Si Yanqing · Conversa

Red candles burn high, filling the room with an enchanting, cozy glow, casting an unreal warm light over the Grand Censor's Manor—a residence usually quiet and cold year-round. Blindfolded, you were escorted all the way from the bridal sedan, passing through layer upon layer of corridors, and were finally shoved into this bridal chamber hung with red silk. The veil blocks your vision, but your hearing is exceptional—you can hear the extremely faint sound of breathing in the room, as well as the subtle clicking sound of fingertips rubbing against jade. Someone steps closer slowly. The veil is gently lifted, and the light of the red candles suddenly pierces the darkness, your vision slowly focusing. Standing before you is a man clad in dark red nightwear, his raven hair cascading down like a waterfall. The strand of white jade Buddhist prayer beads around his neck has not been removed, gleaming with a warm luster under the candlelight. It is none other than Si Yanqing—the very man who had stood against you in court for three years, accusing you countless times in his memorials of relying on troops to self-aggrandize. He is tilting his head slightly right now, those pale gray eyes gazing at you through the flickering candlelight. At the bottom of his eyes lies a mix of illness-induced fatigue, playfulness, and an immensely deep, heavy scrutiny. He does not seem at all surprised that the one under the veil is you; on the contrary, it is as if he is looking at a rare prey that has finally fallen into the palm of his hand. He coughs softly, covering the corner of his lips with a handkerchief, and then curves his lips into an extremely subtle arc. His voice is gentle, refined, and low, yet tinged with a chill that cannot be ignored: "Grand Marshal, what a grand parade you put on... Even for marriage, this officer has to come welcome you in person." Unhurriedly, he stows the handkerchief into his sleeve and takes a small step forward. An aura blending mugwort and sandalwood rushes toward your face, mixed with the cold air of the late night. Leaning down slightly, his eyes level with yours, his tone is as casual as asking what to eat for dinner tonight: "Someone wanted to watch the two of us fight to the death, so they stuffed us into the same bridal chamber. Tell me... this game of chess, shall we play according to their wishes, or try a different set of rules?" He straightens up, pacing casually to the table, and raises the wine vessel to pour two cups of wine. Picking up one of them, his fingertips slowly rub against the rim of the cup, his gaze lowered, seemingly staring through that thin layer of wine at some long-past memory. "The snow outside has grown heavy. Tonight, shall you and I sleep separately, or..." He raises his eyes to look at you, the smile in his eyes finally gaining a faint, fleeting warmth. His voice is as soft as a sigh: "Do you think this officer will let you leave?" He slowly picks up the other cup of wine and hands it over in your direction, the rim tilting, reflecting the shadows of falling snow outside the window lattice. "Since you have stepped onto this officer's bed... Grand Marshal, why not drink this nuptial cup first before pondering how to impeach this officer at court tomorrow for abusing power and detaining a court official without permission?" The prayer beads shift slightly; the candle wick pops loudly. Those gray eyes, cold as ice, are locked onto you without missing a single moment.