The Heart That Heals, The Hands That Hold

Days had passed since the resounding end of the Zhengqing Dazheng, yet its echo still lingered through the winding halls of the palace like the final notes of a song too beautiful to forget.

Han Suyin's name had become more than just a whisper—it was now a presence.

Wherever she walked, courtiers lowered their voices and looked on with veiled admiration. Servants and maidens bowed so swiftly that their hair ornaments clinked like wind chimes in a spring breeze. It wasn't just respect—it was reverence, tinged with a quiet awe. Some said it was fear—fear that to offend her was to invite the wrath of the one man the palace feared even more.

Qin Fuhua.

Together, they were spoken of with wonder, like a legend already being told:

A match made in heaven, they called them.

The scholar healer and the iron prince.

Fire and still water. War and peace.

And behind their quiet smiles and half-hearted bows, many wondered how love—so unexpected and unspoken—had bloomed in a place of formality and political artifice.

As for Zheng An, the once-radiant star of the Zheng Clan, her exit was as silent as her defeat.

She had paid her final respects to the Emperor and Empress, her voice composed, her posture perfect. But she left with no farewell to the court, no parting smile, not even a final glance to the man she once thought she could win. Her retinue departed at dawn, the scarlet of her traveling robes hidden beneath layers of veils. Some said she wept. Others claimed she did not shed a single tear.

But what remained undeniable was that she had returned home not in honor, but in shame.

And in the days that followed, Suyin did not bask in her new position, nor revel in her rising favor. Instead, her thoughts turned elsewhere—to Princess Chuhua.

As soon as morning light filtered through the lattice windows, Suyin hurried through the palace courtyards, the soft rustle of her robes brushing against the stone path. Her feet barely paused, weaving through the servants who greeted her with bowed heads and hushed greetings. But Suyin offered only a nod in return, her mind fixed on a single destination.

Princess Chuhua's courtyard.

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The news of the princess's declining health had settled heavily on Suyin's heart in the days following the ceremony. Though she had managed to temporarily ease Chuhua's pain before, she knew it was not enough. The illness lingered like a shadow behind silk—a quiet enemy waiting to strike again.

The sun had dipped low in the sky, casting long golden fingers through the palace eaves. In the garden just beyond Princess Chuhua's courtyard, the stillness was sacred.

A stone path curved beneath weeping willows and flowering shrubs, their petals drooping gently in the late afternoon light. A small pond reflected the slow drift of clouds, and the wind carried the faint scent of osmanthus and plum.

Suyin sat alone beneath a twisted persimmon tree, her sleeves drawn up to her elbows as she rinsed out the porcelain bowl she'd used to mix medicine. A small satchel of herbs rested beside her, leaves bundled neatly in cloth.

Her hands moved with practiced ease, but her eyes were far away—still lingering on Chuhua's pale face, still replaying the fragile smile the princess had given her before falling back into sleep. Suyin had eased her pain, yes, but she could not quiet the storm of uncertainty that loomed just out of reach.

A soft rustle in the gravel behind her drew her attention.

She turned.

Qin Fuhua stood there, half-shadowed beneath the branches, dressed not in ceremonial robes, but something simpler—still princely, yet stripped of pretense. His dark hair, loosely tied, shimmered in the fading light.

He said nothing at first, only took a few steps forward until he was close enough to see the quiet strain in her eyes.

Suyin blinked, startled.

"You're here," she breathed.

"I said I'd be near," he replied, his voice low, steady.

She turned her attention back to the bowl, dipping it once more into the basin beside her.

"She's sleeping now," Suyin murmured. "But it's getting worse. I can manage the pain, but… I can't stop the rest. Not yet."

Qin Fuhua crouched beside her then, not caring for the dust that clung to the hem of his robes.

"She's lucky to have you," he said softly. "You're the only one she asks for when the pain returns."

Suyin's hands stilled in the water. She didn't look up.

"I just wish I could do more."

There was a beat of silence.

Then, without a word, Qin Fuhua reached out, brushing aside a strand of hair that had fallen loose from her pin. His fingers were warm, gentle—lingering a little longer than necessary.

"You already do more than anyone else would dare."

She looked up at him then, truly looked.

The walls between them—the ones made of title, tradition, and unspoken burdens—felt thinner here, in this quiet garden where only the leaves could overhear.

A smile ghosted her lips.

"You came all the way here for that?"

His eyes glinted, just slightly.

"No. I came to see you."

Her breath caught, though she tried to hide it. The wind tugged at the edge of her sleeve like a curious child.

"Then stay," she said, almost shyly.

"Just for a while."

Qin Fuhua nodded, settling beside her beneath the persimmon tree. No more words were needed.

The hush between them stretched, broken only by the gentle whisper of leaves rustling in the breeze and the distant chirp of cicadas settling in the dusk.

Then Qin Fuhua spoke, his voice low and measured, as though he had been turning the words over in his heart for some time.

"The Emperor spoke to me. About the ceremony."

Suyin turned toward him, her brow furrowing gently.

"You mean… the Zhengqing Dazheng ceremony?" she asked, tilting her head. Her fingers paused mid-motion over the crushed herbs beside her. Was the Emperor curious about the customs of the Zheng Clan? Or perhaps the political ramifications of her unexpected victory?

But Qin Fuhua shook his head.

"No. Our ceremony. Our official wedding."

The world seemed to still at his words.

The sky, now dipped in gold and lavender, seemed to blur at the edges as her breath caught. She turned to him fully—and for the first time, truly saw the emotion that had always lingered quietly beneath his guarded composure.

His eyes met hers, and in them, she saw everything.

Longing.

Devotion.

Sincerity.

That rare, quiet vulnerability he revealed only to her.

Suyin's lips parted, her voice faltering as her heart twisted in her chest.

"I…" She looked down, her hands retreating to the pestle and mortar beside her, her fingers moving just to keep them from trembling. "I want to marry you, but… your sister's health is declining."

Her voice grew smaller as she spoke, as though she was trying to hide inside her own reason.

"I can't be selfish. Not while she's suffering like this."

She returned to grinding the medicine again, though her movements were uneven now, the rhythm broken by emotion.

But Qin Fuhua reached out—his fingers gentle as they lifted her chin.

She stilled.

Her eyes met his once more, wide and vulnerable, reflecting the weight of everything she hadn't said aloud.

His thumb brushed softly against her cheek.

"I know," he said quietly.

"I knew you'd say that."

And then his voice, though steady, carried the depth of his decision:

"That's why I told the Emperor I would set the wedding date myself—

once I find a way to cure my sister."

His words held no hesitation. Only promise.

Not hope for a fleeting future. But a vow—one grounded in love for both women in his life.

Suyin's chest tightened, a knot of gratitude and love blooming like spring within her.

For a moment, she forgot to breathe.

And then, almost inaudibly, she whispered:

"You always say the exact thing I need to hear."

Qin Fuhua gave her a small smile—tired, but warm.

"That's because I know your heart."

Qin Fuhua's hand remained at her chin, his touch gentle, reverent—as though she were something fragile, precious, something he dared not hold too tightly in fear she might vanish into the breeze.

Suyin's gaze softened, her lashes trembling as she looked into the eyes that once seemed so distant, so unreadable—and yet now, they held no mask, no cold restraint.

Only her.

Only them.

For all the silence between them, for all the words left unsaid over the seasons they had crossed, this moment had always waited—quiet and patient, blooming like a flower after a long winter.

Suyin didn't move away. She couldn't.

His hand slid from her chin to the curve of her cheek, his thumb brushing lightly across her skin, and she leaned into him—just slightly, just enough to close the distance.

Qin Fuhua dipped his head, slow and deliberate, giving her every chance to pull away.

But she didn't.

She tilted her face toward him, lips parting in a breath she didn't realize she was holding.

And when he kissed her, it was not hurried, not fiery or desperate—but warm and achingly tender, like a prayer spoken against her mouth.

His lips pressed softly to hers, gentle at first—testing, holding, savoring.

The world around them disappeared.

No palace.

No titles.

No thrones or court politics or tradition.

Just him.

Just her.

Just the kiss they'd both waited far too long to share.

When they finally pulled apart, their foreheads rested together, their breaths mingling in the still evening air.

Suyin's voice was barely a whisper.

"You're going to make me fall even more in love with you."

Qin Fuhua smiled faintly, the rare softness in his eyes now completely unguarded.

"Then let me give you every reason to."

And as the garden watched in quiet bloom, beneath fading light and wind-kissed leaves, they sat beneath the persimmon tree—no longer bound by silence, but by something far deeper.

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The flickering lanterns cast a warm, wavering light across the room, but nothing could soften the sight that greeted Han Suyin.

Princess Chuhua lay on the bed like a fallen blossom—fragile and pale, her breathing shallow, her hands cold despite the layers of silk that covered her. Though Suyin had been tending to her daily, it was clear now—the pain had deepened. Beneath her composure, her body trembled ever so slightly with each breath, as though even drawing air had become a labor.

Suyin knelt by the bedside, her brows drawn together in quiet worry as she measured a new dose into a porcelain bowl. This one was stronger—much stronger than before. The bitter scent of crushed roots and dried petals hung heavy in the air, mingling with the faint perfume of peonies wilting in a vase by the window.

She didn't like this.

For someone of Chuhua's delicate size, the risk of side effects from such a potent blend weighed on her like a stone in her chest. But there was no other choice—not if she wanted to ease her suffering.

Qin Fuhua stood beside her, silent but present, his arms crossed as he watched his sister with dark, unreadable eyes. His jaw was tight, a storm held behind stoic calm.

Suyin raised the bowl to Chuhua's lips and held her gently as the princess drank. Her hands were trembling. The liquid was warm, laced with bitter notes that would have made anyone else wince. Chuhua, however, swallowed weakly, her face barely flinching—too used to pain to react anymore.

When it was done, Suyin looked back at Qin Fuhua.

He gave a small nod. Their eyes met—no words spoken—but the message was clear:

It was time.

They had done all they could here, but this was only a temporary comfort. The true cure, the only hope for Chuhua's survival, lay far beyond the palace walls.

The 100-year-old Hong Teng.

A rare medicinal root said to bloom only once a century beneath the veil of mist and stone. Legend called it a "root of rebirth"—capable of drawing sickness from the bones and restoring even the most withered spirit.

Sought after by emperors, stolen for war, lost in myth.

But they knew where it was.

Suyin and Qin Fuhua held the key. All that remained now was to reach it and unlock the entrance.

Suyin looked once more at Chuhua, brushing a damp strand of hair from her forehead.

"Stay strong," she whispered. "We'll be back soon."

As she stood, Qin Fuhua offered his hand, steady and certain.

"We leave by morning."

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