As night deepened, the candlelight within Changle Palace was gentle.
Murong Zhao had shed her elaborate palace attire, wearing only a simple, light-colored robe as she sat quietly beneath the lamp, reading a book.
The pages turned softly—it was a volume of Records of the Grand Historian. The lamplight fell upon her slender profile, serene as a painting.
"His Majesty has arrived—"
The sharp, high-pitched announcement of a eunuch shattered the tranquility of the hall.
Su Yue trembled in fright and hurriedly moved to help Murong Zhao rise.
Yet Murong Zhao remained calm, slowly closing the book, standing up to straighten her collar, and walking unhurriedly to the hall entrance to greet him. She curtsied, saying, "Your humble consort pays respects to Your Majesty."
Xiao Yan, dressed in dark-colored casual attire, stood tall and straight, his expression stern as he strode into the hall.
As he entered Changle Palace, the shadow guards hidden in the darkness quietly dispersed, blocking any suspicious onlookers in the vicinity.
Tonight, he did not wish to be watched, nor did he want anyone to overhear.
Without a word, he walked directly to the main couch and sat down, his deep gaze fixed intently upon her—probing, yet carrying a hint of subtle gentleness.
"What are you reading?" he asked first, his voice low.
Murong Zhao presented the book with both hands. "In reply to Your Majesty, it is Records of the Grand Historian."
Xiao Yan took the book and casually flipped through a few pages.
The margins were filled with dense, small annotations—the handwriting elegant and neat, yet with an underlying strength.
He had assumed they were merely casual musings written by a woman, but upon closer inspection, they were critiques of historical figures' successes and failures, and the rise and fall of situations—each word insightful, each sentence sharp, devoid of any delicate, feminine sentiment.
Xiao Yan’s eyes deepened slightly. He closed the book and looked at her. "Did you write all these annotations?"
"Yes."
"Who taught you?"
Murong Zhao smiled faintly, her gaze drifting to the moonlight outside the window, her voice soft. "No one taught me. During my ten years in the Cold Palace, only these few books kept me company."
She paused, as if recalling something from a distant past. "The year I first entered the Cold Palace, I was only eight years old. In winters so cold I couldn’t sleep, I would hold the books close and read them word by word. As I read, I grew less afraid."
"In the years that followed, when summers were too hot to sleep, I would recite from memory by moonlight. When winters were too cold to hold a brush, I would huddle under the blankets and trace characters on the wall with my finger."
"When I couldn’t understand something, I would read it over and over until I did."
Xiao Yan listened quietly, not interrupting.
Murong Zhao turned her head to look at him, a faint smile in her eyes. "My mother passed away early, but the books she left me helped me endure those ten years."
"I often wonder if my mother knew this day would come—that’s why she made me study, taught me to use my own mind and walk my own path."
Xiao Yan remained silent for a moment before suddenly asking, "Then what have you learned from these books?"
Murong Zhao thought for a moment and replied softly, "I have learned that throughout history, those who achieve great things share one common trait."
"Oh?" Xiao Yan raised an eyebrow. "What is it?"
"The ability to endure."
She lifted her gaze, her eyes clear. "To endure what ordinary people cannot, to bear what ordinary people cannot—only then can one achieve what ordinary people cannot."
She paused, the corners of her lips curving upward. "And—endurance alone is not enough. One must also have a sharp mind. Those in the books who ultimately suffered complete defeat were not incapable of enduring; they simply could not discern when to endure and when to act."
Xiao Yan looked at her, his gaze gradually deepening.
How could this be some discarded woman from the Cold Palace?
This was clearly someone who had thoroughly studied the Records of the Grand Historian.
He suddenly smiled. "What a 'brainy' one. I shall see what else that brain of yours can decipher."
Murong Zhao also smiled. "Then Your Majesty must visit often, and I will slowly tell you."
He suddenly leaned forward, lowering his voice with a sharpness that pierced straight to the heart. "And you? Can you endure it?"
Murong Zhao did not flinch, meeting his gaze directly, her words clear and deliberate. "I have already endured for eighteen years."
"A little longer makes no difference."
A single sentence, spoken lightly, yet it conveyed a lifetime of suffering.
Xiao Yan fell silent.
The things that had happened to her—any one of them would have driven another woman to madness or collapse.
Yet she simply said calmly—I can endure it.
Somewhere in his heart, he softened inexplicably.
The hall suddenly grew quiet.
The candle flame crackled softly, and a night breeze blew outside the window, stirring a few fallen leaves.
Xiao Yan leaned back on the couch, his gaze resting on her, lost in thought.
Murong Zhao also remained silent, composed and unhurried.
She walked to a small side table, picked up an exquisite porcelain jar, opened it, took out a few pieces of preserved fruit, placed them on a small dish, and gently pushed it toward him.
"Your Majesty, try some," she said naturally, as if entertaining an ordinary guest. "I preserved these myself, using the green plums sent from the fruit storeroom."
Xiao Yan lowered his eyes, looking at the glossy preserved fruit on the dish, and was momentarily taken aback.
He picked up one and placed it in his mouth.
A sweet and sour flavor spread on his tongue, carrying a refreshing plum fragrance—surprisingly delicious.
"How is it?" Murong Zhao asked, a faint smile in her eyes.
Xiao Yan nodded. "Not bad."
After a pause, he added, "Better than those cloyingly sweet pastries from the imperial kitchen."
Murong Zhao smiled, a shallow smile that softened her entire face. "When I was in the Cold Palace, the winters were long, and there was little to eat, so I experimented with preserving things. Later, it became a habit—whenever I had free time, I’d make something."
She spoke lightly, as if those days of hunger and cold were merely ordinary memories.
Xiao Yan looked at her and suddenly felt something in his heart loosen.
This woman was unlike anyone he had ever met.
She did not complain, did not play the victim, did not seek credit—she simply spoke of the past as if recounting someone else’s story.
Yet the more she did so, the more the suffering hidden behind her words tugged at his heart.
He picked up another piece of preserved fruit, chewing it slowly, and suddenly spoke. "When I was young, I also loved sweets."
Murong Zhao looked up at him.
Xiao Yan’s gaze drifted to the window, his voice faint, as if speaking of something long past. "When the late emperor was still alive, there was an old master in the imperial kitchen who made the best osmanthus cakes. Every time I went to pay my respects, I would secretly take one."
"Later… the old master was gone. I never tasted osmanthus cakes that good again."
He spoke softly, but Murong Zhao sensed the weight behind his words.
Gone.
In the depths of the palace, those two words carried too many meanings.
She did not respond, only gently pushed the dish of preserved fruit a little closer to him.
Xiao Yan looked at her hand—slender and fair, yet with thin calluses on the fingertips—left by years of holding a sword.
He picked up another piece.
The hall fell quiet once more, yet it was no longer the previous distance and probing, but a strange sense of relaxation.
Two people—one an emperor, one an empress—sat facing each other just like that, taking turns picking candied fruits until the plate was clean.
Xiao Yan suddenly asked, "When you were in the Cold Palace, were you like this too?"
Murong Zhao was slightly taken aback. "Like what?"
"Like this… finding your own amusement?"
Murong Zhao thought for a moment, then smiled softly. "If I didn’t find amusement, how could I have survived?"
"When winter was too cold, I’d think about how to gather more firewood. When summer was too hot, I’d think about how to cool the room. When I was hungry, I’d think about what could be eaten. When I was bored, I’d think about swordsmanship, reading, or writing."
"Life must go on. Crying is a day, laughing is also a day."
Xiao Yan looked at her, his gaze deepening.
These words sounded simple, but how many could truly achieve this in desperate circumstances?
He suddenly thought of himself.
In those years, suppressed by the Empress Dowager, sidelined by court officials, watched by spies in the inner palace—hadn’t he endured day by day as well?
Only his way of enduring was silence, forbearance, burying all emotions deep within, never speaking of them to anyone.
Her way of enduring was finding amusement for herself, extracting a hint of sweetness from bitter days.
He suddenly felt as if he had lost.
Lost to this woman.
Lost to her clarity, lost to her resilience, lost to her ability to still smile in the face of despair.
"You…" he began, unsure of what to say.
Murong Zhao looked up at him, her dark eyes calm as water, yet carrying a faint warmth.
"What does Your Majesty wish to ask?"
Xiao Yan fell silent for a moment, then unexpectedly asked something even he hadn’t anticipated: "Alone, weren’t you afraid?"
Murong Zhao looked at him, not answering immediately.
Afraid?
Of course, she was afraid.
At eight years old, the moment her mother closed her eyes, she was afraid.
On her first night thrown into the Cold Palace, surrounded by pitch darkness, she was afraid.
When she was too hungry to sleep, shivering from the cold, bullied by palace servants—she was afraid.
But she never spoke of these things to outsiders.
Now, facing this man’s gaze, she suddenly felt that saying it once wouldn’t hurt.
"I was afraid," she said softly. "Many times."
"It’s just that later, I realized—fear is useless. Fear changes nothing. Rather than being afraid, it’s better to think about how to endure."
She paused, looked at him, and the corners of her lips curved slightly. "Just like the candied fruits Your Majesty ate earlier—if I had only known fear back then, these wouldn’t exist."
Xiao Yan was stunned.
Then, he suddenly smiled.
The smile was faint, but it was genuine, softening even the lines of his eyes.
"You certainly know how to speak."
Murong Zhao shook her head. "This humble consort merely speaks the truth."
Xiao Yan looked at her, his gaze now carrying something different.
No longer probing, no longer scrutinizing—but a desire to see more of her, to hear her speak a few more words.
He leaned back on the couch, his posture much more relaxed than when he first arrived, his voice even softer. "Sometimes, I also wonder—if I could be like you, finding a bit of amusement for myself, would life be easier?"
Murong Zhao did not respond, merely listening quietly.
She knew this man was beginning to speak the truth.
Xiao Yan gazed at the night outside the window, his voice low, as if speaking to himself:
"I ascended the throne at ten, with the Empress Dowager regent. The entire court, high and low, was filled with members of the Xiao clan."
"Fifteen years…"
He did not continue, but Murong Zhao understood all that was left unsaid.
In name, he was the supreme ruler; in reality, he was a trapped beast in a cage.
He possessed the vast lands of the empire, yet could not even control his own fate.
She did not interrupt or press further, merely sitting quietly, keeping him company.
The candlelight flickered gently, the night serene.
Xiao Yan suddenly turned to look at her, his gaze carrying a trace of vulnerability he himself had not noticed. "Do you think," he said, "that my life could be considered another kind of Cold Palace?"
Murong Zhao met his gaze, her dark eyes calm as still water.
She did not answer the question, only softly said, "Your Majesty, I am here."
Four words, light as a breeze, yet they fell heavily upon Xiao Yan's heart.
In his loneliest moment, after he had spoken words never before uttered to anyone, she simply sat quietly and said—I am here.
Xiao Yan suddenly felt his eyes grow moist.
He turned away, looking out the window.
For a long, long time, he said nothing.
It was unclear how much time had passed before Xiao Yan finally rose and left.
At the palace entrance, he suddenly paused, glancing back at her.
There was something more in that gaze.
Then, his dark figure vanished into the night, leaving behind a hall filled with silence.
Meanwhile, in Changchun Palace.
Under the cover of night, Zi Yuan secretly slipped a note to Consort Shu's trusted maid.
"His Majesty went to Changle Palace again tonight and stayed for nearly an hour before leaving."
Consort Shu looked at the note, her fingertips nearly digging into her palm, her eyes filled with deeper resentment.
"Keep watching. I want to see how many more days that wretch can gloat."
Back in Changle Palace, as soon as Xiao Yan left, Su Yue rushed forward, her face flushed with excitement, eyes shining. "Your Highness! His Majesty spoke with you for so long just now! He even smiled! He truly smiled! I have never seen His Majesty smile before!"
Murong Zhao looked at her excited expression and gently shook her head, her tone clear and calm. "It is not affection."
"It is… he is beginning to trust me."
Su Yue was stunned. "Trust you?"
Murong Zhao turned, gazing out at the deep night, her dark eyes calm as an abyss.
"Yes."
"The words he spoke today, he has never said to anyone before."
"To speak them aloud is to begin to trust."
And she would guard this trust.
Meanwhile, in the imperial study.
Xiao Yan stood by the window, looking toward Changle Palace, his gaze deep and dark.
Tonight, he had spoken many words.
Things he had never told anyone, the bitterness that had weighed on his heart for fifteen years—he had spoken them all to a woman he had only met a few times.
After speaking, he thought he would regret it.
But he did not.
Instead, he felt a little lighter in his heart.
He suddenly remembered that plate of candied fruit, remembered her saying, "Crying is a day, smiling is a day," and remembered her words—"Your Majesty, I am here."
The corner of Xiao Yan's lips lifted slightly, a fleeting smile.
He suddenly felt a sense of anticipation—the next time he would visit Changle Palace.