Zhao Yen had not been unconscious for long. When she awoke, she was in the carriage, lying in Wenren Lin’s embrace.

Her hearing returned first. The noisy sound of rain once again pressed in from all directions, then her vision gradually cleared.

Raindrops slid down Wenren Lin’s cold, pale jaw, falling onto Zhao Yen’s brow.

In the dim light of the carriage, his soaked outer robe revealed a heavy dark red, like blood seeping through.

After a sharp shrill cry sounded by her ear, the memory of Zhao Yuanyu’s pursuit surged into her mind. Zhao Yen gripped the short blade at her side, struggling to rise.

“Lie down, do not move.”

Wenren Lin pressed his palm on her shoulder with a light but irresistible force.

His eyelashes too were damp, clumped together, hiding the emotions in his eyes.

Pressed down by him, Zhao Yen only then realized her whole body was trembling weakly, drained of strength. She could only pant in vain: “Zhao Yuanyu…”

She was going to kill him.

She must kill him!

Wenren Lin gazed into the almost tempered-steel obstinacy in her eyes. After a moment, his fingertip lightly brushed across her rain-soaked, pallid cheek, falling upon her bloodless lips.

“This prince does not believe that the life of a beaten dog is more important than Your Highness.”

Wenren Lin’s voice was low, carrying with it the illusion of lingering tenderness. “This prince likes Your Highness’s backbone. But at times I also think, if Your Highness’s temper could be as soft as these lips and tongue, it would be better.”

He only wanted the little princess to yield a little, obediently hide behind him.

But when that beast wielding a curved blade drew close to the small princess who still braced herself trembling in the rain, it was undeniable—Wenren Lin had, for an instant, a surge of killing intent.

Zhao Yen had clearly misunderstood his meaning.

To obtain something from Wenren Lin, one must pay the corresponding price—this she understood.

So Zhao Yen forced her trembling fingertips to rise, without the least hesitation pressing down Wenren Lin’s neck, imprinting her cool, damp lips upon the corner of his mouth.

Wenren Lin looked at her, unmoving.

Drops fell from Zhao Yen’s hair. She closed her eyes, then, steeling herself, pressed closer, her lips clumsy and inexperienced as they pressed and pressed again, trying to pry open those teeth, until at the end it was nearly biting.

She loosely looped her arms about Wenren Lin’s neck, still clutching tight the short blade that bore all her fury and hatred. A sacrificial kiss, in this night of hopeless rain, appeared both decadent and heartrending.

Wenren Lin’s one arm circled her waist, the other still raised, eyelids slightly lowered.

The rain outside gradually ceased. Within the cramped space only the sound of rustling fabric could be heard. Just when Zhao Yen was about to lose her strength, Wenren Lin’s raised hand finally fell to the nape of her neck, and before she suffocated herself, he gently pushed her a little away.

He gazed at Zhao Yen’s unwilling, faintly flushed face. After a long time, in a hoarse and low tone, he asked: “Zhao Yen, what do you take this prince for?”

This was the first time Wenren Lin had called Zhao Yen by her true name, carrying a hint of gnashing teeth.

A flush rose on Zhao Yen’s pale face. She could not answer.

Her gaze was unfocused, breath short, even the arms draped over Wenren Lin’s neck weakly fell down.

Beneath his palm, her skin was burning hot. Wenren Lin at last sensed something was wrong. He raised his hand to her forehead.

After a moment, his brows furrowed: she was feverish.

……

Zhao Yen began to dream frequently of the past.

She dreamed of when she was six or seven years old, leaning on the window lattice of Zhao Yan’s bedchamber, standing on tiptoe to peer inside.

The imperial physicians dutifully surrounded Zhao Yan on the sickbed, taking his pulse and treating him. Mother Empress stayed by her son’s side without ever leaving, from time to time using her cinnabar-painted jade fingers to gently rub his pale little hand. Even Father Emperor, in the midst of his endless affairs, took the time to come and visit, his expression revealing rare affection.

Little Zhao Yen stared blankly for a long while. In her wide eyes, aside from worry for her elder brother, there was even more the innocent envy of a child.

She turned and ran back to her own quarters, deliberately shedding clothing, sitting barefoot at the palace gates to let the wind blow upon her as she prayed. She naively believed that so long as she herself fell ill, she too could receive the meticulous care of Father Emperor and Mother Empress; that so long as the sickness and pain transferred onto her, her elder brother would recover.

“When will you finally let this palace worry less?”

Mother Empress only looked at her, thinly dressed, and wearily rubbed her brow.

She dreamed of her fifteenth birthday, of Zhao Yan’s sickly face dampened by rain.

His pitch-black pupils were gentle and magnanimous as he bent down to pick up the green sandalwood ornament box. “Yen’er, elder brother is not pitying you. Elder brother simply does not know how to make up for even a fraction of the grievances you have suffered all these years.”

“You are!”

The young girl blurted out, “Zhao Yan, what you have is already too much… If I could, I would rather exchange identities with you.”

One phrase became an omen, and in the end turned into a nightmare she could never cast away.

Why did she say such words? Zhao Yen more than once questioned herself.

If at the time she had not spoken that so-called “curse,” if she had not spoken those insincere, hurtful words—would Zhao Yan then have lived on well?

But in all things there is no “if.” She could only carry the shadow of memory and move forward step by step. From then on, every day she wore Zhao Yan’s identity was Heaven’s punishment upon her ignorance.

Until on this rainy night, she personally heard Zhao Yuanyu admit everything.

“So what if it was I!”

“Zhao Yan… you should have died long ago on the return from the secondary palace!”

The hideous laughter amid thunder and rain shook her so hard her liver and gall seemed to split.

So Zhao Yan had not weakly died from illness, nor died from her so-called “curse.” She had not killed Zhao Yan.

She dreamed of herself gripping a short blade and chasing her enemy, but no matter what, she could not catch him. Zhao Yuanyu’s frenzied laughter resounded from all directions, and surging flames enveloped her, impossible to cut apart, impossible to escape.

“Zhao Yuanyu… don’t run!”

It was as though she stood within a furnace, crying hoarsely in struggle against an enemy unseen, until utterly exhausted.

Until a patch of coolness pressed against her forehead, like a clear spring flowing through, dispersing the snarling laughter and searing fire of her nightmare.

Uncomfortable, Zhao Yen pressed her cheek toward that cool spring, begging for more. Until her entire body curled up and clung to it, only then closing her damp lashes, weary as she sank into tranquil darkness.

When she awoke again, the sky was already bright.

The rain had cleared and the heavens were blue, birds chirped cheerfully. The blazing summer sun filtered through the verdant leaves, scattering a patch of bright light upon the windowsill.

Zhao Yen, having slept face down too long, only felt her head heavy and body light, unable for a time to distinguish morning from evening. Only the familiar furnishings told her she had already returned to the Guanyun Hall of Yuquan Palace.

Her upper garment was half loosened, exposing her chest binding and shoulder and back. Someone sat at the foot of the bed, using their hand to gently massage the soreness caused by her excessive wielding of the blade. A faint fragrance of medicinal oil drifted in the air.

That touch was gentle and proper. Zhao Yen thought the one applying medicine was Liuying, so she gave a light cough and, her voice muffled and hoarse, said:

“Liuying, give me a cup of water…”

The hand doing the massage paused briefly. After the sound of trickling water from rinsing hands, that person rose and went to the table, pouring a cup of warm tea.

Yet the long, slender fingers that held the cup before her eyes clearly did not belong to Liuying.

Zhao Yen followed the dark sleeve upward with her gaze, stunned, then at once grabbed the cool summer quilt of ice-silk and covered herself.

That duel on the rainy night had drained her strength. Now that the fever had just receded, her arms ached especially badly. As she propped herself up, she gave a muffled groan, the soft black strands behind her ear falling down in threads, half-veiling her cheek.

Wenren Lin, his expression as usual, sat by the edge of the couch and said:

“Your Highness’s body, what part has this prince not seen?”

It was true. Zhao Yen slightly eased her posture, stretching out her hand to take the cup he extended.

Wenren Lin did not move. Zhao Yen could only silently draw her hand back, letting Wenren Lin bring the tea to her lips himself.

Was he angry?

She had not only ignored his warning and meddled in the missing-person case, but had also ended up this wretched… He must be angry.

Zhao Yen sipped little by little at the tea from Wenren Lin’s hand to moisten her throat, trying to read some trace from his face that was as calm as a still well.

Wenren Lin did not even lift his eyes. Once he had finished feeding her the water, he asked:

“Do you want more?”

Zhao Yen shook her head. He set the cup back on the desk, then grasped Zhao Yen’s ankle.

Zhao Yen trembled but endured without moving.

Wenren Lin rolled up her trouser leg, exposing the scrape on her knee—it was from when Qiu Zui appeared, and she fell on the ground and was injured.

Wenren Lin, practiced, took wound medicine and carefully applied it to the reddened, scabbed injury. It was a little cool, a little painful, and Zhao Yen pressed her lips together and shrank slightly.

Only then did Wenren Lin lift his eyes and ask quietly:

“Now you know fear?”

“I am not afraid,” Zhao Yen answered hoarsely.

Even if it were to happen again, she would make the same choice, cutting without hesitation toward Zhao Yuanyu.

Wenren Lin braced a hand on the couch, asking carelessly:

“Has Your Highness thought—if this prince had not acted in time?”

Zhao Yen clenched the bedding.

She knew Wenren Lin would surely be uneasy and would have sent someone to watch her in secret. That the leader of the Crown Prince’s guards personally pursued Zhao Yuanyu was not without a wager involved.

“I must kill him,” Zhao Yen said firmly.

“To kill a gutter rat, you did not hesitate to lower yourself and draw close to this prince?” Wenren Lin asked.

Only then did Zhao Yen recall the fragmented scene in the carriage. Helpless, watching her enemy escape, her hatred had driven her to seize at any strength within reach.

“To the Grand Preceptor, he may be only a gutter rat. To me, I long to drink his blood and eat his flesh…”

Receiving no reply, Zhao Yen turned her head aside, digging her nails into her palm, and said:

“Hand-and-foot kinship¹Hand-and-foot kinship: figuratively refers to siblings, because brothers and sisters are considered as closely bound and inseparable as one’s own hands and feet.—how would the Grand Preceptor understand?”

Wenren Lin’s fingertip paused slightly. After a moment, he withdrew his hand.

He straightened and looked at Zhao Yen, his gaze like a bottomless cold pool, then inclined his head with a faint smile:

“Yes. All this prince’s own flesh-and-blood siblings died at Yanluo Pass in the tenth year of Tianyou. Indeed, I do not quite understand.”

It was his first time mentioning family. With a voice cool and even, he spoke of a fact that shocked the heart.

Zhao Yen’s heart trembled without cause.

She opened her mouth, wanting to say something more, but Wenren Lin picked up a cloth, wiped his hands, and rose to leave.

In the sunlight, his dark back was outlined against the overlapping mountains, like millennia-old frozen ink-ice—straight, sharp, unyielding.

Only after he had gone far did Liuying lift the hanging curtain and enter, setting out the delicate porridge and dishes one by one.

Hugging her knees, Zhao Yen asked: “Liuying, how long was I unconscious?”

Liuying dutifully answered: “Your Highness rarely falls ill. This was the first time you burned so severely—you were unconscious for two full days and one night.”

So long? Two days and one night—enough time for Zhao Yuanyu to flee far away.

Zhao Yen ground her teeth in hatred.

Watching Zhao Yen’s expression, Liuying lowered her voice: “It was Prince Su who carried Your Highness back and personally administered the medicine and treatment.”

“He… was here all this time?” Zhao Yen asked somewhat dazedly, recalling that patch of soothing coolness in her dream.

“Prince Su comes at night to sit a while by Your Highness’s couch, but by day he is seldom seen.”

Liuying did not mention in the least what had happened on the night Zhao Yen went missing in the fire, only said: “Lady Liu Ji clamored to come visit Your Highness, but this servant blocked her.”

Zhao Yen took the small bowl of green rice and minced chicken porridge that Liuying handed over, gently stirring it, and finally spoke: “I saw Qiu Zui. Now, he follows at Zhao Yuanyu’s side.”

Liuying started in shock, suddenly stepping back and kneeling straight down.

“Why are you kneeling?”

Zhao Yen was puzzled. “Do you mean to stop me from investigating further again?”

Liuying shook her head hard, clutching her sleeve. “This servant longs for nothing more than to join Your Highness in cutting down the enemy with my own hand.”

“Enemy…”

Zhao Yen murmured softly. Suddenly her eyes grew wet, as if all that she had borne alone for so long had finally received an answer.

“You finally admit—the Crown Prince died by murder?”

Liuying nodded, lifting her slightly reddened eyes, and spoke word by word:

“It was Qiu Zui who killed the Crown Prince!”

Footnotes

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  Hand-and-foot kinship: figuratively refers to siblings, because brothers and sisters are considered as closely bound and inseparable as one’s own hands and feet.