Chapter 5
The ancestral hall of the Shen family glowed with candles and red lanterns, their light reflecting off gold ornaments and silk banners. Incense smoke coiled through the air, weaving between pillars draped with crimson and gold.
Yun-yao knelt before the ancestral tablets, her elaborate phoenix headpiece so heavy she feared her neck might snap.
At least after today, I'll be respectably married instead of respectably pitied, she thought, touching her forehead to the stone floor for the third time. Much better social position.
Her attendants guided her to the main hall where her family waited.
Her mother’s eyes glistened with unshed tears beneath her composed expression.
Her father sat straight-backed, every inch the Chancellor.
Yun-yao knelt before them, her heart hammering against her ribs as she performed the final three bows flawlessly, each bow a farewell, marking her transition from daughter to bride, from one clan to another.
“May you bring honor to the Wei family as you have to ours,” her father said formally.
Lady Shen leaned in, her hands steady despite their faint tremor, and draped the ceremonial veil over Yun-yao’s face. “Be well,” she whispered, her touch lingering just a moment too long.
Outside, the bridal sedan chair waited, adorned with red sashes and golden tassels that swayed in the spring breeze.
Yun-yao stepped in with practiced elegance, sitting straight in her seat, with hands folded demurely just so, though the red drapes of the sedan chair ensured she was shielded from curious stares.
Through a tiny gap, she glimpsed her dowry procession—sixty-four chests on open wagons winding down the road, containing everything from silks to silver, books to bedding.
I hope chest number nineteen is safe...
The streets of Shangjing erupted in celebration as they passed.
Children scattered peach blossoms before the procession.
Merchants abandoned their stalls to watch.
Women leaned from windows, exclaiming over the grandeur of the Chancellor’s daughter’s dowry.
Musicians played jubilant tunes, their melodies soaring above the cheers.
Beyond the city walls, the procession wound its way toward the General’s Residence—a sprawling compound standing proudly between Shangjing and the military encampment. Even from within her sedan chair, she sensed its martial energy, so different from her father’s scholarly home.
When the bearers finally lowered the sedan chair, attendants rushed forward. The wedding matchmaker’s voice rose, shrill and joyful, “The bride approaches!”
The General’s residence blazed with red lanterns and banners, the courtyard packed with soldiers and officials eager to witness the Great General’s marriage.
Laughter and excited chatter filled the air as she was helped down, no small feat in those heavy embroidered robes.
She moved with grace despite the burden, each step marking the precise rhythm of the wedding procession.
Left foot, pause, right foot, pause. Back straight, head level. The perfect bride, delivered like a gift-wrapped tribute.
She was led forward to the center of the hall, where another figure waited. Through the red gauze, she could discern only the broad outline of her groom—tall, very tall, straight-backed, still as a statue. General Wei Zhen-ting. The Bloody General. Her husband-to-be.
The officiating rites official’s voice echoed against the walls: “Heaven and Earth bear witness to this union, blessed by the Son of Heaven himself.”
They knelt together, her movements synchronized with his though they had never practiced together. The first bow to Heaven and Earth. The second to empty chairs signifying his parents.
Step by step, she reminded herself. Just like the rehearsals.
Only when they rose for the third ceremonial bow did she catch her first clear glimpse of him, as her veil shifted slightly.
He was... young. Younger than she had imagined from his fearsome reputation.
His features were sharply defined—high cheekbones, straight nose, firm jaw, tanned skin.
Handsome, in an untamed way. No blood-splattered monster, no nine-foot giant with arms like tree trunks.
Just a man of twenty-two, with eyes that seemed older than his face.
Those eyes found hers through the veil, and something flickered in their depths. Recognition? Concern? Whatever it was, it vanished quickly behind a mask of solemn propriety.
The rites official’s voice boomed through the hall: “Husband and wife, bow to each other.”
Yun-yao lowered herself with deliberate grace, her hands properly clasped, the heavy phoenix headpiece shifting with the motion.
Across from her, General Wei mirrored the bow—respectful, precise.
Stillness lingered between them as they straightened, the red of her wedding veil catching the lantern light.
For the briefest moment, his gaze met hers again. Not the blank stare of a soldier obeying protocol, but something gentle—hopeful?—as if trying to reassure her.
“Once more,” the official announced.
They bowed again, sealing the vow.
“Husband and wife will now share the wedding cup,” announced the official.
An attendant brought forward a double-cupped vessel of red lacquer, golden phoenixes and dragons entwined around its rim. General Wei took it first, lifting it to his lips with surprisingly elegant hands for a man who wielded swords. As he passed it to her, their fingers brushed.
Warmth. That was her first impression. His hands were warm, even in the brief moment they touched hers. Not cold and deadly as she had imagined a killer’s would be. Something inside her chest fluttered briefly, like a butterfly testing its wings, before settling back into stillness.
She drank, the sweet rice wine warming her throat, and the ceremony continued.
More bows. More rituals. The binding of their hands with a red silk cord.
The exchanging of simple vows. Through it all, she maintained perfect composure, her face a serene mask even as her thoughts drifted in curious directions.
He smells of pine and sunshine, not blood. His voice is deep but controlled. When he moves, there’s a slight hesitation in his left leg—an injury? He holds himself as if expecting attack at any moment. Is that what war does?
WEI ZHEN-TING COULD barely breathe. She was even more beautiful than the memory he had carried for ten years. Like a goddess descended from the celestial realm, wrapped in silk and gold. Through her veil, he caught glimpses of delicate features, luminous skin, eyes dark and deep as midnight pools.
And terrified. He could see that too, in the rigid set of her shoulders, the careful way she held herself slightly away from him, the measured rhythm of her breathing. She feared him, as everyone did. The knowledge cut deeper than any northern barbarian’s blade ever had.
I would never hurt you, he wanted to tell her. I've waited my entire life for this moment, for you.
But he could say nothing, not here, surrounded by dignitaries and officials, the Emperor’s representatives, her family, his officers.
This was not just their wedding; it was a political spectacle, the joining of military might with scholarly power, the reward of a grateful Emperor to his most successful general.
So he performed his part with military precision, each bow and ritual gesture executed perfectly.
Ten years ago, he could never have imagined standing here, making the Chancellor’s daughter his wife.
The orphaned beggar boy, now a general, now a husband to the girl whose kindness had saved his soul if not his life.
When their hands touched over the wedding cup, he felt her pulse jump, saw the slight widening of her eyes behind the veil. He wanted to hold those delicate fingers longer, to promise with his touch what he couldn't say with words: I will be gentle. I will be kind. I will wait.
Instead, he released her and continued with the ceremony, playing his role in this elaborate dance they performed together.
The feast that followed was a blur of faces and voices. Countless toasts were raised. Dishes of exquisite delicacy followed one after another—braised abalone, bird’s nest soup, roasted duck, sweet lotus cakes.
Yun-yao sat beside her new husband on the raised platform, barely touching her food.
She was acutely aware of General Wei beside her—the careful distance he maintained between their bodies, the way he deflected overly personal remarks from his officers, the subtle protective shift of his posture when anyone approached too quickly.
“They make a striking pair, don't they?” she overheard one minister remark to another. “Beauty and the beast, as the poets might say.”
“The Emperor plays a deep game,” came the whispered reply. “Binding the Chancellor’s house to the army’s favorite son.”
Such comments confirmed what she already knew—their marriage was a strategy, a political gambit, a careful arrangement of power. What remained unclear was why the General had requested her specifically. What value did she hold in this game beyond her father’s position?
The feast seemed endless, but finally, impossibly, it was over.
The traditional teasing by unmarried friends.
The bawdy jokes from the army officers. The ritual procession to the bridal chamber in the General’s newly gifted mansion.
And then, with a final chorus of laughter and suggestive comments, the door closed, and they were alone.
The bridal chamber was exactly as tradition demanded: red silk hangings, double-happiness symbols, and a marriage bed strewn with red dates, nuts, and lotus seeds.
Red dragon-and-phoenix candles lit the room, casting a warm glow over a small table laden with sweet wine, nuts and fruits, symbols of fertility and prosperity.
Yun-yao stood perfectly still, the weight of the day—of her phoenix crown, her robes, her expectations—suddenly unbearable. Her hands, hidden in her sleeves, trembled slightly.
“You're afraid of me.”
His voice was quiet, gentler than she had heard it all day. She turned slowly to face him, schooling her features into composed denial.
“My husband—” The proper response died on her lips as she met his gaze. Direct. Knowing.
“It’s alright to be afraid,” he continued, not moving from his position near the door. “My reputation... I understand.”
She said nothing, unable to form the platitudes expected of her. The silence stretched between them, not uncomfortable but expectant, like the moment before rain falls.
“We don't have to do this tonight,” he said finally.
The words made no sense at first. Of course they had to do this. It was their wedding night. The marriage had to be consummated. It was expected, required, her duty as a wife.
“But...” she began, confusion breaking through her careful mask.
“I won't force this,” he interrupted, his voice firm but gentle. “We barely know each other. We have time.”
“The marriage must be consummated,” she said, protocol and training supplying the words automatically.
“It will be.” Something flickered in his eyes—heat quickly banked. “When you're ready. When you want to. Not because you're frightened into duty.”
Yun-yao stared at him, searching for the trap, the test, the hidden cruelty. Men did not simply... wait. Especially not men like him, men of power and authority, men who took what they wanted when they wanted it. Her mother had prepared her for duty, not choice.
He gestured to her elaborate headdress. “That must be painful. May I help you remove it?”
After a moment’s hesitation, she nodded. He approached slowly, telegraphing each movement as if approaching a skittish horse. When he stood before her, she caught again the scent of pine and sunshine, mixed now with the faintest hint of wine.
His hands were steady as he began removing the pins from her headdress, each movement careful and precise. “Tell me if I hurt you,” he murmured, working methodically to dismantle the elaborate construction.
The relief as the weight lifted from her head was immediate and profound. She couldn't suppress a small sigh as the pressure eased, her neck muscles unknotting.
“Better?” he asked, setting the crown gently on its stand.
“Yes. Thank you.”
An awkward silence fell between them. He cleared his throat. “You can have the bed. I'll sleep there.” He indicated a daybed near the window.
“That’s not...” She hesitated. “You don't have to...”
“I want you to feel safe,” he said simply. “That’s more important than appearances. At least when we're alone.”
He turned away, removing his outer ceremonial robes until he wore only trousers and an inner robe, still modestly covered. Then he settled on the daybed, his back to her, giving her privacy.
Yun-yao stood frozen for a moment, then slowly began removing her own outer garments, leaving on her inner red silk robes.
Her mind whirled with confusion. This was nothing like she had expected.
Nothing like the whispered warnings from married cousins or the ribald jokes she had overheard.
The fearsome General Wei, the Bloody Terror of the North, was. .. considerate?
When she finally slipped beneath the silk covers of the marriage bed, she found herself watching his silhouette in the candlelight.
The strong line of his shoulders, the careful way he positioned himself facing away from her, the steady rhythm of his breathing that she suspected was deliberately controlled.
“General Wei?” she whispered, surprising herself.
“Zhen-ting,” he corrected softly. “When we're alone, please... just Zhen-ting.”
“Zhen-ting,” she repeated, testing the name. “Thank you.”
He said nothing, but she saw his shoulders relax slightly.
They lay in silence, separated by a few feet of space that somehow felt both too vast and not vast enough. Eventually, exhaustion overcame her confusion, and she drifted toward sleep, her last conscious thought lingering on the unexpected gentleness of the Bloody General’s hands.