Yun Xi lay unconscious, but even in sleep her face betrayed unrest—pale, sweat beading on her brow, tears pooling at the corners of her eyes. Qi Rong stared at those tears, his brow knotted into a hard line. He sat at her bedside, gripping her hand as if he could pull her back from whatever haunted her dreams, but she would not wake.
“She was given the tranquilizers—how is she still like this? Did your needles hurt her?” His voice was sharp, accusing.
The old physician, his beard already frosted with age and reputation—famed in Lingchuan as a master of restoring the sick—paused, fingers freezing in midair, sweat dotting his temples.
“Your Highness, the commandery lady’s yang is depleted and cold has crept in. Coupled with long years of worry, her heart spirit has become unsettled. Even with sedatives, the effect is poor.”
“How can we ease her suffering?” Qi Rong’s hand tightened in her hair as he brushed damp strands from her forehead, every movement betraying the pain behind his control.
The physician’s voice was steady and professional. “Her heart condition is obstinate. The pulse is so faint it’s like a drifting thread—this is the consequence of a lifetime of frailty, not something that can be cured overnight. It will take careful, prolonged nourishment of the body. Above all, we must keep her from emotional extremes.”
He hesitated then, his expression folding into discomfort as if unwilling to say more. Qi Rong’s eyes flashed; harshness cut through the chamber air.
“Say it plainly,” he snapped. “No withholding.”
The old man smoothed his whiskers, sighed, and spoke the thing he had been holding back. “She’s but in her teens—yet the heart’s thread is so fragile. If this continues, I fear… beautiful lives often end too soon. She may not have many years left.”
Qi Rong’s face went ashen at that. The cold in his eyes deepened, turning sharp as a blade. Calmness, usually his armor, crumbled inside him—his muscles clenched, his chest aching as if struck.
The physician was momentarily silenced by that look, but duty forced him on. “If you wish her constitution to improve, you must begin strengthening her body now and guard her from sorrow and stress. After that, it will depend on careful, ongoing care—and perhaps fate.”
He finished, withdrew the needles, prescribed a few more medicines, and with his apprentice hoisted his medicine box and left.
Qi Rong remained seated at the bedside, hollow-eyed, his palm gentle on Yun Xi’s cheek. Something like pain flickered across his deep black pupils.
Hong Luo carried the decoction into the room and froze at the sight. Everyone knew Prince Qi to be fierce and merciless—who would have guessed he could look like this? Only the young lady could draw such softness from him.
“The medicine is ready,” she said.
Qi Rong only noticed her when she spoke. He snapped the composure shut as if it were a door and took the bowl from her hands. “You may go. No one is to enter this room without my orders.”
Hong Luo’s fingers trembled. She had been cautious by nature and not given to speaking, but she stepped forward now, swallowing her fear. “Master, please believe me—my lady did not push Miss Wei. I swear on my life. It was Miss Wei’s trap; she meant to drive a wedge between you and our lady.”
Under Qi Rong’s cold gaze Hong Luo bowed her head, the body sheathed in restraint. She understood her place; as a servant, she should not meddle. Yet she’d watched the way the prince and the young lady looked at one another. She could not bear to see it ruined by a plot.
Qi Rong let out a short, humorless laugh—half a smile, half a sneer. “She refuses to explain. Even if I understood, what then? She’s indifferent; she hands everything away without care. If she uses my feelings as a shield to act as she pleases…that would be one thing. I could spoil her until she knew no bounds. But I wanted her to feel for me in return. I kept hoping, only to be disappointed—the distance between us has only widened.”
When Hong Luo left, Qi Rong eased Yun Xi closer against his chest. He tasted the herbal broth first, then fed it to her from his own mouth, spoonful by spoonful, until every drop in the bowl was gone. Holding her slight weight, watching the small, wounded curve of her face, he nudged their noses together and could only smile ruefully.
“You frightened me,” he murmured, the exhale carrying everything: relief, worry, tenderness.
Yun Xi slipped into a deeper sleep at last. Qi Rong stepped from the room. Almost immediately a whistle sounded and a black-clad figure leapt into place before him, dropping to his knees.
“Master, your orders?” the man asked.
Qi Rong considered him for a long moment. “Send word to the capital: pull back the third line and push forward the fifth. Put the Chancellor’s mansion on hold for now—drag the Li family out into the open.”
The man’s face registered surprise and restraint. “Master, we finally have a lead on the tiger tally. To abandon it now would be a great waste.”
“And Yun Cheng’s men are not to be underestimated,” the man continued, urgency quickening his voice. “He has an apprentice who is deadly capable—one who has fingers in the workings of the Three Ministries. If we let this chance pass, we may never find another such opening.”
This was Yang Cheng, head of the Nightshade network, the one who held their web of intelligence. He knew how fragile a plan could be if you shifted threads mid-weave. Abandoning a line would force changes everywhere, costing time and leaving gaps.
Qi Rong had heard him, but his decision was made. “Do as I say.”
His voice left no room for argument. Yang Cheng bowed low to the resolve and, though reluctant, accepted the command.
“Yes, Master.”
They obeyed when he made up his mind—no questions, no delays. The pieces would fall where he intended.