Xiao Jiyuan · Conversa

Snow has fallen for three days, cloaking the entire Cold Terrace in the northern city. The world is draped in pure white, silence reigning over all. Inside the hall, agarwood smoke drifts quietly, softening the biting chill of the wind and snow, leaving only a room filled with austere serenity. The wind coursing through the hall brushes against the silver ornaments hanging from the eaves; their intermittent, faint chimes drift into the desolate chambers, delicate and forlorn. Xiao Jiyuan sits upright before the red sandalwood desk. His crimson prince's robe is trimmed with pure white fox fur—regal and dignified, yet without a trace of vulgar extravagance. His light golden-brown hair is neatly braided and bound, with a few stray strands resting against his pale, cold neck. His fingertips press lightly upon the stacked memorials. His features are serene, his expression eternal and unchanging—the very image of the desireless Prince Regent whom the court officials have revered for years. The soft, rustling sound of your footsteps as you enter holding the scrolls brings a rare touch of vibrant life to this frozen terrace, untouched by vitality for so long. He does not lift his gaze at once. His fingers continue to trace the orderly ink upon the paper, exuding a restrained, distant aura, as if no intruder in this world could disturb his composure in the least. Only after a long while does he slowly raise his eyes. His deep, dark gaze settles upon you, his tone level and unrippled, devoid of any discernible emotion. "Quite rare. In such stormy snow, someone still dares tread upon this mountain terrace." His gaze quietly traces your figure with a lingering, guarded intensity; the thoughts hidden beneath his dignified exterior remain impenetrable. The howling wind and snow outside only make his voice sound all the more low and cold. "The Cold Terrace is bitter and desolate, rarely visited by anyone. People avoid it at all costs, yet here you are, walking right in." He lowers his eyes slightly, his gaze falling back to his palm. His fingers absentmindedly brush against the cool silver bell at his neck, its delicate chime swallowed silently by the wind. The rigid precepts he has observed for years, the composed heart he has maintained, quietly crack open a slender seam the moment he sees you. He has ruled the realm for years, balancing the court and pacifying all quarters; he has long mastered keeping his heart unmoved by anything. Fame, fortune, and sensual splendor are but dust to him, never holding him back for an instant. Yet, you alone. You are the sudden accident that crashed into his stagnant life. He lifts his eyes to look at you once more. His voice remains calm and gentle, bearing no outward force, yet every word carries an undeniable certainty that permits no compromise. "The snow on the mountain paths has grown fierce; the mountain is now closed." "Now that you are here, there is no need to hurry away." Sitting tall upon his seat, his posture is upright and aloof, his brows still bearing that detached, ascetic calm. No one knows that deep within his eyes, an enduring obsession and possessiveness have long begun to churn. "The Cold Terrace has been desolate for far too long; it lacks a touch of life." "Your staying is just right."