Jiang Linhuai (gl) · Chat

Red candles blazed high, and the flickering flames poured out a warm, mellow glow that softly filled the entire elegant bridal chamber. The red silk hanging all around drifted gently and quietly; embroidered curtains patterned with mandarin ducks and twin lotus blooms cascaded layer upon layer, gently gathering the room's tender, lingering warmth. They filtered out the harsh, killing chill of half a lifetime in the court, and stripped away the cold hardness of the wind and frost of the battlefield, leaving only the unique peace and intimacy of a wedding night—tender by measure, perfect in every degree. Jiang Linhuai sat quietly on the edge of the bed. Her posture was still the upright, composed bearing of one who had spent years in armor and stood in court; the backbone of a general's child had long been carved into her bones. Even in such a gentle, romantic scene, she did not slacken in the slightest. Her fingertips lightly rested on the wedding garments before her, and again and again she carefully traced the dense, fine patterns of golden thread. Her movements were slow and restrained, carrying a nervousness she herself had not noticed. These wedding garments were the new clothes you had personally delivered to the general's mansion last night. She had seen countless exquisite robes in the world, and the palace embroiderers' skill was unrivaled in the capital, yet no garment had ever fit so perfectly, been so gentle and delicate as this one. The stitches were neat and even, the lines soft and smooth; every seam, every inch of texture was finer than the work of the mansion's best embroiderer. No words were needed—she knew dimly in her heart that such extreme care must have been polished bit by bit by your own hands, prepared through the night. Ten years of day-and-night companionship had long settled countless small tendernesses into the years, hidden in every little moment of being together, hidden in the secret feelings she had never dared to examine or speak aloud. Dressed in that rich, vivid red, she did not look garish in the least. Instead, it made her features even more heroic, bright, and radiant. The world knew that Guardian General Jiang Linhuai acted with crisp decisiveness and possessed a resolute, unyielding temperament—on the battlefield she could settle a thousand miles of wind and sand, and in court she could debate the entire assembly of civil and military officials. She had lived her life open and upright, never showing the slightest cowardice or panic. But tonight alone, with her armor and court robes removed and festive red garments on her body, the sharp edge of this ever-decisive woman quietly receded. Her eyes held a shallow daze and helplessness, and every movement betrayed a rare clumsiness. The room was silent, save for the gentle leaping of the candle flames. The faint crackling sounds fell upon the ears, making the surrounding stillness feel even more distinct. After a long, frozen moment, she finally raised her eyes, her gaze lightly landing on you standing quietly not far away. Her heart had long been churning with undercurrents and surging panic. To conceal this sudden flutter and unease, she deliberately put on the familiar air she used when facing you in court, trying to speak in her usual relaxed, hearty tone—but deep in her voice, there was still a hint of unnatural tension she could not hide. “I never expected the Grand Chancellor's craftsmanship to be so exquisite.” That simple attempt at conversation came out a bit stiff and awkward. Her gaze swept lightly over the well-fitted, elegant wedding garments on you; the red candlelight made your features warm and refined, utterly different from your solemn, calculating look in court. Their eyes met only briefly before her heart fluttered and she hastily turned her face away. The tips of her ears, usually pale and cool, uncontrollably flushed a thin red, bright and conspicuous in the warm light, unable to hide the slightest shyness or embarrassment. She did not dare meet your eyes for long. Ten years together, day and night—whether chatting idly or debating in court, she had always been open and fearless. But tonight, with identities changed and the setting so different, panic grew wildly in her heart. She was afraid you would see through the calm she was forcing, afraid you would glimpse her disordered, chaotic heartbeat. She was still bewildered, not knowing where this unusual unease came from, yet she dimly understood that these ten years of braving storms together, of keeping each other year after year, had long since carved you firmly into the depths of her heart—taking root in silence, sprouting quietly. Her thoughts drifted slightly, falling back to the court a few days earlier. At that time, the great hall had been solemn and majestic, civil and military officials standing in two rows, the atmosphere grave and tense. The two of you had held opposing political views over the allocation of border military supplies, each clinging to your own position. She had long been stationed at the frontier and knew well the bitter hardships of the soldiers guarding the border. To keep the realm safe and protect her troops, she had always been straightforward and unyielding, and so she argued fiercely without giving an inch. You, in the position of Grand Chancellor, coordinated the overall situation of court and country, weighing the people's livelihood against military preparedness, thoughtful and meticulous—you, too, stood firmly on reason and refused to easily yield. That day in court, you argued earnestly and with fierce words, each guarding your own sense of justice, neither willing to accommodate the other. You looked completely at odds, and anyone who saw it would only think the two ministers held incompatible political views and had always been opposed. Yet in merely a few short days, the two who had stood against each other in the hall now shared a room of red candlelight and tenderness, stripped of sovereign-subject decorum and far from the troubles of state affairs. The surrounding silence was intimate; there was no more debate or argument, only the soundless tenderness filling the room. You stood quietly in place, saying nothing, your gentle and calm appearance a world apart from the one who had argued reason in court that day. This enormous contrast added another layer of inexplicable panic to Jiang Linhuai's already unsettled heart. She pressed her lips together and spoke again, deliberately putting on a hint of the familiar bickering manner from the old days, trying to break the stagnant atmosphere. But her voice had long lost the sharp hardness of the court, gaining instead a soft, sticky awkwardness—a tenderness even she herself had not noticed. “A few days ago in court, you argued without giving an inch, full of momentum... why are you so quiet today?” The moment the words fell, the room sank into silence once more. The red candles still burned softly, their faint crackling sounds unbroken. The empty stillness wrapped around the intimate atmosphere, pressing ever more tightly on her heart. She lowered her head slightly, her teeth gently biting her lower lip, and all her feigned composure and deliberate bravado crumbled completely. After so many years of open, unyielding toughness, it ultimately could not withstand this sudden change of identity and the emotions surging in her heart. After a long while, she completely shed all pretense. Her tone softened to the extreme, carrying a trace of genuine helplessness, embarrassment, and unprepared bewilderment, and she sighed softly. “Your Majesty is being far too reckless with this marriage.”