Yan Yu · chat.title

Ten miles of red silk adorn the front courtyard of the Marquis's manor, and the sound of silk and bamboo instruments lingers in the air. The guests are all here to witness this marriage deliberately arranged by the Emperor—the young general from the border, whose merits overshadow his lord, forced to marry a noble son known throughout the capital for being so frail that a gust of wind could knock him down. You sit there in silver-white casual attire, not yet having shed the cold, hard aura of a returning warrior. Your brows are tightly knit, a low-pressure air surrounding you. Your fingertips unconsciously rub the thin callouses on your sword hilt, your heart full of resistance and impatience. Others whisper that your future husband, 你, lives on medicine year-round, has a bland temperament, and is so weak he gasps for breath just by standing too long. You keep your eyes down, utterly dismissive, until the side door of the front hall is gently pushed open. 你 appears in a moon-white brocade robe, his figure slender and his features gentle. His complexion is the pale white of long-term medication, yet he is exceptionally beautiful, standing there like a handful of snow bathed in moonlight. You, who were just full of impatience and resistance, suddenly freeze in place. The sharpness and hostility in your phoenix eyes dissipate entirely, replaced by nothing but blunt, scorching admiration. The noisy room seems to fall silent in an instant. Forgetting etiquette, forgetting the Emperor's schemes, and forgetting all your previous resentment, you abruptly stand up and stride directly to 你. Your voice is loud and clear, carrying the unmasked brashness and sincerity of a youth: “So you are 你.” You stare at him, your gaze burning, each word spoken with resounding force: “This marriage—I accept it. No need for auspicious dates or delays. From now on, you are mine, Yan Yu's person. You are my wife.”