In the throne room, golden dragons carved into the pillars leered down like watchful gods. Their silent judgment filled the vast space with something heavier than authority — legacy.
But Emperor Xuanlie didn't feel like a god today.
He felt like a man drowning in names he didn't ask to wear.
As ministers bickered over land reforms and tax collections, he heard none of it. His thoughts wandered back to the diary. The pressed blossom. Her letter.
And Eira.
Not Lady Yan. Not the favored consort.
Just… Eira.
The girl with rebellion in her soul and sadness behind her smile.
The one who had never bowed to power, even when crushed by it.
"Your Majesty?" Minister Du's voice cut through his thoughts.
The Emperor blinked. "Repeat it."
But the chamber had already shifted. Eyes flickered. Whispers crawled.
He didn't care.
For once, he didn't care if the court saw through the mask.
Later, behind locked doors, the Emperor stripped away the outer layers of his robe and sank into the low seat by the window, looking out across the mountains of the East Wing.
There, across the bridge, he could see the faint light of the Phoenix Palace — her palace.
He'd given her everything the court would allow.
But not what she truly wanted.
Not truth. Not memory. Not him.
He remembered the moment their worlds first crossed in dreams — that storm-drenched rooftop in the modern city, the wet hair plastered to her cheeks, her voice broken:
"You never looked back. Not once."
He hadn't.
Until now.
Meanwhile, Eira sat in her private chamber, brush in hand, writing a letter she knew she might never send.
I don't know if I love you, or the part of you that might remember me. Maybe both. Maybe neither.
But I'm afraid… I'm falling again. And I don't know if I'll survive it this time.
— E.L.
The paper trembled slightly as she set the brush down.
Mei, her loyal maid, entered quietly. "Your Grace, there's news from the Cold Palace."
Eira looked up. "Lady Zhen?"
"Yes. They say she tried to take her life. But before she did, she muttered… something strange."
"What was it?"
Mei hesitated. "She said… 'I thought I could change the story. But she's still the one he looks at, even when he forgets her name.'"
A chill swept over Eira.
Still the one he looks at.
Still the one who lingers.
That night, the Emperor broke protocol.
He arrived at the Phoenix Palace in person.
Not announced. Not guarded. Alone.
Eira rose from her seat the moment he entered, startled.
"You—"
"I needed to see you," he said.
Silence fell.
She saw something in his eyes that hadn't been there before — vulnerability. The kind of weight a ruler doesn't dare show.
"I read her diary," he said.
"Whose?"
"The lost Empress. Yan Lanyue."
Her breath caught.
"I think she was like you," he said. "And like me."
She looked at him quietly, eyes wide, not speaking.
"She remembered," he added. "Even when the world called her mad."
Eira finally asked, "And do you remember?"
He stepped closer.
"I remember everything but the reason I forgot."
And then, soft as a promise breaking open, he whispered:
"Kai Ren."
Her knees buckled.
But he caught her.
"I remember the girl who cried in the hallway," he murmured into her hair. "I remember the look you gave me the day I destroyed your confidence. I didn't understand it then. I was cruel because I was afraid."
"And now?"
He pulled back, his hands still on her arms.
"I'm still afraid," he said. "But now… I'm afraid of losing you again."
Tears slipped down her cheeks, silent, fierce.
"You remember."
"I do."
And with nothing between them but the ghost of a thousand missed chances, he touched her cheek and kissed her — softly, reverently — as if to rewrite the ending they never had.
In that moment, the palace disappeared.
The throne. The weight. The bloodlines. The time between them.
There was only Eira and Kai Ren.
And the man beneath the crown.