Chapter 20
The household was quiet, most servants given leave to enjoy the festival.
Candlelight guided their path through familiar corridors to their chambers.
Yun-yao had sent instructions earlier—fresh flowers arranged in silver bowls, delicate incense burning in jade holders, the bedding changed to her finest embroidered silks.
She crossed the threshold first, hearing Zhen-ting pause behind her to dismiss the night guard. The room welcomed her with soft light and gentle fragrance, everything precisely as she had planned. Perfect for the night she had been gathering courage for through every lantern-lit kiss.
Her heart fluttered against her ribs like butterflies taking their first flights. She moved to the dressing table, pretending to fuss with the pins in her hair while watching his reflection approach in the mirror. His eyes, when they met hers in the polished bronze, held a question.
She'd been preparing for this moment—gathering courage like flowers, one small bloom at a time. Tonight, surrounded by lantern light and wishes granted, she was ready. She turned to face him and said shyly, “Be with me tonight.”
Understanding dawned on his face, followed by a smile that was so radiant that her heart thudded in her chest. Who could have known that the Bloody General—the man whose name made seasoned warriors falter, whose gaze could silence a battalion—would look at her like this, eyes soft as summer rain, lips curved in a grin so tender it unraveled her?
He stepped closer, slow, reverent. One calloused hand rose to her cheek, thumb brushing the delicate skin beneath her eye.
“Yao-yao,” he breathed, her name a prayer.
The kiss began gentle, almost tentative, but quickly blazed into something hungrier.
His hands slid from her face to her waist, then lower, pulling her against him with an urgency that matched her own.
The pins in her hair loosened under his searching fingers, sending black silk cascading down her back.
“Beautiful,” he breathed, gathering the strands in his fist. “So beautiful, Yao-yao.”
The endearment sent shivers through her. She had always been Maiden Shen, then Lady Wei—titles of respect, of distance. But Yao-yao—that name belonged to the woman she was with him, the one who read romance novels and raced horses and laughed without restraint.
His lips traced a burning path down her neck, pausing at the hollow of her throat where her pulse hammered. Her fingers fumbled with the ties of his outer robe, clumsy with desire. He caught her hands, bringing them to his lips.
“Let me,” he murmured.
With deliberate slowness, he unfastened his own robes, letting them fall to reveal the simple tunic beneath. Then, with equal care, he turned his attention to her elaborate gown, his soldier’s hands surprisingly deft with the intricate fastenings.
Layer by layer, they undressed each other, each revelation of skin accompanied by soft gasps and wondering touches.
When she stood before him in only her undergarments, an embroidered silk piece tied with ribbons around her neck and back, his breath caught audibly.
In a swift move that betrayed his urgency, he swept her into his arms and carried her to the bed.
The silk bedding rustled beneath them as he laid her down with extraordinary care, as though she were made of the finest porcelain. His weight dipped the mattress beside her.
The candlelight caught the planes of his face, shadows dancing across the strong lines of his jaw and cheekbones.
His hands, calloused from years of wielding weapons, moved with surprising gentleness as they explored the curves of her body through the thin silk. Each touch ignited something new within her—a flutter, a burning, a yearning that threatened to consume her entirely.
Yun-yao’s fingers tightened slightly against his shoulders. “General,” she breathed, her voice trembling just enough to betray her nerves, “you must... be gentle with me.”
Zhen-ting froze, his breath warm against her temple. When he spoke, his voice was rough, almost hesitant. “Yao-yao...” A pause. His thumb brushed her cheekbone. “I’ve never—this is my first time, too.”
Her eyes widened in surprise.
Zhen-ting shook his head, a wry smile playing at his lips. “At first, I spent my nights practicing my skills so that I could keep alive,” he explained, his fingers absently tracing patterns on her shoulder. “Later, I spent them reading military strategies so that I could keep my men alive.”
His confession hung in the air between them, simple and profound. This man who commanded thousands, who had built his reputation on strength and tactical brilliance, had reserved this particular intimacy—had perhaps reserved his heart itself—until now.
“Besides,” he added gently, “it was always you, it has always been you.”
Always you.
“Why?” Yun-yao wanted to ask, but Zhen-ting had enough of words for the night.
He stopped her unformed questions with another kiss, Yun-yao’s breath hitched as his tongue traced the seam of her lips, insistent, unfamiliar.
She skittered back, pulse jumping. He didn’t stop.
Followed. Pressed closer. The kiss deepened, a slow, searching exploration that turned her panic into liquid heat.
Their tongues met—tentative, then bolder—sliding, tasting, learning.
A sound escaped her, half protest, half plea.
His calloused palms slid beneath the delicate silk of her camisole, fingers tracing slow circles that made her arch against the sheets.
As the ribbon gave way, his mouth followed—hot breath ghosting over skin, lips trailing downward until he found a peaked nipple.
The first swirl of his tongue drew a startled cry from her throat, her hands flying to his shoulders, pushing even as her body arched toward forbidden pleasure.
“Where—” She asked accusingly, “Where did you learn that?”
His laughter rumbled against her collarbone where he'd begun trailing kisses. “Don't you know?” He whispered against her ear. “They sell huabens just for men. With... illustrations.”
Her head snapped back against the pillows. “Illustrated? Like—”
“Yes.” His thumb brushed her lower lip, eyes dark as he studied her flustered expression. “Do you want to read them?”
She should protest. A proper lady would. Instead, her traitorous tongue darted out to wet suddenly parched lips. “You... purchased such vulgar things?”
“Studied them.” His mouth found the frantic pulse at her wrist. “For educational purposes.”
The admission unraveled her last thread of composure. Her laugh came out breathless, half-strangled. “You—”
“Wanted to please you properly.” His gaze locked with hers, the playfulness fading into something raw. “Would you rather I learned through experience with others?”
The possessiveness in her chest flared again.
No. Mine.
Slowly, agonizingly, he guided her through each new discovery—the way her back arched when his palm slid up her ribcage, the choked whimper she couldn't contain as his teeth nipped her inner thigh.
Every gasp, every tremble became a language they decoded together, their earlier awkwardness melting beneath shared urgency.
The last barriers between them were about to fall, her silk undergarments were long gone, strewn somewhere on the bed, and his hand was tugging at the ties of his inner trousers—when a sharp rap at the door froze them both.
“General Wei!” The voice was urgent, apologetic. “An imperial messenger has arrived. He says it cannot wait.”
Zhen-ting’s forehead dropped to rest against hers, his breath ragged. For a moment, he didn't move, as if by stillness he could make the interruption disappear. Then, with visible effort, he pulled away.
“A moment,” he called, his voice steady despite the turbulence in his eyes.
He rose from the bed, pulled on his discarded robe with quick, efficient movements, and walked out of their screened sanctum. Yun-yao sat up, clutching the bed covers to her chest, the warm haze of desire rapidly cooling into foreboding.
At the door stood not only their steward but an imperial courier in dust-covered traveling clothes, his expression grave.
“General Wei,” the courier said, bowing deeply. “Forgive the intrusion at this hour, but I bear urgent orders from His Imperial Majesty.”
Zhen-ting accepted the sealed scroll, breaking the imperial wax with a practiced motion. As he read, Yun-yao watched his face transform—the husband vanishing behind the soldier’s mask, his jaw tightening, his eyes growing cold and focused.
“When did the attack begin?” he demanded.
“Three days ago, General. Multiple positions along the northern border have been breached. The Huoqu Tribes have taken over the remnants of the Shashi Tribe and launched a coordinated assault.”
Yun-yao’s breath caught in her throat. Fierce nomadic warriors had threatened Xi’s borders for generations.
It had taken twelve long years to finally eradicate the Shashi Tribe—only for the Huoqu to rise in their place, forging an even stronger force by absorbing the vengeful remnants of the Shashi into their own ranks.
“The Emperor commands your immediate return to the field,” the courier continued. “The Imperial Guard is mobilizing to guard the Capital as we speak.”
Zhen-ting nodded once, his expression betraying nothing. “I will depart at dawn. The Emperor’s orders will be carried out.”
When the door closed behind the messenger, the silence in the room grew thick enough to touch. Zhen-ting stood motionless, the scroll still clutched in his hand, his back to her.
“When?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
He turned slowly, and for an instant she glimpsed the raw anguish behind his composed exterior. “Dawn,” he said. “I must prepare.”
She nodded, swallowing the cry that threatened to escape her throat. Instead, she rose from the bed, retrieving her outer robe with hands that refused to tremble. When she faced him again, her expression was as controlled as his—the perfect lady she had been trained to be.
“Then you should begin,” she said. “I'll have the servants prepare provisions.”
His eyes held hers, searching. “Yao-yao—”
“Go,” she said gently. “Do what you must.”
For a heartbeat longer he stood there, conflict evident in every line of his body. Then, with a sharp nod, he strode from the room, already calling for his officers.
The moment the door closed behind him, Yun-yao sank onto the edge of the bed, one hand pressed to her mouth to stifle the sob building in her chest. Around her, the carefully arranged room—the flowers, the incense, the fine silks—now seemed like mockery.
The night that should have sealed their union would instead mark their separation.
She allowed herself exactly three breaths of despair before rising. There was work to be done, preparations to oversee. Her husband needed her to be strong, not broken.
Hours later, as the first hint of dawn lightened the eastern sky, she stood in front of the General’s Residence watching Zhen-ting make final inspections of his men and horses.
He wore full battle armor, his hair bound severely beneath his helmet.
The fearsome General had replaced her gentle husband entirely.
Yet when he approached to bid her farewell, his eyes were the same, just dark with the same emotions that churned within her own heart.
“I have something for you,” he said, pressing a small object into her palm. A jade pendant, carved in the shape of a rabbit.
The jade rabbit lay cool against her palm, its familiar contours worn smooth by time.
Yun-yao traced the tiny chip on its ear, cracked when a mischievous Yun-jia had accidentally dropped it.
This was her jade rabbit, made in the shape of her zodiac animal and given to her at birth, like each of her siblings.
She'd cried over it for days when she lost it at ten. Memory crashed over her: the ragged boy kneeling in the marketplace, his mother’s corpse wrapped in straw matting beside him.
The desperate way he'd offered to sell himself.
Her childish fingers pressing coins into his dirty palm instead.
“How...” Her throat tightened. The orphan boy grown into this warrior. The general who'd asked for her hand specifically. Who'd waited ten years. Who'd kept this token close through countless battles.
Zhen-ting’s thumb brushed her cheek, catching the tear she hadn't realized had fallen. “I told myself I'd return it to you one day.” His voice roughened. “Along with everything else you gave me that day. My dignity. My future.”
Yun-yao closed her fingers around the token. “Then you'd better come back for it.”
“I love you, Yao-yao.” Not a declaration—a vow. “I will come back to you.”
A horn sounded, the signal for departure and his men shifted impatiently by the gates. Zhen-ting stepped back, his eyes never leaving hers as he mounted his warhorse.
“And I love you,” she whispered. “Be safe.” Her voice held steady, even as tears gathered at the corners of her eyes.
His answering smile was the last thing she saw before he turned, barking orders to his men, and the column of soldiers moved out, their armored figures silhouetted against the dawn sky.
Yun-yao stood unmoving until the last rider had disappeared, the jade rabbit clutched tightly in her palm. She willed herself not to blink, but tears flooded down her face anyway.
Even though it was not yet winter, the first snow of the year floated down, gently obscuring the army until they are out of sight.
The Lantern Festival was over. The wishes they had sent to heaven and water now seemed distant as dreams. As she turned to face the empty house, Yun-yao straightened her shoulders.
She was the General’s wife. And until he returned to her side, she would guard his home.