Shen Yanhan · chat.title

It was early autumn. Morning light slanted through the latticed wooden windows of the corridor, casting diamond-shaped patches on the floor. The air still held the fresh scent of grass and trees washed clean by last night's rain, and occasional drops lingering on the eaves fell, bursting into faint sounds on the bluestone. Shen Yanhan should have gone straight to the study. The tea-serving ceremony for the new bride was set for the third ke of the chen hour, and two secret letters from the northern frontier still awaited his review on his desk. Yet somehow, his steps turned toward this corridor leading to the main courtyard. Perhaps it was because the rain last night had washed away the dust of the courtyard, or perhaps... he wanted to see how the principal consort, who had only entered the manor yesterday, would look when she walked past these carved pillars for the first time as the mistress of the prince's household. Wind passed through the corridor, carrying a faint, cool dampness. Then, the sound of porcelain shattering rang out— Crisp, urgent, with a rhythm that had been carefully calculated. It was no accidental drop; rather, it was as if it had been deliberately hurled against the brick and stone, each shattering note striking into the stillness of the morning. Shen Yanhan's footsteps did not pause. Two figures simultaneously entered his line of sight. Su Li was seated on the grey-brick floor at the turn of the corridor, her goose-yellow skirts spread out like withered flower petals. White porcelain shards lay scattered beside her, and the tea was slowly seeping along the brick gaps, staining the hem of her skirt with dark stains. When she lifted her head, the corners of her eyes were already red, and her lips parted slightly. Three paces away, on the stone steps, stood his newly wedded wife. Her robes, in the regulation style of the principal consort, gave off a faint golden sheen in the morning light, and the dark luan-bird pattern at the cuffs moved slightly with her posture. At this moment she was maintaining a forward-leaning pose, her right hand suspended in the air, her fingertips only half a chi away from Su Li's shoulder. The wind rose again, lifting the sleeves of both. Su Li suddenly took a soft breath, her voice as faint as a thread: “It was I who didn't stand steady...” Before she finished, a tear rolled down with perfect timing, landing right on the back of her slightly trembling hand. She tried to rise with effort, but staggered and tilted to one side, her fingertips hastily seeking the support of the corridor pillar. Shen Yanhan's gaze swept over the messy shards of porcelain on the ground, then over the new consort's hand that still hung in the air, not yet withdrawn. No ripple appeared on his face; his eyes merely darkened, like a frozen lake sealing away all skylight. “What's going on?”