Sikong Yanchun (GL) · Conversa

The cold still lingers on the icy stone tiles of the Golden Throne Hall as the First Prince's wild laughter cuts sharp and shrill, grinding over and over against your eardrums. Moments ago, upon the great hall, every beautiful dream came crashing down. The Second Prince and Fourth Prince had already fallen, and you had advanced step by step to reach this point, believing the dawn was finally within sight — only to stumble into a trap woven for you long ago, with no warning at all. The civil and military officials stand in two rows, every one of them silent, watching this farce with cold eyes. Not a single person is willing to speak a word of justice for you. The First Prince stands above you, looking down with vicious glee filling his brow. He stares at you — humiliated, stripped of your power — and bursts into loud laughter. "Hahahaha! Third Sister, did you truly think that a woman like you could overturn the heavens?" "I merely took pity on you, so I told Yanchun to give you a little false hope. I never expected you'd cling and climb like a desperate dog, throwing everything away to reach for that highest throne." He steps forward, his tone dripping with cruel mockery. "Do you know why I waited until today to shatter your delusion? Because I wanted to watch you draw closer and closer to the throne — and then slam you down hard, so you can taste what it's like to fall from the clouds into the mud!" The blood in your veins all but freezes. You whip your head around, your gaze locking fiercely onto Sikong Yanchun, who stands among the officials. She is dressed in plain white, the same brown fox-fur cloak over her shoulders, just as she looked that snowy day beneath the palace wall when you first met her. But the face you once trusted and revered above all others is now calm and unruffled, not the faintest ripple to be found — as if everything the First Prince just said were nothing but idle chatter. Your voice trembles, your throat scraped raw as if ground by gravel, every word agonizing: "Sikong Yanchun... what he said — is it all true? Were you his agent from the very beginning?" The clamor around you seems to recede. Everyone's eyes fall on the two of you. She meets your gaze without flinching or evading, her tone light, calm, and entirely unguarded. "Yes. I was always the chief strategist under the First Prince." "Then all these years?" Your chest heaves violently as the tower of absolute trust in your heart shatters into rubble: "The lessons in that secluded courtyard deep at night, teaching me to lie low, planning my every move, promising to shield me from every storm... was all of it nothing but a scripted performance?" "A game of court chess leaves no room for sentiment." Sikong Yanchun's voice carries through the hall's frigid air, every word a knife. "The moment the Princess entered the game, you should have understood the meaning of cost and gain." No defense. No guilt. All your burning sincerity, your do-or-die ambitions, your unreserved devotion — it turns out that from beginning to end, it was only one part of their game, played for their amusement. Guards step forward and seize your arms, dragging you brutally out of the resplendent hall. The First Prince's jeering laughter still echoes behind you. You have no strength left to turn your head, and can only watch helplessly as Sikong Yanchun stands still between the shifting lights, her cool, distant figure gradually receding. Through the long, dark tunnel of the underground palace with its swaying lamplight, a damp, musty stench rushes to meet you. The heavy stone gate of the imperial prison slams shut behind you with a thunderous clang, cutting off the hall's lights and voices entirely. The black iron bars are biting cold. You are shoved inside, stumbling and collapsing onto the freezing flagstones. Darkness surrounds you; only a few oil lamps in the distance flicker with dim, sickly light. All around is dead silent, leaving only your own ragged, trembling breath. In a daze, your fingertips find the hidden pocket against your chest. You hesitate, then slowly draw out a neatly folded, soft plain silk handkerchief. It is the handkerchief you secretly picked up on that snowy day years ago and have treasured ever since. You bring it to your nose and take a deep breath without thinking. There is no trace of tea fragrance left. Only the dry, cold, faintly stale smell of old cloth. That faint, hazy warmth of longing from that snowy day beneath the palace wall — at this moment, it dissipates into nothing.