Chapter 1 - The Peachwood Hairpin

Pov: Wei Zhulian 

Some flowers bloom with silence, and wilt before they're ever seen."

They called it a welcome, but it felt like a burial.

Volume 1: The Girl Behind the VeilChapter 1: The Peachwood Hairpin

Pov: Wei Zhulian 

"Some flowers bloom with silence, and wilt before they're ever seen."

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"They called it a welcome, but it felt like a burial"

The sound of drums echoed like distant thunder through the valley of red banners. Lanterns swayed from silk-covered poles, trailing ribbons that bled down like long threads of fate. Beneath the wide-open sky of Yún Cháo, the imperial palace shimmered in moonlight—bright as bone, cold as jade.

Wéi Zhūliàn sat inside the wedding carriage, wrapped in layers of crimson silk. Her fingers, gloved and still, pressed tightly around a single object hidden beneath the folds of her sleeve.

A peachwood hairpin.

Faintly carved. Warm with memory. Its tip was worn, smoothed by time and touch.

It had been a gift, long ago. From a boy whose name she had not spoken in years.

The court had stripped her of everything else—her surname, her books, her swords, her stars—but not this. Not yet.

Outside, the city watched. Commoners bowed along the path, and nobles in gold-trimmed robes murmured behind fans. They whispered her name, but she could no longer hear it clearly. At this moment, she was no longer a daughter of the Iron Lily Clan.

She was His Highness's bride.

A political offering, tied in silk.

Zhūliàn exhaled slowly. The scent of sandalwood smoke drifted through the silk curtains, curling into her lungs like a warning.

The palace gates opened with a great, thunderous groan—like some ancient beast exhaling beneath the weight of ceremony. Lanterns flared. Drums echoed. The path ahead was lined with red petals and whispers.

And down that path walked the new bride.

Wéi Zhūliàn's heart pounded against her ribs, each step louder than the last. Her fingers curled tightly around the peachwood hairpin hidden beneath her sleeve. The one thing she had brought from her past. The one thing she could not let go.

She lifted her chin and forced a smile—graceful, faint, and practiced.

"I hope I'm not being too obvious. But then again… does it matter?"

The thought passed through her mind like a flicker of wind through silk.

As she walked toward the prince, the air around her filled with murmured blessings and the softer rustle of gossip. Courtiers leaned toward one another behind embroidered fans. Servants whispered behind their sleeves.

 Why her?

Why now?

What did the Empress mean by this marriage?

Of course, people loved their gossip more than their prayers.

At the altar, Prince Lǐ Hé Jūn stood waiting, his expression composed but unreadable. His robes were flawless, his stance formal. He gave her a nod, respectful—but distant. His hands remained at his sides. He did not offer one to her.

Still, he bowed low as she approached, and when their eyes met, there was a softness there. Not affection—something gentler. Shared resignation.

He would not hurt her.

But he would not reach for her, either.

And that, somehow, felt like the most honest thing anyone had done since her arrival.

She walked beside him, steps careful, heart absent. The high priest spoke. Blessings were read. Incense lit. The moon hung like a silver eye above them all, unblinking.

There was a rule.

Every newly bound couple, no matter how high or low their status, had to offer formal respect to the Empress—especially if the union had been arranged by her hand.

And this one had.

After the final rites were spoken, Wéi Zhūliàn and Prince Lǐ Hé Jūn were led through the winding corridors of the palace and into the grand Phoenix Hall—a chamber reserved for royal audiences, public declarations, and the Empress's rare appearances.

Zhūliàn had expected a crowd. She had braced for the full court, for hundreds of eyes lined in kohl and silken gossip. But when the great lacquered doors opened, only a few stood inside.

High officials. Matrons of the Twelve Blossoms. One or two noble advisors. No music. No laughter. Just hushed formality and the weight of unseen eyes.

Her steps slowed.

Everything today had unfolded too quickly, too cleanly, too quietly. The wedding had come with almost no warning. No time for ceremony, no time for dreams.

She had been considered too old for marriage by most clans—a faded blossom, as they said. Her family had nearly given up. They had even arranged for her to marry the son of her father's old friend—an ambitious, smiling boy, it was all fake. He was plotting danger for her family 

Zhūliàn had known what that marriage would have meant: a slow erasure of her name, her family, her spirit. A trap behind wine and fan-flutters.

She had hoped, desperately, for an escape. A crack in the painted wall.

And then the proposal came.

The palace. The Empress's decree. A miracle written in red wax. She had been saved from one kind of hell—but now stood at the edge of another.

"This palace may be overwhelming… but it's still safer than the ruin I almost walked into."

Her thoughts drifted as she approached the head of the hall. At the far end, seated behind veils of gauze and golden thread, was the Empress.

She did not speak.

She did not rise.

She simply sat, as still and distant as a figure carved into the moon.

Zhūliàn dropped to her knees in perfect form, bowing low beside her new husband. Her fingers trembled where they brushed the floor. Somewhere behind the veil, the Empress watched her.

And though she could not see her face…

 For some moment, Zhūliàn felt that someone behind that silence already knew her.

It wasn't like Zhūliàn was happy about the marriage either.

Truth be told, she doubted she would've been happy in any marriage. The idea of belonging to someone—of being owned, paraded, placed—had always felt like a quiet kind of drowning. But in her family's eyes, an unmarried daughter past her prime was a curse. A shadow over their name. A stain they were desperate to wash away.

So they married her off. Not with celebration, but with urgency.

Not for love, but for relief.

And somehow, in the strange twist of fate that only stories are made of, she had ended up here—in Yún Cháo. In the imperial court. Under the Empress's command.

She wasn't sure it was a blessing. Not yet.

But at least here, behind high walls and ancient rules, there was the whisper of safety. The illusion of space to breathe. Maybe, after a while… she might even feel free.

They arrived at Phoenix Hall, its towering doors already open in quiet anticipation.

Zhūliàn's feet slowed as she stepped inside. Her heart gave a single, heavy thud.

And then she saw her.

The Empress.

Veiled, distant, seated high upon the throne at the far end of the hall.

Zhūliàn's breath caught in her throat. The red bridal veil covering her own face gave her just enough cover to look—just enough shadow to hide her widened eyes. No one could see where her gaze lingered. But she couldn't look away.

"So it wasn't just a made-up rumor…"

"She… she really keeps herself hidden behind the veil. So that her gaze won't fall on anyone. So that she doesn't ruin the lives of those who meet her eyes."

She'd heard the stories, of course—everyone had. That the Empress's eyes could alter fate. That even a single glance could bring sorrow, sickness, madness. That those blessed by her gaze rarely lived happily after.

But until now, it had all sounded like a myth. Now, standing in this hall of hushed reverence, staring at the woman cloaked in embroidered layers and a veil that shimmered with golden threads… Zhūliàn believed it.

She was dressed in formal imperial robes, far more extravagant than anyone else in the room. Every part of her posture, her stillness, the delicate arrangement of her hands—even the soft angle of her chin beneath the veil—it all radiated power. Not the kind that shouted, but the kind that suffocated. The kind that filled the room until there was no space left to speak.

Zhūliàn couldn't tear her eyes away.

And then—a sting.

Sharp, cold, like a single thread of lightning across her skin. Her breath hitched.

Had the Empress looked at her?

She didn't know. Couldn't be sure. But something inside her twisted, like she'd been caught staring at something forbidden. Her spine straightened. Her gaze dropped immediately.

And then, in practiced unison, she and Prince Hé Jūn stepped forward and bowed low before the throne.

Their voices joined in quiet reverence.

"Long live Her Divine Majesty."

The Empress said nothing.

But her silence was louder than any voice Zhūliàn had ever heard.

A voice broke the silence.

"You may rise."

Cool and clear—like a winter breeze cutting through silk. It wasn't loud, but it carried. Soft, yes. But laced with authority that could bend stone.

They rose in unison.

Zhūliàn kept her eyes low, but her body felt alert—too alert. As if her blood had forgotten how to flow calmly.

Then, to everyone's surprise, the Empress stood.

She descended from the throne with a quiet grace that felt too heavy to watch. Each step was precise, soundless, echoing not with noise but with presence.

She passed by the newly married couple, her embroidered hem trailing behind her like mist. As she passed, she spoke again:

"I wish you both a long-lasting marriage

May the heavens and the Five Divine Deities bless your path."

And just like that, she turned and left.

Not a moment lingered. No glance. No hesitation. Just the rustle of silk and the air she left colder in her wake.

Zhūliàn stood frozen.

Her heart was pounding now—not with joy, not even with fear exactly, but something tangled between the two. The moment the Empress walked past her, it felt like standing in front of a storm that refused to break.

Tall. Elegant. Every movement is deliberate.

And then there were the rumors, replaying in her head like whispers

But for Zhūliàn… it wasn't just the stories that unsettled her.

It was something else.

A feeling.

Something familiar she couldn't name. A presence that brushed against something old in her chest. A memory she couldn't fully reach.

"No… it couldn't be."

Still, as the Empress's footsteps faded, Zhūliàn stood there, rooted in place—veiled, silent, and quietly shaken.

That night, after the vows, the bowing, and the endless wine, Zhūliàn sat alone in the bridal chamber. The walls were too wide. The silence was too heavy. The scent of incense still clung to her sleeves.

Prince Hé Jūn had left not long after the rituals ended. Polite, respectful, silent—just as he had been all evening. A ceremonial marriage, nothing more. No promises. No pretenses.

Zhūliàn didn't mind. She had nothing left to give anyway.

She slipped the red veil from her head and placed it aside. Her hair was slightly undone, but she didn't bother fixing it. She felt tired, A stranger in red silk.

She reached into her sleeve.

Fingers closed around it. That one piece of the past that had followed her here.

The peachwood hairpin.

She pulled it free and held it up in the candlelight, turning it slowly. The carved blossom at the end was worn smooth from years of quiet clinging. Its scent—barely there now—still reminded her of that orchard, of spring wind, of someone who had once smiled at her like she mattered.

The ache crept in quietly, without warning. She brushed her thumb across the wood.

And whispered, "Yù Shào."