That night, heavy snow fell.
Snowflakes as large as goose feathers danced across the sky, and within half an hour, all palace paths were sealed, leaving the world a vast expanse of white.
Inside Changle Palace, the charcoal fire was warm, and the candlelight gentle.
Xiao Yan arrived very late, his black robe covered in white snow, his hair and eyebrows tinged with cold. He stepped into the hall, bringing with him the chill of wind and snow.
Murong Zhao immediately approached, offering a warm hand stove, then stood on tiptoe to personally remove his heavy cloak.
Her movements were natural, quiet, without the slightest hint of forced flattery.
Xiao Yan lowered his gaze, looking at her downcast eyes and long lashes casting faint shadows under the lamplight. His heart suddenly softened.
He spoke abruptly, his voice low: "Have you never wondered why I always come to you?"
Murong Zhao paused briefly, still calm: "Your Majesty has Your Majesty's reasons."
"Reasons?"
Xiao Yan chuckled softly, his laughter tinged with bitterness and heaviness. He reached out, gently holding her wrist, his gaze deeply fixed on her: "What if I said I'm afraid of implicating you?"
"Behind Consort Shu is the Empress Dowager, and behind the Empress Dowager is the entire Xiao clan. Half the court is in their hands. If I show you too much favor, if I protect you too openly, you will be the first they try to eliminate."
It wasn't that he didn't want to favor her—he didn't dare.
It wasn't that he didn't love her—he couldn't.
Murong Zhao suddenly looked up, meeting his deep eyes directly.
Within them, she saw the helplessness of an emperor, restrained concerns, and a trace of genuine worry she had never seen before.
She spoke softly, her tone so steady it was heartbreaking: "I know."
"That's why I am always happy whenever Your Majesty comes. But if Your Majesty does not come, I do not resent it."
"Why?" Xiao Yan pressed.
Murong Zhao looked out the window at the swirling snow, her voice light yet clear: "Because only by living can there be a future."
"This is the second lesson I learned in the Cold Palace."
The first lesson was endurance; the second was survival.
As long as one lives, there is hope, there is tomorrow, there is the day when dawn finally breaks.
Xiao Yan looked at her, silent for a long time.
He suddenly reached out and gently took her hand.
Her hand was cold, her fingertips bearing a thin layer of calluses—marks left from years of practicing swordsmanship, holding brushes, and struggling in desperate situations.
Not the hand of a pampered noblewoman, but a resilient hand that had endured countless darknesses.
His heart tightened, and he held her hand more firmly, his thumb gently stroking the thin calluses. His voice was low and solemn: "From now on, I will do my best to protect you."
Do my best.
While he still could not completely break free from his constraints, he would do everything within his power to keep her safe.
Outside the window, the snow fell heavier, the wind howled, sealing off the entire palace.
Li Fuquan hurried in, bowing: "Your Majesty, the snow is too heavy. All palace paths are blocked; carriages and horses cannot pass. Tonight, you…"
Xiao Yan glanced at him but said nothing.
Li Fuquan understood and quickly withdrew. Not long after, he returned holding a set of clean black casual robes.
"Your Majesty, these are the spare clothes you keep in the imperial study. I have brought them."
Xiao Yan gave a slight nod.
Murong Zhao stood quietly to the side, watching this scene, a strange warmth rising in her heart.
—He truly intended to stay.
The night deepened, the charcoal fire warming the bedchamber to a cozy glow.
Murong Zhao removed her hairpins and ornaments, wearing only plain white inner garments, her long hair cascading down, softening her entire appearance.
Xiao Yan had also changed out of his imperial robe, wearing that dark-colored everyday attire, sitting by the bedside.
For a moment, the two were silent, yet the air was not awkward; instead, there was a faint sense of tranquility.
"Your Majesty, it is time to rest," Murong Zhao said softly.
Xiao Yan raised his eyes to look at her. The candlelight reflected on her face, her features gentle beyond words.
He suddenly reached out, gently grasping her wrist, guiding her to lie down together.
The bed was not particularly wide. The two lay side by side, separated by less than a foot of distance.
Murong Zhao's body stiffened slightly, then gradually relaxed.
She could feel the warmth coming from beside her, could smell the faint scent of ambergris on him, could hear his steady breathing.
All of this was unfamiliar yet comforting.
Xiao Yan turned to face her, his gaze still profound in the dim light.
"Zhao'er," he called her softly.
"Yes?"
"I… have not lain down so peacefully for a long time."
Murong Zhao's heart stirred. She also turned to face him.
In the darkness, their breaths intertwined, close enough to see the light in each other's eyes.
"I feel the same," she said softly. "In the Cold Palace, there was only a hard plank bed. In winter, it was cold like an ice cellar. Every night, I curled up, telling myself—hold on, dawn will always come."
Xiao Yan listened, feeling as if something had struck his heart fiercely.
He reached out, gently drawing her into his embrace.
Murong Zhao stiffened momentarily, then leaned against his chest, listening to his strong heartbeat.
One beat, two beats, three beats…
So the heartbeat of an emperor was the same as that of ordinary people.
"From now on, it won't be like that," Xiao Yan's voice came from above, low and solemn. "From now on, I am here."
Murong Zhao did not speak, only burying her face deeper.
Outside the window, the wind and snow still roared, but inside the room, it was warm as spring.
Two hearts gazing at the light from the depths of the abyss finally drew closer, and closer still.
After an unknown length of time, Murong Zhao spoke softly:
"Your Majesty, are you asleep?"
"No," Xiao Yan's voice carried a hint of laziness. "Thinking about things."
"What things?"
Xiao Yan remained silent for a moment, then said softly, "Thinking about the inner palace, about the Empress Dowager, about my empire… everywhere there are eyes, everywhere there are ears. Every step I take must be cautious."
Murong Zhao lifted her head from his embrace, looking at him seriously.
"Your Majesty, I have a thought, but I wonder if I should speak it."
"Speak."
Murong Zhao pondered briefly, then slowly said, "The Empress Dowager has operated within the inner palace for many years, with spies spread throughout every palace. But these people, ultimately, are also human. Being human, they have weaknesses."
Xiao Yan's gaze sharpened slightly. "Continue."
"I have seen the palace roster. Among the palace maids, many over twenty-two years old have not been released from the palace. Some have no home to return to, some were deliberately kept—these people, the longer they stay in the palace, the deeper their dependence on the Empress Dowager becomes, and the easier it is for them to become her spies."
She paused, her voice light yet clear: "If Your Majesty finds a pretext to show favor to the inner palace, releasing palace servants who have reached twenty-two years of age, allowing them to marry or return home. Firstly, it demonstrates Your Majesty's benevolence; secondly…"
She raised her eyes, a sharp glint flashing in them: "At least half of the Empress Dowager's spies in the inner palace could be eliminated."
Xiao Yan's eyes brightened, then he frowned slightly. "A pretext… what pretext would be suitable?"
Murong Zhao had already considered this question and answered without hesitation:
"Three months later, it will be the Emperor's Wanshou Festival."
"The Wanshou Festival is celebrated throughout the realm. The Emperor can issue an edict—the imperial family granting benevolence, allowing all those who have reached twenty-two years of age and voluntarily wish to leave the palace to receive settlement silver and return home. Firstly, to pray for blessings and longevity for the Emperor, and secondly, to demonstrate the Emperor's benevolence and compassion."
She paused, then added: "Even if the Empress Dowager wishes to stop it, she cannot—this is for celebrating the Emperor's birthday, a joyous occasion. If she opposes it, it would instead appear unreasonable."
Xiao Yan was stunned, staring at her for a long time.
The flickering candlelight cast shifting shadows on her face.
Those eyes were clear, calm, yet harbored sharp edges.
After a long while, he suddenly chuckled softly.
"Zhao'er, you surprise me."
"I've thought for three years and never came up with such a clean and efficient method. You only needed three days to conceive it."
Murong Zhao smiled slightly: "Your Majesty, I merely had idle time in the Cold Palace and thought a bit more."
Xiao Yan gripped her hand tightly, his gaze fervent: "A good idea. Tomorrow, I will order the Imperial Household Department to review the registers. On the day of the Wanshou Festival, I will formally issue the edict. All those above twenty-two years of age who voluntarily wish to leave the palace shall receive settlement silver and be permitted to return home."
He paused, then added: "If there are those with no home to return to, they can also be settled in Imperial Manors, allowed to marry and support themselves."
Murong Zhao nodded gently: "Your Majesty is wise."
Xiao Yan looked at her, his eyes filled with admiration and tenderness.
"Zhao'er, having you is truly a blessing bestowed by heaven."
Murong Zhao lowered her head, a faint smile appearing at the corner of her mouth.
"Meeting Your Majesty is also my blessing."
Outside the window, the wind and snow persisted.
Inside the room, two hearts drew closer.
The long night stretched on, warmth beginning to emerge.
From this moment onward, they were no longer merely nominal spouses.
They were companions who understood, protected, and illuminated each other.
Also chess players who joined hands in strategizing and plotting for the realm together.
Outside the hall, wind and snow filled the sky.
Wei Zhao, clad in black, stood guard in the shadows beneath the corridor, nearly blending into the night.
He gazed at the two silhouettes leaning together reflected on the window paper, the scar at the end of his eyebrow faintly gleaming in the snowy light.
Only when the horizon began to show the pale light of dawn did he silently retreat, disappearing into the wind and snow.
In the side hall of Changchun Palace.
Consort Shu sat by the window, watching the heavy snow outside, slowly curling a sinister smile at her lips: "Staying overnight in the snow? Murong Zhao, you rejoice too early."
What she did not know was—
A greater storm was quietly brewing.