Each of the four dead cultivators bore the same mark—Wang family seal, burned clean into their inner wrist beneath the edge of their robes. One would've been suspicious. Two, coincidence. But four? That was a message and it was enough.
With the evidence from Yuling's father already in hand and now an assassination attempt laced with direct connection to the Queen's clan, the court didn't just stir—it fractured.
The rumors spread faster than even I expected, and this time, Wei Wuxian didn't bother holding back. He didn't start the rumors, but he definitely tossed in colorful details whenever they needed "clarity."
By sundown, there were at least a dozen dramatic retellings of the fight. In one version, Shen Kexian threw me into the air like a divine spear while I summoned a wall of water mid-flight. In another, I rode a tidal wave like a war goddess reincarnated, glowing so brightly that Lan Wangji went temporarily blind and played a battle song guided purely by spiritual instinct.
My personal favorite? Ming Yu fought with such supernatural precision that he sliced an enemy's shadow off the ground. Not the enemy—their shadow. And because he stood so still between movements, apparently a bird tried to perch on his shoulder mid-fight.
At some point, even I wanted to know what happened, because it sure sounded way more thrilling than my actual, near-death monkey-clinging experience. But the truth didn't really matter now. The rumors were alive. The people were watching. And the Wang family? They had nowhere left to hide.
The investigation moved quickly.
With four corpses bearing the Wang family seal, a failed assassination, and a public still buzzing from divine battle rumors, the court had no choice but to act. The interrogation chamber doors opened, and the names followed: Wang officials, palace guards, one steward from the Queen's wing—all handpicked by the family. Enough evidence. Enough motive. The trial had to happen.
But not the Queen. Not Wang Yufei. The ones sitting in the prisoners' row were all men—brothers, uncles, cousins, the lesser heads of the house. In the middle of them, seated straight-backed with a look that could cut marble, was Minister Wang himself.
He didn't deny it.
When asked who had poisoned Queen Wei, he bowed his head and answered with a voice that didn't tremble, "It was me."
The room was silent.
I stood just off to the side of the main court floor, not in the center but not far enough to miss a single word. The King sat on the dais, flanked by his inner circle—Wei Wuxian in ceremonial robes, unreadable; Lan Wangji still as stone; Shen Kexian leaned just slightly forward, the picture of polite tension. Ming Yu was beside me, his eyes sharper than usual.
I watched the minister take the blame. I watched the court murmur, the scribes scrawl, the officials whisper behind their sleeves.
The court was divided.
You could feel it in the silence between testimonies, in the way ministers shifted in their seats, side-eyes thrown like daggers across the chamber. Some of the neutrals we'd spoken to—quiet men with old robes and older reputations—stood firm. They called the assassination attempt on Wei Wuxian unforgivable, citing the seal found on the attackers and the undeniable risk to the royal line. Their voices were calm, but sharp with conviction.
The other side—the loyalists to the Wang family—pushed back just as hard. They spoke of loyalty, of legacy. They reminded the court, again and again, how the Wang family had served the throne for generations. How they'd held Luyang together during war, famine, succession crises. One minister even declared, loud enough to echo, that without the Wangs, the kingdom would've been "swallowed whole by barbarians two dynasties ago."
It was history versus fear. Legacy versus outrage. And in the end, none of it mattered. Because this wasn't a debate.
It was the King's decision.
Every eye—mine included—turned toward him, waiting to see what he would protect: tradition… or his son.
He stood slowly, the weight of the throne on his shoulders and a storm in his eyes and when he spoke, his voice carried—not loud, but final.
"For treason. For attempted assassination. For endangering the royal line and breaching the sacred grounds of the Wei Ancestral Shrine—" his gaze swept the chamber, "—the four members of the Wang family court shall face execution at dawn."
A collective breath rippled through the room. No one spoke. Not even those who had defended the family minutes ago.
But then the King's voice softened—just slightly.
"As for Minister Wang… your crimes are no less grave. But you have served this court for decades. You accepted blame. You will not die." He paused. "You are hereby stripped of title and name. You are exiled from Luyang by sundown. If you ever return, it will be your death."
"Exile?" Wei Wuxian's voice didn't rise, but his eyes narrowed, the sharp glint of disappointment flickering behind them. He didn't speak again, but I could see it—the stiff line of his jaw, the way his hands curled at his sides.
This wasn't justice. Not to him. His own father had played the board to keep the peace. His mother's death—Queen Wei's murder—had been absorbed into political calculus. Minister Wang, the architect of it all, would live. Not because he deserved it but because execution would have cracked the court in half.
The Wang family still had loyalists, still held land, still commanded fear. Kill the minister, and the palace risked a civil war. In our kingdom, a civil war was a signal. It meant the neighbors would circle like wolves. So yes, the King had made a decision. But it wasn't freedom. It was a strategy. A choice that looked like power, but wasn't.
Not really. Not to us.
And definitely not to him.
***
I visited Yuling's room one afternoon, bringing a basket of pear slices and a few sweets as an excuse. Not that I needed one—after what we'd been through, she could've asked me to sneak in with a goat and I probably would've done it.
Her room looked different now. Brighter. Warmer. The flowers were fresh again, the silks restored. A new screen stood near the cradle, and the seal of her restored title was neatly inked into the scroll by the door.
Yuling sat by the window, her baby sleeping soundly in the bassinet beside her. A little prince.
I had begged her to name him Sizhui, with A-Yuan as a nickname. She hadn't known the story behind it, of course, but I sold her on the meaning—the idea of a constant yearning for love once lost, and the hope of something better ahead.
She agreed, probably because I was the one who had technically brought him into the world, and she wasn't about to argue with her exhausted best friend-turned-midwife.
She didn't rise when I entered—just waved me in like we were still two girls in the consorts' wing whispering about court scandals.
"Come in," she said, eyeing the basket. "If that's not honeyed pears, I might cry."
"It is," I said, dropping onto the cushion beside her with an exaggerated sigh. "I figured you deserve at least one afternoon of feeling like the most honored woman in the kingdom."
She gave a small, wry smile. "Technically, my title's now higher than Wang Yufei's."
"Technically? Yuling, you could sneeze and cause a full-blown political shift at this point."
She snorted, covering her mouth quickly to avoid waking the baby. "You joke, but someone already called me 'Consort Mother of the Realm' this morning."
"Oh no," I gasped. "It's happening."
"I'm scared," she whispered.
We both laughed quietly, shoulders bumping. Then, softer—she reached for my hand.
"Thank you," she said. "For staying. For believing me. For—well, everything."
I gave her hand a gentle squeeze. "We're not done yet."
"No," she agreed, glancing down at her sleeping son. "But for the first time… I think we have a real chance."
After a quiet moment, Yuling glanced sideways at me, one brow raised.
"So…" she said slowly, drawing the word out like a string of thread. "You and Shen Kexian. That… thing you've got going on."
I blinked. "What thing?"
Her smile was entirely too innocent. "Oh, you know. The very subtle, very spiritual, absolutely-not-personal way you cling to his back mid-battle and unleash goddess-tier destruction."
I groaned, flopping back onto the cushion like I could disappear into the floor.
"I was literally trying not to die," I muttered.
"Mmhmm," she said, nodding with mock seriousness. "And the way he looks at you like you might shatter if he breathes wrong? Definitely just battle tactics."
"Yuling."
She grinned. I covered my face with both hands. "It's complicated."
"I know," she said, softer this time. "But do you know?"
That question settled between us like a feather and a stone at once. I didn't answer right away. Because I wasn't sure. About Lianshui. About Shen Kexian. About me.
"I don't know what's mine," I admitted quietly. "And what's… hers."
Yuling didn't press. She just reached over and handed me another honeyed pear slice.
"Figure it out later," she said. "Right now, you get snacks and the sound of a peacefully snoring baby. That's all anyone should deal with today."
Just like that, I remembered why she was my favorite person in this whole cursed palace.
***
With the palace finally settling into a fragile kind of peace, the real celebration began. Lavish banquets, silk banners, music that floated through the courtyards from dawn until the lanterns were lit. It was all in honor of Yuling's restored title, the birth of her son, and—most of all—Wei Wuxian's formal naming as Crown Prince. The envoy from Daqi had arrived in full regalia, smiling politely and watching everything a little too closely, as envoys always did.
Wang Yufei was there too.
She arrived late, moving slowly, her figure unmistakably heavy with late pregnancy. After everything—her family's disgrace, her silence during the trial, the whispers that followed her like perfume—she was quieter now. More reserved. The Queen sat beside her, equally still, both of them cloaked in dignity that felt more like armor than pride.
I caught myself watching her longer than I meant to. There was no gloating in it. No lingering anger. Just… something quieter.
Pity, maybe.
Born into a powerful family, handed titles, servants, luxury—and still trapped. Still used. Still silenced. I couldn't imagine a life like that anymore. I didn't want to. Because as messy as mine had become, as terrifying and confusing and spirit-possessed as it was… at least it was mine.
Life with freedom—real freedom—was chaotic, sure. But it was better. So much better.
"Goddess of Water," a voice called, smooth and composed. I didn't need to turn to know who it was. A smile tugged at my lips almost instinctively.
Ming Yu.
He stood just behind me, posture straight, every inch the royal guard he was pretending to be tonight. But when he leaned in slightly, his voice dropped low—just for me.
"You look beautiful today."
My smile widened, and I felt a faint, telltale warmth bloom across my cheeks.
I turned slowly to face him, trying to maintain some semblance of composure—and promptly failed the moment I laid eyes on him. He was dressed in full ceremonial attire—deep silver and rich navy, embroidery shimmering like starlight. Too elegant. Too perfectly tailored. Too pretty.
My heart actually melted.
I smiled, then leaned in just slightly and whispered, "Advisor Liu… you walk around looking like this, every girl in this room is going to faint. Do you know that?"
He chuckled—low and warm—and I swear the sound alone was enough to tilt the air around us. I was only half joking. Because when I dared to glance around, I caught more than one noblewoman not being subtle. A few were outright staring. One even fanned herself a little too dramatically for the weather.
"I didn't even notice," Ming Yu said, genuinely.
I rolled my eyes, still smiling. "Well, according to the palace maids' very unofficial ranking, you're still number one. And yes, the rank is well deserved."
"Probably not after tonight," a voice cut in smoothly behind us.
I didn't have to turn to know who it was. Of course Shen Kexian had been eavesdropping.
I gave him a look. One of those long, tired, why are you like this look.
He was dressed in full ceremonial attire too, and naturally he looked unfairly good—deep grey robes with silver threading, his hair half-up, that sharp jawline doing entirely too much. Even worse, he knew it.
"Why, Lord Shen," I said, tilting my head, "do you think you can top Advisor Liu's rank?"
Shen Kexian, apparently accepting my challenge in the most Shen Kexian way possible, casually stepped into the center of the gathering hall with the elegance of a man who'd studied how to look accidental on purpose.
He drifted through the crowd, just slow enough to be noticed, and then—conveniently—brushed shoulders with a passing palace maid. Her tray wobbled, teacups clattered, and one shattered dramatically across the floor.
The hall fell quiet. The maid dropped to her knees, panicked, already apologizing in frantic whispers.
Shen Kexian crouched beside her, reached out, and gently took her hand.
"I'm alright," he said, soft and warm, his smile that exact shade between apologetic and roguishly kind. "Are you alright? Don't worry—it was just an accident."
I didn't need to look around to know what happened next. I felt the swooning. It hit the air like perfume.
A minister's daughter gasped audibly. Someone behind me whispered "so gentle" like they were narrating a dream. The tray was forgotten. The room, bewitched.
I rolled my eyes so hard I nearly gave myself a headache. "He went so overboard," I muttered, watching him help the blushing maid to her feet like he wasn't conducting a full-blown charm offensive.
Ming Yu chuckled softly beside me, clearly thinking the same thing I was—what absurdity did I just witness?
With that, he blew Ming Yu's rank down to second place that week.
***
A few days later, I found myself passing by the training grounds.
Totally by accident, of course. Just a casual detour on my way to the city temple. Completely unrelated to the fact that Ming Yu was probably out there, possibly in his fighting attire, hair tied up, sleeves rolled, generally looking like a man sent by the gods to ruin my ability to focus on divine blessings.
I paused near the edge, pretending to adjust the ribbon on my sleeve.
There he was. Of course. Sword in hand, movements sharp and fluid, expression cool as ever—like he'd been carved out of every discipline scroll stacked in the royal library. My breath did something traitorous, and I reminded myself I was supposed to be the Goddess of Water, not the patron saint of emotional disasters.
The field was full.
It wasn't just a dozen soldiers anymore. There were at least fifty out there—maybe more. Young, old, somewhere in between. Some couldn't be older than sixteen, while others looked like they'd fought three wars and retired twice.
"Is this the only training ground in the kingdom?" I muttered under my breath. "Or did someone send out a flyer?"
But I already knew the answer. The rumors of the shrine attack—of how Wei Wuxian and his guards fought off something monstrous, how I stood at the center of it wrapped in water and light—had spread like wildfire. Now every hopeful cultivator, bodyguard, and former turnip farmer who thought they had spiritual potential was lining up for a chance to train under the same sky.
I sighed, adjusted the veil on my headdress, and kept walking. Because the gods don't wait and apparently, neither does city temple scheduling.
The temple was already packed by the time I arrived. The steps were lined with offerings—fruits, scrolls, paper talismans, even a small mountain of incense that looked like someone had just brought their entire family fortune in sandalwood sticks. People bowed as I passed, murmuring blessings under their breath like I might accidentally overhear and approve them into reality.
Most didn't come for peace or clarity anymore. The requests were… pointed.
"Please bless my son," one woman whispered, clutching a worn token. "He's just turned sixteen—he wants to join the army. Let him be strong."
"Lady Goddess," a man knelt, "please help my son rise in cultivation. He just needs to reach Foundation rank this year."
"I offer this," a merchant said solemnly, "for my daughter. She's five. Please, grant her a golden core."
I blinked. "She's five." He nodded. With deep, serious conviction. I offered a polite smile, folded my hands, and did my best to look divine and not emotionally overwhelmed.
It used to be that people asked for rain, for health, for crops.
Now they wanted power. Protection. Glory. With the rising number of soldiers and cultivators flooding the capital, all three men were caught in their own storm.
Lan Wangji had disappeared into the barracks, overseeing sword drills and spiritual formation rotations that ran from dawn until well after the evening bells. Wei Wuxian was neck-deep in war council meetings, half tactical, half theatrical—his specialty. Ming Yu… he was everywhere and nowhere. Managing field reports, deployment orders, strategy reviews, and somehow still finding time to train new recruits.
Which left one man. The one I'd been very carefully not seeking out.
Shen Kexian.
The last person I wanted to bother with questions. And—unfortunately—the most likely to actually have answers. We hadn't really talked since the shrine. Since the fight. Since the moment when my body moved on its own, when his power merged with mine, when something between us cracked open and let in more than just magic.
I hadn't touched that memory and hadn't looked directly at it.
Well, I may or may not have been strategically avoiding him since the palace party. Not that it was intentional. I'd just been… very busy. Spiritually booked. Blessed obligations. Full divine schedule.
That's what I told myself.
But now, with everything circling toward something bigger—and that strange, cold fear rising in the back of my mind—I realized I didn't have the luxury of distance anymore.
So I turned and went looking for him.