That night, Qingsai stood alone on a palace balcony overlooking the city. The moons shimmered overhead. The wind carried the scent of lilac and incense.
Soft footsteps approached.
Lianhua.
She wore a soft white gown that trailed behind her like moonlight. Her face was kind, yet shy—her voice gentle.
"I hope… I wasn't an unwanted bride," she said, her gaze on the stars.
Qingsai turned to her slowly. "You weren't."
"I don't want to be used," she whispered. "But I also don't want to run. I want to… walk beside you. If you'll let me."
He looked into her eyes—eyes that, unlike the court, carried no ambition. No chains. Only quiet hope.
"You remind me of still water," Qingsai said softly. "Not cold… just calm."
She smiled. It made the air warmer.
Later, alone in his chambers, Qingsai whispered to himself:
> "If they think this binds me… they've forgotten what it means to be flame."
And somewhere, far in the Veil's dark heart, a new threat stirred. One that remembered his past lives—and hated them all.