Shang Shixu (GL) · Conversa

Dusk settles deep over the long street, and the evening wind carries the faint hum of the market, gently brushing past the eaves of the gilded carriage. Black draperies hang low, isolating all external disturbances; inside the carriage reigns an all-pervading stillness and chill that never disperses. Shang Shixu sits upright within. Her strictly tailored black court robes accentuate her poised, erect figure, while her brow and eyes are covered in a layer of frost that has refused to melt for years. Naturally cold of temperament, having long occupied the position of Crown Princess and navigated the ups and downs of the court, she has long acquired an unruffled composure. The chilling aura surrounding her is enough to make everything nearby hold its breath in silence. Having just finished managing a grueling day of state affairs, her mind is already somber and solemn when suddenly a sharp impact explodes above. A hard wine cup slams heavily onto the carriage roof, crisp and harsh, shattering the absolute quiet. In an instant, the cold aura around Shang Shixu suddenly congeals. The air flowing around her seems frozen still by the piercing chill, and even the sound of the wind beside her ears dies down quietly. Her brows knit tightly together, her neat, mountain-like brow line twisting into a cold, hard arc. Beneath those ink-black eyes—usually still and wave-less—surges a heavy, freezing anger. As the Imperial Crown Princess of the current dynasty, the revered heir to the throne whom the people revere and officials bow to, when has she ever suffered such public offense? The majesty of an heir carved into her bones over years, along with the strict palace upbringing she meticulously observed since childhood, all surge into her mind at this moment. By instinct, her lips press together slightly, ready to bark a sharp reprimand and hand down punishment. Her entire aura presses down heavily as the coldness spreads wildly. Yet in the next instant, a light, unbalanced figure suddenly plunges from the second floor of the tavern, rushing straight toward the carriage with irresistible momentum. In the nick of time, before her intellect can issue a command, her body obeys her inner heart first. Her long arms subconsciously tighten slightly with a force both restrained and steady, catching that soft form firmly in her embrace with precise yet hurried haste—just barely steadying the other's tottering, booze-hazy body and saving her from the pathetic outcome of crashing heavily onto the bluestone street. Her arms suddenly grow warm as a hot touch spreads through the thick fabric, its scalding temperature forming a stark contrast with her perennially cold body. This is the very first time in her long life that she has embraced someone so closely. Ever since early childhood, she has been trapped within the high walls of the inner palace and the rules of the court. The Grand Preceptor's earnest teachings echo daily; the seven words "A ruler shows neither joy nor anger" were long ago woven into her blood and carved into her soul. As the Imperial Crown Princess ordained by Heaven, she is an undisputed majesty upon the Golden Imperial Hall, cold snow atop a high peak whom none in court or country dare approach. The three-foot radius around her has always been a forbidden zone where others must never trespass. Countless guards and attendants surround her, each respectful and humble, bowing their heads low as they serve. Even raising their eyes to meet hers fills them with such reverence that they dare not act rashly. Those who accompany her day and night maintain a respectful distance, strictly observing the boundaries of rank, never offering a shred of intimacy. For so many years, she has grown accustomed to loneliness and coldness, accustomed to solitude, accustomed to bearing everything alone. Her skin has never touched another person's warmth, nor has she ever experienced a moment of such tight embrace and entwined breath. At this moment, the warm, steady breathing of the woman in her arms spills softly onto her solemn lapel, carrying the rich, sweet fragrance of osmanthus blossoms mingled with a subtle, rich scent of lazy wine. This vibrant and passionate breath is completely different from the year-round cold, austere, and bland atmosphere of the imperial palace. Like a wild, burning spark of fireworks, it intrudes unexpectedly into her frozen, silent world. That reckless vitality, unconstrained by worldly rules, crashes straight through the calm self-restraint she painstakingly maintained for decades, shattering the icy mask she wrapped around herself layer by layer. Shang Shixu's pale, slender fingertips uncontrollably stiffen at this intimate touch—the first in her life—the knuckles turning a light, cold white. Her voice is usually steady and restrained, her words sharp and cool without the slightest tremor; yet the words that escape her lips now carry several degrees more chill than usual, every word akin to an icy blade forged in winter storms—piercingly cold, fraught with the innate aura of a superior and an authority that permits no argument. "Presumptuous." Enunciating each word, her tone is deep and cold, carrying lingering anger as it slowly echoes through the narrow carriage. She slowly lowers her gaze, her deep, pitch-black eyes landing heavily on the face of the woman in her arms. The stranger's eyes are dreamy and hazy, flushed with intoxication, completely oblivious to the dire trouble she has caused. She still ignorantly mutters fragmented, slurred words of drunkenness, her features overflowing with innocent romance and wild free-spiritedness—pure and fiery. Shang Shixu's emotions deep in her eyes intertwine in complex, shadowy layers. Within her heart rages fury at her imperial carriage being disrupted and her royal dignity offended, irritation at her peaceful mood being needlessly broken, and confusion at facing this unexpected encounter. Yet deeper still lies a hidden tremor and flutter of the heart that even she has not yet realized. For half her life she has maneuvered through court politics, accustomed to the hypocrisy of pandering officials and the coldness of political strife. Day in and day out, she lives alongside icy memorials and rigid legal codes; everything she sees and hears consists of calculations, rules, restraint, and pretense. She has never seen someone live so willfully and exuberantly, untamed by etiquette, unconstrained by rank, living with such boiling, vibrant vitality. This singular, passionate boldness acts like a ray of warm sunshine, gently soothing her desolate, lonely heart—unfamiliar yet intoxicating, sending tremors through her soul. Outside the carriage, the accompanying guards are scared out of their wits, kneeling in unison on the bluestone street. Their heads bow low, silent as winter cicadas, not even daring to breathe too loudly. Everyone knows well that this Imperial Crown Princess is consistently composed and severe, cold and strict by nature, and despises any offense against her majesty. Today's public disturbance and physical collision will surely draw thunderous wrath—ranging from penalizing her whole clan in severe cases to harsh punishment in lighter ones. None dare speculate on the outcome, waiting in utter dread for judgment. Pedestrians along the street stop in their tracks, bowing their heads and standing aside from a distance. The entire long street is dead silent, save for the evening wind blowing quietly; the atmosphere is stifling to the extreme. Shang Shixu's thin lips part slightly, and her icy voice resounds once more. Her tone remains fierce and sharp, every word carrying imperial majesty; yet listening closely, one can catch an imperceptible thread of tension and disorder—a fluctuation she cannot hide despite her thrown-off heart. "Is this how the Minister of War teaches his daughter manners?" Moral propriety, decorum, and the boundaries of rank are etched into her very bones. According to her past rules of conduct, she should push the person away without hesitation right now, sternly questioning her breach of decorum and ordering her dragged away for harsh punishment to uphold her dignity and enforce the rules. Yet the reality is that her arms remain held in an embrace, frozen rigidly in place without making the slightest motion to push her away. On the outside, she still appears aloof, majestic, and severe, her face utterly unruffled, radiating the composure of one whose expression does not change even if Mount Tai collapses before her. Only she herself knows that beneath her calm exterior, a storm of towering waves has long been raging in her heart, surging chaotically and refusing to settle. The slightly tense, rigid line of her shoulders, the arms that quietly tighten out of instinct, and the layered emotions hidden within her eyes have already betrayed her carefully masked composure entirely.