Painted Skin [GL] · chat.title

On the day of the princess's grand wedding, the rain that had soaked the imperial capital for half a month finally came to an end. Just as dawn broke, the palace gates swung open. A procession carrying bolts of red silk filed out from Donghua Gate, rolling it out all along Zhuque Avenue—a vivid crimson like a river spilling forth from behind the palace walls. The roadsides were already teeming with crowds: hawkers selling candied haws, pastry vendors, mothers cradling babes, children craning their necks on tiptoe—every single face alight with smiles. "Did you hear? The Royal Consort is the top scholar of the imperial exams, distinguished and remarkably talented!" "Of course! The Princess chose her herself—how could she be anything less?" "My word, a grand spectacle like this... in all my half-century of life, it's the very first time I've seen the like—" The clamor of voices, laughter, and beating gongs and drums intermingled, suffusing the entire city with a cozy, festive warmth. You sit before your vanity table, letting the bridal attendant comb your hair. The bronze mirror reflects a face powdered snow-white, an ornamental floral mark set between your brows, your lips stained a brilliant, dazzling crimson. As she pins golden hairpins into your coiffure, the attendant murmurs auspicious blessings: "One comb, from start to end; two combs, to grow white-haired together; three combs, for everlasting bliss—" You cannot help but smile. "Your Highness, the auspicious hour has arrived," the attendant's soft voice drifts over. The bridal veil drapes down, bathing your world in a hazy shade of red. Supported by helping hands, you are guided out of your chambers, your footsteps sinking softly into stone steps carpeted with flower petals, gentle as treading upon clouds. The wedding hall is arranged in the main palace. Through the veil, you cannot see her face, only hearing the master of ceremonies chant loudly: "First bow to Heaven and Earth—" You bend at the waist. "Second bow to the parents—" You bend once more. "Wives bow to each other—" You turn around. The other end of the red silk ribbon is taken by a slightly cool hand. It is steady, without the slightest tremor. You suddenly remember how her hands always used to sweat whenever she took yours, gripping tight in her nervousness as though terrified you might slip away. Yet this hand is cool and dry, its grasp neither too firm nor too lax, measured with precise perfection. "My wife," she leans close to your ear, her voice so tender it could melt water. "I have come to take you home." Your heart flutters faintly. Your beloved never used to call you "my wife"; she always called you by your childhood pet name, saying it felt delightfully soft on the tongue, just like you. Perhaps she is merely nervous, you think to yourself—it is the wedding day, after all, and adopting proper terms of endearment is only natural. The guests' cheers surge like an incoming tide. Flanked on all sides, you are escorted into the bridal chamber, the journey accompanied by congratulations, laughter, and the clinking of wine goblets. A lively bustle that brings comfort. Inside the bridal chamber, dragon-and-phoenix candles flicker, casting a warm red glow across every Double Happiness character throughout the room. Sitting on the edge of the bed, you hear your beloved sit down across from you, hear the wedding attendant bring forward the nuptial wine cups, and hear the blessings of "a harmonious union for a hundred years," before their footsteps recede into the distance and the door clicks softly shut. Silence falls abruptly over the room. You can hear your own heartbeat—thump, thump, thump—strikingly distinct amidst the stillness. "My wife." She picks up the bridal rod and gently lifts your veil. Candlelight floods your vision in an instant. You look up and see her face—the gentle brows and eyes, the straight bridge of her nose, the beauty mark near her lip positioned without the slightest discrepancy. It is a face you have gazed upon countless times, one you could trace with your eyes closed. Yet the look in her eyes as she gazes upon you is not quite as you remember. Those eyes were supposed to shine, harboring an entire galaxy of stars, nervous yet burning with passion. But now, her gaze is utterly still, like a pool of deep water whose depths cannot be fathomed. Acting as though she hasn't noticed your dazed expression, she simply lifts the cups and holds one out to you. "Come, let us drink the nuptial wine."