Xiao Dingxuan · Chat

The first time you saw him was on the evening the Yin Kingdom fell. The sounds of fighting outside the palace walls had already died down. The fire had scorched half the sky, and thick smoke rolled everywhere, stinging your eyes so badly you could hardly keep them open. You knelt on the red terrace before Fengtian Hall, your skirts stained with ash, your knees on broken glazed tiles—tribute goods that yesterday your father had regarded as auspicious were now shattered more completely than your life. No one came to attend to you. The palace people had run off or scattered, their bodies lying across the white marble steps, blood seeping into the cracks of the stone and setting into dark brown stains. You did not dare look, but you had to. You heard footsteps wading through the wreckage, one step at a time, unhurried, as if keeping some kind of rhythm. The stride was too steady—so steady that it felt like the collapse of the whole world had nothing to do with him. You kept your head down and saw a pair of black boots stop at the edge of your sight, dust clinging to the leather, along with a few dark red spots. Then the tip of a sword pressed against your chin and tilted it upward. The touch was cold. Iron against skin, carrying a faint smell of rust, mixed with the reek of blood and scorching smoke, flooding into your nose. You were forced to lift your head. Against the firelight, you saw a young face. Much younger than you had imagined. His features were cold and severe, his jaw sharp, and his pitch-black eyes reflected the burning palace like two bottomless cold pools. His armor was stained with blood—not his own. A few drops had splashed across his cheek and already dried into dark flecks, making his face look even colder and paler. He looked down at you, his gaze sliding from your brow to your neck, like he was appraising a trophy, or like he was confirming something. There was no cruelty in it, not even coldness—it was more like an inspection, an unemotional, almost objective assessment. You could see no hatred in his eyes. And no pity either. Suddenly, you felt cold. It did not come from the wind; it seeped out from between your bones. After a long moment, he spoke. His voice was surprisingly young, roughened by the battlefield, yet carrying a strange, casual composure—like a man long accustomed to life and death, to fallen kingdoms, to a princess kneeling before him. <message>“You are the daughter of the King of Yin?”</message> You did not answer. It was not that you did not want to—it was that your throat felt blocked by something, and no sound would come out. Your lips moved once, then silently closed. He could see your eyelashes trembling, your knuckles white where you clutched your skirt, the way you desperately held back tears in front of him. He saw it. He said nothing. He sheathed his sword, turned, and his silhouette cast a long shadow in the firelight, falling over the broken glazed tiles and stretching all the way to your feet. <message>“Take her away.”</message> Those words were spoken lightly, like giving an order about some trivial matter. And just like that, your life was settled by two words. You could barely remember what happened after that. Dazed, you were pressed into a carriage, the wheels rolling over gravel and rubble, jolting so violently you almost threw up. Dazed, you passed through streets of ruin—collapsed eaves and closed doors on both sides, frightened eyes peeking through the cracks. Dazed, you were helped down from the carriage—the hand was rough and strong, gave you one steadying touch, then let go, with no extra movement and no extra words. You were pushed into an unfamiliar courtyard. The door closed behind you. You stood where you were, not moving. It was a small room. The window lattice was pasted with fresh white paper, an oil lamp burning on the desk, its dim yellow glow spreading out to illuminate a small corner of the world. The bedding was folded neatly, in plain blue. On the table sat a pot of tea, still steaming, white mist rising softly and forming delicate shapes in the lamplight. It did not look like a prison. But you knew it was a prison. Just cleaner and more decent than other prisons. No different in essence. You stood in the middle of the room, not knowing whether to sit, stand, or do anything. The oil lamp burned quietly, occasionally popping out a tiny spark with a faint crackle. Outside the window, the night was thick as ink, and in the distance came the footsteps of night patrol soldiers, beat after beat, like the steady heartbeat of this enormous city. You looked down at your hands. Ash still lay under your fingernails, from when you had desperately charged into the burning palace—you had gone to save your mother, but you had not found her. You did not know if she was still alive. You did not know whether you hoped she was alive or that she had already found release. Slowly, you crouched down and wrapped your arms around your knees. The tears finally fell. Silent, they dropped one by one onto the backs of your hands, scalding hot, then quickly turning cold. And at this very moment, on the other side of the courtyard wall, someone stood beneath the moon gate, looking at the lamplight glowing from your window, standing there for a long time. No one knew he was standing there. He himself did not know what he was looking at.