"Wan'er?"Yuan Zhen's voice was soft, but heavy with unease. The left side of the bed was cold.The scent of early dawn lingered in the chamber — and she was gone.
He found her in the nursery, her back turned, carefully tucking little Kun into the crib. The twins were quiet, their tiny breaths even. The sight should have brought him peace. Instead, an inexplicable chill ran down his spine.
"Why?" he asked quietly, almost pleading. "Why do you leave bed so early?"
Wan'er looked up at him with a gentle smile. "They were awake," she said softly, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. "I wanted to sing them back to sleep."
Her eyes were bright — too bright, like glass catching the last of the dawn.When Yuan Zhen saw her smiling, his worry melted for a moment. He rushed forward, wrapping his arms around her.
"Wan'er…" His embrace was fierce, desperate in its tenderness. "Don't run off like that. You scared me."
She stiffened. Pain flashed across her face — brief, but sharp. She bit her lip and quickly hid it, resting her chin on his shoulder. "You're being dramatic," she said lightly. "I'm fine."
But when he leaned close, his expression changed.
"…Wan'er." His brows furrowed. "Why do I smell blood?"
Her smile froze. Then she forced a laugh, waving him off."Hahah — well, I am bleeding, but not because I'm hurt." She gave him a mock glare, feigning embarrassment. "You don't need to look at me like that — it's just… my period."
Yuan Zhen froze mid-breath, his face turning red almost instantly."I—I see," he stammered, quickly stepping back. "Then, I'll… I'll let you rest."
Wan'er laughed again, pushing him toward the door. "Yes, yes. Go handle your imperial matters. You're not needed here, Your Majesty."
He smiled at her — the kind of soft, helpless smile only he had for her — and left.
The moment the door closed, the laughter died.
Wan'er's knees gave out, and she fell to the floor, clutching her abdomen. Her breath came in shallow bursts.The sweet scent of plum blossoms drifted through the open window, but beneath it — faint, sickly — was the smell of blood and poison.
"Please…" she whispered, voice trembling. "Just let me hold on… for a bit longer."
Her mind drifted back — to that night under the moonlight, when she struck Jun Xiang's cultivation and ended it all. She'd thought that was the end.But fate had other plans.
After sealing Jun Xiang's qi, Wan'er had tried to flee the palace before dawn.And there — at the courtyard gate — stood a face she never wanted to see again.
Her brother. Lian Wei.
"Wan'er." His voice had been cold, his bow drawn. "You've disgraced our clan long enough."
She didn't want to fight. But he didn't give her a choice.
They clashed under the full moon, blades sparking, words unsaid cutting deeper than any sword.Wan'er's strength was waning, but her heart refused to yield.When she finally turned to escape, she thought she had won — until pain blossomed across her back.
An arrow.
It pierced her artery clean through — a faint shimmer of purple glinting on its tip.
"Poison…" she gasped, stumbling into the woods. "Brother… why?"
He didn't chase her. He didn't have to.That single arrow had already sealed her fate.
Back in the present, Wan'er walked the palace gardens with her twins in her arms. The sky was painted with a red-orange glow — sunset, warm and cruelly beautiful.
She smiled faintly as the boys laughed, reaching for falling plum petals.They were her whole world — soft, chubby, innocent.And they would never remember her like this.
Her steps grew unsteady. No one noticed the pallor in her face.No one saw the tremor in her hands.
"If only I knew…" she whispered, tears slipping down her cheeks. "If I knew this would happen, I would have never gone back. Revenge… isn't worth the faces I'll never see grow up."
The twins tugged at her sleeves, giggling.Wan'er knelt beneath the blooming plum tree, smiling through the tears. "Mama's just tired," she whispered. "Just a little tired…"
That was when Yuan Zhen appeared — his robes slightly disheveled, his eyes filled with worry.
"Wan'er! Why are you so pale?" he demanded, rushing forward.His voice startled the twins, who began to cry.
He knelt beside her, catching her as her body sagged against him.Her lips curved into a sad, trembling smile.
"Zhen…" she murmured. "You… found me."
He pressed his hand to her cheek — already losing its warmth. "No. No, no, no… stay with me. Wan'er, look at me!"
Her vision blurred. The sky turned to watercolor. The world faded.But she could still hear his voice, raw and breaking —"Don't leave me!"
For the first time in his life, the Emperor of Yuan wept.Even when his family was slaughtered, he had stood tall. But now — with her slipping away in his arms — his tears fell without restraint.
Wan'er smiled faintly, her last strength fading."I'm tired," she whispered. "So… until we meet again."
And then — silence.
The funeral was held beneath the same plum tree.The blossoms had fallen early that year — pale petals covering the earth like snow.
Fang Lian, her old mentor, bowed deeply before her coffin. "Rest well, my daughter," she said softly. "We will meet again… in the afterlife."
Yuxi fainted when she heard the news. The palace mourned for seven days.Even the courtiers who once envied her wept in secret.
Yuan Zhen said nothing for a long time.But when night fell, he sat before the empty crib and found the letter she left — one for him, and one for each child.
He didn't open his yet.He just held it to his chest, trembling.
"You promised to stay," he whispered."You liar."
Outside, the plum blossoms fell quietly — one by one — as if the heavens themselves were grieving.
The palace was too quiet.For an empire that once trembled at his command, it now held only the sound of wind sweeping through empty corridors — and the faint, restless cry of two motherless children.
Yuan Zhen sat alone in her chamber.
Wan'er's hairpin still lay on the dressing table.Her perfume still lingered on the pillow.And beside the window, where she used to hum lullabies, the plum petals had gathered like a soft white shroud.
He didn't know how long he'd been sitting there, staring at the sealed letter in his hands.The paper was delicate — faintly scented with plum blossom and medicine.The handwriting across the front read only two words:
"To My Foolish Emperor."
He almost laughed. It was exactly what she would call him.
But when he finally broke the seal, the tremor in his hands betrayed him.Her words were written in her usual, graceful strokes — but a few letters had bled where the ink met her tears.
My dearest Yuan Zhen,
If you are reading this, it means I have gone ahead first.
You must not scold yourself. You must not blame anyone. I chose this path — foolishly, perhaps, but it was my choice. You always said I was too stubborn to live quietly, and you were right.
You once asked me what I feared most. I never answered you then, but now I will: I feared dying without ever knowing what happiness felt like.
But I did know it, Zhen. I knew it every time you laughed, every time you looked at me as if I were the only thing that mattered. For someone like me — born into duty, used to sacrifice — that was enough.
The letter blurred before his eyes.He pressed the page to his forehead, biting down hard until his jaw ached.Her voice felt so close it hurt.
The candle beside him flickered, and he continued to read.
I can already imagine your expression now — cold, angry, pretending not to care while your hands tremble. Don't lie to me, Zhen. You always tremble when you cry.
If I could ask for one last selfish thing, it would be this: don't shut the world away because of me. Don't build a tomb of silence around our children. Let them run, laugh, break things, get scolded, fall in love. Don't let them become like us — trapped by crown and name.
Tell them their mother was clumsy and stubborn. Tell them she burned soup three times in a row and made their father taste it anyway. Tell them I loved them before they even opened their eyes.
And if they ever ask why I left… tell them it's because I had something to protect — even if it cost me everything.
By now his tears had fallen onto the parchment, smearing the ink.He didn't bother wiping them away.
He rose slowly, clutching the letter, and walked toward the nursery.The twins were asleep — their tiny fists curled, their breathing soft.He knelt beside them and placed the letter at the edge of the crib, beside the small plum carving Wan'er used to hang above their heads.
"Your mother," he whispered, his voice shaking, "was the bravest person I've ever known."
The candlelight trembled as if in response.He stayed there until dawn, whispering her name between breaths — until the first morning bell broke the silence of the palace.
Postscript – From Wan'er
If the plum tree blooms again, promise me you'll take them there. Let them see the petals fall. Tell them their mother once sat there waiting for the man who never stopped chasing after her.
I will be waiting there still — in every petal that falls, in every spring that returns.
— Wan'er
When he finished reading, Yuan Zhen folded the letter and pressed it against his heart.Outside, the first morning breeze passed through the gardens, carrying with it the scent of plum blossoms — faint, pure, and eternal.
He closed his eyes.
"Until the plum tree blooms again," he whispered."And until we meet, Wan'er."