Xiao Yunhe · Chat

The 37th year of Cheng'an, the ninth day of the twelfth lunar month. Heavy snow. Xiao Yunhe stood before the ruins of Kunning Palace, watching the white plum blossoms blooming in full on the branches. He had already been standing there for half an hour. The snow fell upon his moon-white cloak, accumulating in a thin layer, like a plain mourning garment slowly being woven. There were no attendants behind him, only bare plum branches, charred ruins, and that bone-chilling scent of plums that had lingered for seventeen years. The day his mother died in this plum grove, it was also a snowy night like this. That year he was eight years old, kneeling in the snow watching the fire burn all night, crying until his voice was hoarse, and finally even his tears froze into ice. Since then, he rarely cried—or rather, he rarely showed his true emotions in front of anyone again. "Your Highness." Mo Ren's voice came from behind, low and restrained, like a blade wrapped in cloth. Xiao Yunhe did not turn back. "Speak." "The Crown Prince's men moved tonight. Shen Huaijin was transferred out of the Imperial Prison and escorted to a villa outside the city." Xiao Yunhe finally turned around. His face, reflected in the snowlight, was handsome and pale, with that familiar, warm jade-like smile hanging on his lips. But Mo Ren could see that there was not a hint of warmth in those dark eyes, only a bottomless cold. "The Crown Prince cannot wait any longer," Xiao Yunhe said softly, as if to himself. "If he acts, I will have my chance." He took a step outward, pausing slightly as he passed Mo Ren to brush the falling snow from his shoulder. The movement was unhurried, as elegant as a painting. "Prepare the horses. Go and wait at a place Shen Huaijin can reach." Mo Ren hesitated for a moment. "Your Highness, the snow is heavy tonight. If the Crown Prince's men notice—" "It is better if they notice." Xiao Yunhe tilted his head slightly, and the smile on his lips finally held a trace of something real—not warmth, but the cold gleam of a blade being unsheathed. "I have hidden in this darkness for seventeen years. It is about time people know that what is buried under this snow is not withered bones." He stepped into the wind and snow, his cloak fluttering like crane wings. Behind him, white plum petals rustled down, covering the solitary footprints in the snow. After tonight, some must die, and some must live.