of her life; she would have had countless ways to make my life a living hell. If I had fought and lost, I still wouldn’t have escaped it.”
“In this palace, fighting without strength is nothing more than seeking one’s own destruction.”
This was the truth she had learned from enduring ten years in the Cold Palace, through countless nights of hunger and cold—endurance was not weakness; it was the only way to survive.
Only by enduring what others cannot can one wait for the opportunities others will never see.
Hearing this made Su Yue feel even more heartbroken, and she cried even harder. “But Princess, Dayin is so dangerous, and the Emperor of Dayin is so terrifying. If you go… how will you survive!”
Murong Zhao did not speak. She simply looked up at the snow filling the sky.
When she was eight years old, it was also on such a snowy day that her mother, Consort Jing, lay on the bed with her breath failing. She had held Zhao’er’s hand and urged her over and over: “Zhao’er, Mother is going. You must live well. It is not easy to be born a woman, so you must protect yourself. Wait for the day you can walk out of this cage and never be bullied again.”
From the time she was six, her mother would secretly get up every night to teach her swordsmanship in the abandoned backyard of the Cold Palace. The mother and daughter didn’t dare to light a lamp, using only the moonlight to practice every move in silence. Her mother said, “Zhao’er, Mother cannot protect you forever, but this sword style can. Remember, a true sword is not for showing off; it is for saving your life. When practiced to the limit, it can carve a path of survival even from a desperate situation.”
On those late nights, the wind was bone-chilling, yet her mother’s hands were always warm. At seven, she didn’t understand why they had to be so secretive; she only knew that being able to spend an extra moment with her mother was the greatest happiness.
After her mother died, she was thrown into the Cold Palace, where she stayed for ten years.
The swordsmanship she had mastered in those late nights became her only solace. For ten years, whether in the blistering heat or the harsh winter, no matter how heavy the snow, she would practice that sword style over and over in the most hidden corner of the Cold Palace every night. Her sword was carved from a wooden stick; she didn’t dare use a real blade for fear of drawing attention. But the moves were already etched into her blood and bone; she could perform them even with her eyes closed.
Now, she was finally going to leave this giant cage of an imperial palace, but she was doing so as a substitute bride, heading into another den of tigers and wolves.
Upon returning to the Cold Palace, the dilapidated building let the wind in from all sides, making it even colder than the snow outside.
While Su Yue busied herself with boiling water, Murong Zhao stood alone in the empty room and slowly opened a dusty, years-old wooden box from under the bed.
Inside were no gold, silver, or jewels, nor any magnificent dresses. There was only an old short sword.
The scabbard was made of ordinary old wood, its corners already worn white. Years of dust were embedded in the wood grain, showing at a glance that it was an old object that had been carried and touched constantly.
This was the only memento her mother had left her.
Murong Zhao’s fingertips pressed against the scabbard. As her thin calluses brushed against the rough, warm wood, her heart suddenly felt hot.
She slowly drew the sword.
Zheng—
The clear, resonant ring of the blade pierced the dead silence of the Cold Palace.
Moonlight streamed through the window and fell upon the blade. Its cold light was sharp and biting; the edge showed not a trace of rust, remaining blindingly bright. It was just as it had been back then, when her mother held her hand and taught her to strike under the moonlight.
The old wooden scabbard was unremarkable, perfectly concealing this blade of exposed brilliance. It was just like her—her status as the abandoned daughter of the Cold Palace was the scabbard, and hidden within it was the sharp edge she had sharpened for ten years.
Murong Zhao gripped the hilt, her wrist turning slightly as the blade carved a cold arc in the moonlight.
She looked down at her thin but determined reflection in the blade and spoke softly, her voice light yet carrying a ruthless edge tempered by the snow:
“Mother, I have not dared to forget the swordsmanship you taught me for a single day. It has been ten years, and I have practiced every night.”
“On this journey to Dayin, your daughter will not die.”
“Those who bullied me, abandoned me, and humiliated me… one day, I will make them regret everything they have done today!”
As she finished speaking, she snapped the sword back into its scabbard.
At that moment, a very light footstep suddenly came from outside the dilapidated door of the Cold Palace. Immediately following it, a low and respectful male voice rose slowly through the door planks—
“Your servant, Wei Zhao, acting upon the final command of the late Consort Jing, is willing to follow the Princess to Dayin to ensure your safety for a lifetime.”
Murong Zhao’s hand on the sword hilt suddenly tightened.
Wei Zhao?
That name… she seemed to have heard it somewhere before.
But searching through her memories of ten years in the Cold Palace, she had never met this person, nor had she heard anyone mention him.
She gripped the hilt tightly, her voice as calm as still water. “Who are you? And why do you mention my mother?”