The next morning, before dawn had fully broken, a soft knocking sound came from outside the small courtyard in Yong Lane.
Su Yue had cried herself to exhaustion the previous night and was sleeping deeply, but Murong Zhao had not slept at all. She woke instantly, her hand already resting on the short sword beside her pillow.
"Who is it?"
An unfamiliar voice came from outside, hushed and low: "I am a minor servant from the Imperial Household Department, delivering winter quilts to each palace by imperial decree."
By imperial decree?
Murong Zhao frowned slightly.
Could Yong Lane, such a place, receive the privilege of "quilts delivered by decree"?
She rose and gently opened the courtyard gate.
Outside stood a thin, small servant, holding a thick quilt—brand new, stuffed plump with cotton, clearly of superior quality.
The servant thrust the quilt into her arms, glanced around left and right, and whispered quickly: "Princess, do not ask, do not speak of this. This quilt… was specially ordered to be delivered."
Then he turned and ran, disappearing into the depths of the lane in an instant.
Murong Zhao stood at the gate holding the quilt, stunned for quite some time.
Specially ordered?
By whom?
The Empress Dowager? Impossible. The Empress Dowager would rather she freeze to death here.
Consort Shu? Even more impossible. Consort Shu had just trampled her into the mud yesterday; she wouldn't send a quilt overnight.
Then who could it be?
She recalled the shadow hidden in the darkness last night.
Was it him?
But who was he?
Su Yue rubbed her eyes and crawled up, seeing Murong Zhao holding a brand-new quilt, her mouth gaping in astonishment: "Princess! Where… where did this come from?"
Murong Zhao did not answer, only carried the quilt back into the room and placed it on the worn-out bed.
The quilt was soft, warm, and carried the unique fresh scent of new cotton.
She pressed her hand into it, her fingertips sinking into the soft cotton filling.
Ten years in the Cold Palace, she had never covered herself with such a fine quilt.
She remained silent for a long while, then suddenly spoke softly: "No matter who it is… I will remember this kindness."
In the following days, Murong Zhao and her servant settled into Yong Lane.
Settling, in truth, meant waiting for death.
Their daily meals were the lowest-grade leftovers and cold scraps, delivered already icy; heating charcoal was beyond hope, the room cold like an ice cellar; occasionally palace servants passed by, pointing and whispering, their eyes scornful, their words foul.
Su Yue cried every day, but each time she gritted her teeth and swallowed her tears, desperately working, never daring to complain before Murong Zhao.
Murong Zhao rose each morning to practice swordplay—under the dead mulberry tree in the courtyard, each move silent and soundless.
It was the sword technique her mother had taught her.
For ten years, she had never ceased.
After practicing swordplay, she sat by the window, gazing blankly at the sky beyond the courtyard wall.
No one came to see them.
No one came to inquire about them.
It seemed as if within this deep palace, Murong Zhao simply did not exist.
Consort Shu probably thought she was already dead.
The Empress Dowager probably had forgotten her.
But Murong Zhao knew she was not dead.
She was alive.
She was still practicing swordplay, still waiting, still enduring.
She did not know what she was waiting for.
But she knew, someday, she would walk out of this gate.
On the seventh night, wind and snow battered the window lattice, creaking and groaning, the room cold like an ice cellar.
Su Yue huddled in a corner, trembling all over, her lips frozen purple.
Murong Zhao covered her with her own new quilt, wrapped herself in the old, moldy, worn-out quilt, and sat by the window, watching the heavy snow outside.
At that moment, a series of extremely light footsteps suddenly came from outside the courtyard gate.
Murong Zhao instantly became alert, her hand moving toward her short sword.
The door was gently pushed open a crack, and a dark figure slipped inside.
Murong Zhao almost drew her sword, but then heard a familiar voice: "Princess, it's me."
Murong Zhao trembled all over.
Wei Zhao.
It was Wei Zhao!
Wei Zhao quickly walked up to her, knelt on one knee, covered in snowflakes, his face pale from the cold, his eyes rimmed red, the scar at the end of his eyebrow particularly clear under the snowy light.
"I… have returned."
Murong Zhao stared fixedly at him, only finding her voice after a long moment: "How did you come back? You were sent away…"
Wei Zhao pulled a waist token from his chest and presented it with both hands: "I escaped back at night halfway there. I obtained a waist token disguised as a procurement eunuch, so sneaking into the palace wasn't difficult."
He paused, his voice low: "The princess ordered me to leave, so I had to leave. But if I left, what would happen to the princess?"
"This life of mine was given by Consort Jing. Consort Jing ordered me to protect the princess for her entire life, so I cannot let the princess stay alone in this treacherous place."
Murong Zhao looked at the man before her.
His wounds were not yet fully healed, his face pale, lips dry and cracked, clearly having endured a journey of hardship and rough travel.
But he had returned.
Risking execution, he had returned.
Something seemed to choke her throat, and after a long pause, she softly said:
"… Fool."
Wei Zhao looked up, his eyes carrying a smile: "I would rather be a fool than a deserter."
Su Yue had awakened at some point, seeing Wei Zhao, she covered her mouth and cried out: "Brother Wei… you, you really came back…"
Wei Zhao nodded to her, then looked at Murong Zhao, speaking solemnly: "Princess, when I returned, I also learned something."
Murong Zhao raised her eyes: "Speak."
"Consort Shu has been frequently visiting the Empress Dowager recently, seemingly planning something." Wei Zhao lowered his voice, "And… the Emperor's side seems to have sent people inquiring about the princess."
Murong Zhao's heart stirred slightly.
The Emperor.
That Emperor Xiao Yan, whom she had never seen, rumored to kill as easily as cutting grass.
Why would he inquire about her affairs?
She suddenly remembered that mysterious quilt, remembered that shadow hidden in the darkness.
Could it be him?
Wei Zhao continued: "I also heard that the Emperor never interferes with inner palace matters, nor does he inquire about the fate of any consorts. But this time… it's somewhat unusual."
Murong Zhao remained silent for a long time, then slowly spoke: "Regardless of why he is acting unusually, for us, it might not be a bad thing."
"At least it shows that he remembers there is still me in this deep palace."
She raised her eyes to look at the heavy snow outside the window, her dark eyes calm like an abyss.
Consort Shu was plotting.
The Empress Dowager was watching.
Emperor Xiao Yan was observing secretly.
And she, thrown into Yong Lane, had nothing, isolated and without support.
But she was not afraid.
Because Wei Zhao had returned.
Because she still had her sword.
Because she still had breath.
The wind grew stronger, the snow fiercer.
But within that dilapidated little room, there was now a faint warmth.
Wei Zhao guarded the door, Su Yue curled up in the quilt, Murong Zhao sat by the window.
Three people, each with their own thoughts, yet all looking toward the same direction.
That was the direction of the palace city.
That was the direction of survival.
And at that moment, atop the Star-Gazing Tower.
Xiao Yan stood by the window, looking toward Yong Lane at that faint, flickering light.
The shadow guard reported in a low voice, "Your Majesty, that guard has returned. He disguised himself as a eunuch to sneak in."
Xiao Yan did not turn around, only uttering a faint "Hmm."
The shadow guard hesitated, "Should we… drive him out?"
Xiao Yan fell silent for a moment, then suddenly curled the corner of his mouth:
"No need."
"Let her keep someone by her side. It’s fine."
He paused, his voice low: "Otherwise, the days in Yong Lane would be too dull."
"But that’s a man, this…" The guard was glared at and dared not mention rules anymore. Fine, you’re the emperor, you decide.
The wind and snow howled, the night as dark as ink.
The slender figure still sat by the window, motionless.
And the dark-clad figure still stood before the window, gazing in the same direction.
This night, the wind in Yong Lane seemed not so cold anymore.