The palace called her the Emperor's favorite. A woman so beautiful she haunted the minds of all who saw her. But beauty meant little when her heart had turned to frost.
Qingyu never smiled again, not truly. She never allowed the Emperor near her chambers. And though he claimed her, he never truly possessed her. There were nights when madness clutched her — quiet, suffocating grief that would seize her without warning. The Emperor, unwilling to show weakness, ordered his servants to "keep her safe" and quietly withdrew. He had what he wanted — yet nothing he desired.
She became a ghost behind golden walls.
Then came a child — a forgotten boy who wandered into her gardens by accident. The third prince, born to a concubine who had little interest in raising him. Small, with sharp eyes that carried more sorrow than a child should bear.
One day, as Qingyu sat under the plum blossoms, lost in memory, the boy tugged gently at her sleeve.
She looked down — and for a moment, saw a sliver of warmth in the world again.
From that day forward, Lian (the prince who would later be known as Liam) visited her in secret. He would bring her flowers, sit beside her during her silences, and curl up in her lap when her episodes came. She taught him to read, told him stories of when she was free, and in turn, he watched over her — not as a servant, but as someone who understood what it meant to be abandoned.
To Lian, Lady Qingyu was not just another royal wife. She was his only light, the one person who saw him — not as a prince, but as a boy who needed love.
As he grew, so did his devotion to her. In the chaos of the inner court, where ambition poisoned every cup and smile, their bond became a quiet rebellion — two broken hearts surviving in the shadow of the crown.
Lady Qingyu would never love again. But in Lian, she found a reason to keep breathing.