The night was quiet, yet the air thrummed with tension. The wedding procession moved steadily through the mountain path, lanterns swaying from long poles, casting ghostly glows across the darkened road. The sound of horse hooves and the rhythmic creaking of the carriage filled the silence, but inside the red lacquered bridal sedan, Liang Xueya sat motionless, hidden behind layers of silk and gold.
Her hands rested on her lap, fingers lightly curled against the embroidered fabric of her ceremonial robe. The veil over her face obscured the world beyond, but she did not need to see to know that she was crossing the threshold into enemy lands.
This marriage was not a union of love, nor even of convenience. It was a bargain struck between two warring nations—her homeland, weary from battle, offering her as a peace token to the man who had nearly conquered them.
General Han Zhiwei.
A man she had never met. A man with a reputation as ruthless as it was legendary.
Her nation's imperial advisors had spoken of this match as a necessity, an unavoidable fate. Yet, beneath their carefully crafted words, she had sensed their indifference. The family she barely knew had sent her off without hesitation, her brother—the emperor—absent even as she departed. She had never exchanged words with him, never received a letter. Now, she wondered if she ever would.
Would he grieve her if she never returned?
The thought was fleeting. She had no memories of the palace that should have been her home, no recollection of the family who should have embraced her.
A life lost to the past.
Now, all that mattered was the path ahead—one leading to a husband who might be her only ally or her greatest adversary.
She would watch him. And when the time was right, she would decide how to play her role.
A sudden shift in the air snapped her from her thoughts. The horses outside whinnied, a sharp, startled sound. The procession stuttered, voices rising in alarm.
Then—
A shrill whistle.
The unmistakable twang of an arrow slicing through the air.
Chaos erupted. The carriage lurched violently as the guards shouted orders, the clash of steel ringing through the night. The scent of blood and smoke filled the air.
An ambush.
Before she could react, the carriage door was yanked open. A masked figure lunged toward her, blade glinting under the moonlight.
But before the assassin's blade could reach her—
A blur of motion. A flash of steel.
A man stepped between her and death, his sword cutting cleanly through the assassin's throat. The attacker gurgled, collapsing to the ground in a heap.
She met his gaze for the first time, her veil still in place.
Han Zhiwei.
Her husband.
His dark eyes, sharp as a hawk's, bore into her, unreadable beneath the flickering torchlight. His black armor gleamed, still stained with the remnants of old battles. His presence was overwhelming, his aura suffocating.
He did not speak at first, merely observing her as though trying to unravel a puzzle.
Then, his voice, cold and measured: "Are you behind this?"
Not Are you hurt? Not Are you afraid?
But suspicion, first and foremost.
A test. A challenge.
Liang Xueya did not flinch. Instead, she lowered her gaze, hiding the glint of calculation behind lowered lashes.
She would play the role expected of her—until she decided otherwise.
With perfect grace, she whispered, "Would it not be foolish to plot my own death on my wedding night?"
For a brief moment, something flickered in his gaze—interest, perhaps.
Then, with a quiet hum, he turned away. "Stay close," he ordered. "We are not done yet."
And just like that, she was thrust into the fire.
Not just as a bride.
But as a potential enemy.
The cold night air bit at her exposed skin as she stepped from the carriage, the hem of her embroidered robes brushing against the dirt-streaked ground. The battlefield scent of blood and steel clung to the air, the flickering torches revealing the lifeless bodies of assassins sprawled across the road.
He stood at the center of it all, his sword gleaming under the moonlight, unmarred by the battle's carnage. His expression remained unreadable, but the rigid line of his shoulders and the way his fingers flexed against the hilt of his blade spoke of simmering tension.
He does not trust me.
It was to be expected. This marriage was forged in war, and though she had entered his domain as a bride, she would be viewed as nothing more than an enemy wrapped in silk.
His men moved efficiently, checking for survivors among the fallen assassins. A guard approached the general, bowing slightly before speaking. "General, no insignia or identifying marks. Whoever sent them did not want them traced."
He exhaled through his nose, a sharp, controlled breath. His gaze flicked back to her, scrutinizing, measuring.
"You claim this was not your doing," he said, his voice calm, yet carrying an edge that could slice through flesh as easily as his blade. "Then tell me, Princess, who would want you dead?"
It was a fair question, but not one she had an answer to.
Or at least, not one she could give.
She was not certain who had orchestrated the attack—her memory was still a fractured puzzle, pieces lost in the shadows of her mind. She did not even know if she had once held knowledge worth killing for.
But she could not afford to look weak.
Lifting her chin slightly, she met his gaze through her veil. "Would it not be more beneficial for me to be alive, General?" she said smoothly. "If my people wished for my death, they would not have sent me to you at all. And if your enemies wanted me gone, then I suggest you consider what that means for you."
A flicker of something unreadable passed through his gaze—approval? Annoyance? It was impossible to tell.
But he did not press further.
Instead, he turned to his guards. "Clear the bodies. We move out immediately."
The soldiers moved without hesitation, gathering their fallen enemies with practiced efficiency. He gestured toward her carriage, but this time, he did not simply let her retreat into its confines.
"You will ride with me."
A command, not a request.
Mei, her maidservant, stiffened beside her. "But, General, the princess—"
"She's no longer a princess," He cut in coldly. "She is my wife. She will ride with me."
A chill coiled around Xueya's spine—not from fear, but from the weight of his words.
She is my wife.
A title, a claim, a reminder.
She had stepped into his world, and he intended to keep her within his reach.
Silently, she accepted his hand as he helped her onto his horse, settling in front of him. His presence was overwhelming, the warmth of his body a stark contrast to the cold steel of his armor. She kept her back straight, refusing to lean into him, even as the horse beneath them shifted.
His voice was quiet, just above her ear. "Do not mistake this for trust, Princess."
A small smile ghosted across her lips, hidden beneath her veil. "I would not be foolish enough to assume that, General."
And so, they rode into the night, a husband and wife bound by war, suspicion, and the ever-present weight of fate.