By early August, the summer heat in White Jade City was finally starting to wane, showing signs of dissipating.
The morning and evening breezes now carried a faint, almost imperceptible coolness. It was no longer the thick, suffocating heat that had been nearly unbearable.
On the cracked, sun-scorched mud of Taiye Pool’s dry bed, clumps of tenacious, nameless water-weed shoots had unexpectedly sprouted, their numbers still growing.
The specks of green stood out sharply against the vast expanse of gray-brown mud.
The climbing ivy on the palace walls had shed all its scorched, yellow leaves, yet the vines still clung tenaciously to the brickwork. They seemed to be gathering their Power, waiting for the next turn of life’s cycle to once again bloom in their own beauty.
Deep within the Eastern Palace, a courtyard named Ningshuang Pavilion seemed to have frozen this nascent hint of autumn in time.
The courtyard was not large, but it was impeccably kept, with hardly a speck of dust in sight.
In a corner, a few late-blooming gardenias had withered, their cool, lingering fragrance drifting through the air.
A wisteria vine, long past its bloom, was now just a canopy of dense green leaves rustling in the breeze.
The bluestone path was spotless, without even a single fallen leaf. It was clear the mistress of the pavilion cherished tranquility and her Palace Attendants were exceptionally diligent; not one of them dared to slack off.
Upstairs in the pavilion, a slender figure stood silently by the window.
Her name was Yang Qiushuang, one of Xia Wuyang’s Eastern Palace Concubines.
True to her name, she was like a wisp of clear frost condensed on an autumn day, carrying with her the essence of the season.
She wore a simple, moon-white palace gown, the hem embroidered with scattered orchids in Silver Thread. Over it, she wore a matching, semi-transparent gauze jacket.
Her jet-black hair was not styled into an intricate court coiffure. Instead, it was loosely gathered with a simple White Jade Hairpin, the rest cascading like a waterfall down to her waist, creating a look of simple elegance.
Her features were exquisitely delicate—so much so that they could topple kingdoms.
Her eyes and brows were picturesque, her nose perfectly straight. Her lips, though pale, held a natural vermilion hue.
But her complexion was overly pale, almost translucent.
The fine, blue veins beneath her skin were faintly visible, lending her a fragile, glass-like quality that merged seamlessly with the cool, austere air of Ningshuang Pavilion.
It was hard to tell if she was a part of the pavilion, or if the pavilion was a part of her.
At this moment, her eyes—always veiled in a light mist, as if viewing the world through autumn waters—were fixed on Wenhua Hall, the direction where Xia Wuyang resided.
She unconsciously caressed an unfinished, black sleeping robe. The material was Top Level Yun Jin, the kind that was exceptionally comfortable to wear.
It was warm to the touch, with stitches so fine they were nearly invisible. On the collar and lining, she had used matching silk thread to embroider subtle dragon patterns, so hidden they could only be seen up close—a testament to her exquisite craftsmanship.
Garments like this would be priceless if sold elsewhere. Behind her, hundreds of them were stacked neatly inside a sandalwood wardrobe, all made to Xia Wuyang’s measurements.
From outer robes to sleeping gowns, from spring shirts to winter cloaks, from cloth shoes to brocade socks... nothing was missing for any of the four seasons. She didn’t even have this many clothes for herself.
Some of the styles were even popular decades ago, long since fallen out of fashion, revealing that Yang Qiushuang had been sewing these garments for just as long.
They lay there silently, like pieces of amber forgotten by time, preserving a woman’s decades-long, silent, almost obsessive vigil—and an affection that was etched into her very bones.
She, too, had once known vibrant, brighter days. When she first entered the Eastern Palace, she was just an inconspicuous Fifth Class Attendant among the Crown Prince’s many concubines, and hardly anyone noticed her.
But she had a tranquil disposition. She never vied for favor, carrying herself with an air of serene detachment.
She also possessed exceptional skill in needlework. On the rare occasions the Crown Prince, Xia Wuyang, visited her, he could always find a moment of true tranquility.
The Xia Wuyang of that time... how heroic and vibrant he had been. He was full of ambition, and his every word carried the aura of one who could command the world, as if the entire realm rested in the palm of his hand.
The way he had looked at her held genuine warmth and admiration. As their feelings for each other deepened, he praised her, saying her temperament was like autumn frost and her character like the winter-blooming Han Mei.
Her heart was utterly lost to that gaze, to that praise.
It wasn’t because he was the Crown Prince, nor because he had saved her and her family. It was because of the man he was.
She admired his ambition, ached for his burdens, and was utterly captivated by the fervent hope for the future he sometimes revealed. All of it enthralled her, pulling her completely under his spell.
All she could do was use the softest threads and the finest stitches to sew his most personal garments, as if by doing so she could silently entwine her heart and her warmth around him, letting him feel the depths of her affection.
The calamity struck with a speed and cruelty that defied all imagination.
The Crown Prince was deposed, the Eastern Palace fell, and the man who had once burned as bright as the sun was plunged into a mire overnight. He became listless, violent, and mercurial, as if he were a completely different person.
She desperately wanted to see him, to comfort him—even if it meant just sitting with him in silence, just to offer him the smallest solace.
But what she received in return was his drunken, furious scolding. It was the shards of a teacup, smashed in a fit of displaced anger, grazing her cheek. It was his roar, thick with the stench of alcohol, that shattered her heart.
"Get out! All of you, get out! I don’t want to see any of you wretches! Get the hell away from me!"
The small cut on her face healed quickly, but the rift in her heart would never mend, especially not after his repeated tirades and curses.
She finally understood. The Crown Prince she had admired, the man she had loved, had perhaps died on the day he was deposed. The person he was now had completely changed.
The man who remained in Wenhua Hall was merely a shell, consumed by pain, resentment, and bitterness. He was a cornered beast who would lash out indiscriminately at anyone who drew near, with no telling when, or if, he would ever recover.
She didn’t dare go back. It wasn’t his rebukes she feared, but the sight of the light completely extinguished in his eyes. She was afraid that the last beautiful memory she held of the Crown Prince he once was would be utterly tainted by his murky despair, until not a single trace of it remained.
She chose to keep her vigil from afar, like a keeper at a long-extinguished lighthouse. She knew no ship would ever return, yet she stubbornly kept the single lamp at its base lit, unwilling to give up.
Such devotion was in no way inferior even to that of Pan Mo.
And so, Ningshuang Pavilion became both her prison and her sanctuary, trapping her within its walls.
She refused almost all social contact, living in deep seclusion. Sometimes, half a year or more would pass without her taking a single step outside.
Her sole obsession, as steadfast as the changing of the seasons, was to sew new clothes for him—diligently, devotedly, with profound affection.
Light shirts for spring, breathable robes for summer, crisp attire for autumn, and thick, warm clothes for winter... The measurements were still those she remembered from before his fall, and she did her best to match the styles to his former tastes, no matter how difficult they were to make.
Every stitch carried a tender nostalgia; every thread was woven with a hopeless bond.
For decades, she had never stopped. It was the one thing that sustained her.

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