Chapter 1: Returning to the Capital

A flurry of hoofbeats echoed along the official road leading from the northwest to the capital. Atop a white steed, Sang Hongyun’s eyes blazed with fury, her heart aching with the desperate wish for wings to fly home. The news of her grandfather’s sudden death had taken a month to travel from the capital to the northwestern camp. Never had Sang Hongyun imagined that in just half a year’s absence, her family would be struck by such calamity.

Behind her, four female soldiers followed in utter silence, unwavering in their loyalty. They switched horses but never riders, racing through the nights. Bloodshot lines webbed Sang Hongyun’s eyes, and her legs, swollen and raw, could no longer bear her weight. Blood had seeped through the fabric, dried and clotted, each movement stabbing her with excruciating pain.

The imperial decree and a secret letter from home arrived together. Her father clutched the pages, weeping with inconsolable grief. Though a woman, Sang Hongyun held the rank of Sixth-grade Attendant Commander in her father’s army—a modest position, yet beloved by all. That night, the Commandant of Shaanxi and her father, Sang Zhongyang, secluded themselves in the study with her, meticulously discussing the family’s future. Though the imperial edict allowed Sang Zhongyang to return home for mourning, the state of affairs in the capital was dire. In the end, they decided Sang Hongyun would return in his stead to preside over the funeral rites and observe three years of filial mourning, departing for the capital at once.

Along the journey, countless rumors reached her ears. The court’s tides shifted swiftly—her grandfather, once the pillar of the Sang family and Commandant of Shaanxi, was said to have offended the Emperor and been forced to kneel at the palace gates for an entire day. The crown prince’s title had passed to the Third Prince. The turmoil of the court had ensnared her grandfather—someone was wielding a hidden blade. Who could it be?

She would find them—she swore it.

Though her body rode onward, Sang Hongyun’s heart churned like a storm-tossed sea. As the capital’s walls loomed ahead, a wave of trepidation seized her. She reined in her horse, slowing her pace.

One of her attendants, sharp-eyed, spotted a carriage moving slowly three hundred meters ahead, blocking their path. “Miss, look! Someone is barring the road!”

Sang Hongyun looked up. In the golden light of dawn, the carriage doors swung open, revealing a figure within—a man clad in a moon-white, silk-embroidered robe, immaculate and unwrinkled. His strikingly handsome face seemed to outshine the sun and moon, yet it was eerily calm. He took in Sang Hongyun’s cracked lips, chapped by wind and exhaustion, and the dirt that masked her once-radiant features. Zhao Liran’s eyes flickered with a subtle emotion.

Sang Hongyun slowed her horse, halting within an arrow’s flight of the carriage.

“Prince Li?” she called.

Zhao Liran replied, “Why not dismount and have some tea before you go on?”

She pressed her lips together, eyeing Zhao Liran, then glanced at his legs. “Prince Li, you’re in high spirits. In the northwest, our people are hardy, and the Tatar raiders are fierce. It’s been five years since you left the frontier. Are your legs healed?”

Zhao Liran shook his head. “Not healed—yet I still live.”

She glanced at the sky. “It’s getting late. My family waits for me. I’ll take tea with you another day. Take care, Your Highness.”

With that, she gathered her reins, preparing to ride past.

But Zhao Liran’s carriage moved forward, blocking her path once more.

Her brows drew tight, her voice cold. “Prince Li, what is the meaning of this? Are you truly trying to bar my way? Surely you know that my grandfather is gone, and all my family, young and old, await me to preside over the funeral!”

Zhao Liran’s gaze dimmed, then he looked up. “Hongyun, must you be so harsh? I only do this for your sake.”

“For my sake?” she laughed bitterly. “For my sake, yet you could not save my grandfather’s life! If not for the Sang family’s protection back then, would you even be alive today? You say you do this for me—what secret schemes do you plot, what truths do you hide?”

Zhao Liran’s body trembled; he looked up sharply. “Yes, I am powerless. When disaster struck your family, I was not in the capital. By the time I returned, all was settled.”

A guard behind him moved as if to urge his horse forward, but Zhao Liran held him back with a single glance.

“Step aside,” Sang Hongyun commanded. “Your words mean nothing to me. If not you, there are others. I am not alone, and you needn’t worry—my family will not fall. I, Sang Hongyun, will see justice done for my grandfather!”

Yes, there were others—someone she had cherished in her heart for two years. Where was he now? Was he aware of her family’s misfortune, was he striving on their behalf? At this thought, the tightness in her chest softened just a little.

She touched the keepsake hidden in her breast, turned to Zhao Liran, and smiled icily. “Tell your men to move aside.”

“How dare you!” one of his guards blurted.

She sneered. “And what of it?”

To Zhao Liran, she seemed a rose with thorns, her proud stance growing ever larger in his sight—cool and fierce as ever, just as she had been on the battlefield, dashing through arrow-storms to shield him with her own small body.

Sang Hongyun was indeed a rose with thorns.

“Let her pass,” Zhao Liran ordered.

Sang Hongyun curled her lips in a half-smile, then spurred her horse, speeding past him. Five riders vanished in a storm of dust.

Watching her recede, Zhao Liran murmured, “She will not relent until she’s faced the coffin herself—so be it.”

A guard beside him whispered, “Prince, she saved your life. How can your heart bear to treat her so?”

Zhao Liran narrowed his eyes. “What if I cannot bear it?”

The guard fell silent.

At the city gate, the soldiers saw Sang Hongyun brandish her token. Without dismounting, she swept through the gates—the guards stared in astonishment. “The Sang family has returned?”

The news spread—“The Sang family has returned!” Faces turned, and astonishment rippled through the crowd.

Sang Hongyun rode straight for the family estate, but suddenly a flash of red filled her vision, and the shrill notes of horns and drums clashed in her ears.

She slowed her horse, coming to a halt in the middle of the road.

And there, as if plucked from a dream, was he—dressed in bright red wedding robes, a dazzling scarlet flower pinned to his chest.

Behind her, her four attendants gasped, “Miss!”

Sang Hongyun’s heart clenched violently.

It was him.

An Zichen’s face bore the smug delight of spring, his eyes often straying back to the soft sedan chair behind him. Within sat Yu Lirong, the prime minister’s legitimate daughter.

Having finally won his beauty, seeing his prize so near at hand, An Zichen could not suppress a pleased chuckle. His smile dazzled the bystanders—here was the Emperor’s favorite, now marrying the prime minister’s daughter, ascending to the heights of power. He was the envy of all.

Suddenly, the jubilant music stopped. An Zichen frowned. “What’s going on?”

Sang Hongyun forced down her grief and rode forward.

An Zichen’s face went pale, his gaze flitting with nervousness. “Hongyun? Is it you?”

Sang Hongyun drew a deep breath to steady herself and spoke calmly, “Young Master An, whose bride are you fetching today?”

He hesitated, a trace of pleading in his eyes. “Hongyun, I had no choice!”

“No choice? An Zichen, tell me—what does ‘no choice’ mean?”

His eyes dimmed. “I’ve already been to your estate. I… I’ve sent another betrothal gift. You will be my equal wife, as will Lirong. I’ve arranged everything.”

Sang Hongyun regarded him, then suddenly laughed—a radiant smile, bright as starlight, that struck An Zichen’s heart. Though she was haggard, her beauty still softened him; though she was furious, she was still the one he longed for.

But as Sang Hongyun read the affection in his eyes, she felt only revulsion.

She said, “An Zichen, you were betrothed to me first. Now you attempt to change our agreement in secret—how clever you are. All along the way, I heard how fortune smiles upon you, how the Emperor and Crown Prince favor you, while the Sang family is left in ruin. You have truly planned well!”

An Zichen’s face fell. “Hongyun, you’ve just returned. I won’t argue with you now. Once today is over, I’ll come to your house and discuss it.”

At these words, a chill glinted in Sang Hongyun’s eyes. She drew a stack of letters from her breast. “To hell with your equal wife, to hell with you, An Zichen. Today I tell you this: this insult will not go unavenged. I, Sang Hongyun, have clawed my way through death itself—I do not fear being made a secondary wife or concubine. But from this day forth, you and I are strangers. If we meet, we do not greet; if we greet, we are enemies! Remember this: from now on, there is no kinship between the Sang and An families. Even if blood must flow, I will not relent! Go!”

With a single stroke, she slashed the stack of letters to shreds before him.

An Zichen stood stunned.

The Sang family’s patriarch was dead. With no leader left, shouldn’t Sang Hongyun have been grateful to become his equal wife? Why was she still so fierce and unyielding? Could the Sang family’s fortunes not yet be at an end?

He stared blankly after her as someone beside him urged, “Young master, the hour is late.”

An Zichen’s heart burned with resentment. Without Sang Hongyun, what was Yu Lirong worth?

Seated in her sedan, Yu Lirong’s heart fluttered with excitement. Overhearing every word, she realized Sang Hongyun had dismissed the notion of being an equal wife. Did she dream of becoming the principal wife? Now that Sang Cheng was dead, the Sang family was scattered and weak—who would care for them? Military families were nothing but foolish brutes, unfit for courtly favor. Had she not been so capable, would her father have married her into the An family? Though only an equal wife, she could not help but savor the thought of An Zichen’s striking good looks. Now, with Sang Hongyun out of the way, she would be the true lady of the house. If anyone dared call her a secondary wife, she would see them ruined. A trace of malice crossed her face.

Sang Hongyun rode past the sea of red, sparing a glance at the glaringly bright sedan. Out of sight at last, blood welled up in her throat and spilled from her lips. Her four attendants cried out, “Miss, what’s wrong?”

She glanced at the crimson bloom spreading on her chest. “Home. Now.”