Chapter 64 #2
“Yes,” JingYi replied, staring. “I remember. You used to call it your ‘sleep light.’ You let me hold it in my palm for a while, said it chased away nightmares.”
LinXin gave a small, brittle smile. “I told you it was just a trick, but it would keep you company whenever you felt scared and alone inside the manor.”
JingYi swallowed through the thickness in her throat.
During those dark days, LinXin’s presence and kindness had been a lifeline.
The little flame had lasted for a night before died.
Nonetheless, she held it close during those terrible hours—shivering beneath her paper-thin sheet, belly empty, drafts howling through the cracks. It had filled her with warmth.
But, the next night, when she waited by the fence, LinXin didn’t show up.
She never came again.
LinXin bit her lip and shook her head, eyes tearful. After a quick scan of the room, she slipped one shoulder free of her robe. Just beneath her collarbone, a swirling sigil shimmered—woven silver and violet, glowing like starlight reflected in water.
JingYi’s breath caught. She’d heard whispers of the Moonfire mark her whole life—the sacred tattoo bestowed only on a special, rare kind of Omegas born from the union of an Alpha and an Omega.
It was said they carried strange gifts, subtle magic woven into their blood.
Prince Kaelendrin, as a Sunborn Alpha, had accelerated healing.
But JingYi had never seen a Moonfire mark in person. Never believed she ever would. Now it stared back at her, beautiful and irrefutable.
Something cold bloomed in her chest. A Moonfire Omega couldn’t be born from an Omega mother and a Beta father. The laws of their blood were absolute. If LinXin carried this mark, then—
“You aren’t the bastard. I am.” Her sister’s voice was soft, but the edge beneath it was steel. “My mother had a lover—an Alpha general in His Majesty’s army. He was castrated, tortured, and executed for coveting what belonged to the emperor.”
JingYi blinked. The chamber shifted around her—memories rearranging with sudden clarity. The stiffness in LinXin’s voice. The guarded silences. The way she had always kept JingYi at arm’s length. Not from pride or hatred, but because closeness had never been safe for either of them.
“This is what His Majesty had over you?” JingYi asked.
LinXin pressed her lips together. “He kept my mother under lock and key. To keep me obedient.” Her voice hardened. “He was a monster, JingYi. You have no idea of the things he made me do.”
JingYi wanted to reach for her, but LinXin’s stiff posture warned her back. Instead, she stood still, waiting.
“At first,” LinXin continued, “after he forced me through the Moonfire rites—after the priestess branded me—I told myself I wouldn’t obey. That I would defy him.”
Her gaze dropped to JingYi’s leg. Her voice broke a little. “But he said he’d punish everyone I cared about. Starting with you.”
JingYi’s breath stopped. Her heart thudded against her ribs.
LinXin didn’t look away. Her eyes were wet, but her chin stayed high.
“The emperor wanted my obedience, so he could have control over my gift. He ordered a guard to plant the missing jewelry in your room. To accuse you of theft.” Her breath caught.
“They broke your leg. Branded your foot. Called you a thief, a cripple, a shame to the bloodline. And I stood there, silent, knowing why it was happening. Knowing it was done to make me submit.”
The floor fell away beneath JingYi, but in its place came not panic—just an eerie stillness. All those years believing she had earned that pain. That she was a shame, a girl who deserved to be marked.
LinXin’s words peeled back yet another lie. The emperor hadn’t punished her for stealing. He’d used her as a lesson. A tool. He had hurt one daughter to control another.
“It wasn’t my hands that did it,” LinXin continued, “but my fault all the same. I didn’t stop him. I couldn’t.” Her voice dropped to a fierce whisper. “I’ve lived with that guilt every day since.”
JingYi’s throat closed up. Every day. She had carried her own shame for years, but LinXin had carried this, too. A different weight, but no lighter. She almost didn’t want to ask what came next. But she needed to know.
“What happened to Lady LinHuā?” JingYi asked gently.
LinXin flinched at the name. “Mother died three days before the emperor. He never forgave her for giving herself to someone else. He made her life a living hell until the day she died.”
JingYi nodded, absorbing the weight of it. Years of cruel punishments. A woman caged in luxury but condemned to misery. Another woman sacrificed to palace machinations.
She looked around the Plum Blossom Palace—its painted screens, its carefully tended blooms, its fragrant air. So much beauty. So much suffering. Secrets layered like lacquer, hiding the rot beneath.
Behind LinXin’s polished mask was a girl just as trapped as she had been. A different confinement, but a cage all the same.
JingYi’s breath shook as she exhaled. The tears came soft, unannounced—not for herself, but for the children they had once been. For daughters born into palaces meant to shelter, but built to devour.
LinXin watched her for a long moment, then she uncurled her fists. Her hand lay open in the space between them. JingYi placed hers over it. Neither squeezed. Both hands simply rested there, palm to palm.
“I should have told you sooner.” LinXin’s voice was steady, but her eyes glistened. “Forgive me. I didn’t know how.”
“You were trying to survive,” JingYi said. “So was I. And part of my survival now is choosing not to let his cruelty define my heart. I came back to heal these wounds, not to let them fester into hatred.”
She withdrew her hand and touched her own chest. “We both survived him. We triumphed. And I will not let him steal one more day of having a sister.”
LinXin stared at her for a long moment. Then her jaw relaxed—just a fraction. She leaned forward, and JingYi met her halfway.
Their embrace was slow, careful at first. LinXin’s arms enveloped her—strong arms, not the tentative hold of someone broken, but the grip of a survivor.
JingYi closed her eyes, pressing her cheek to LinXin’s shoulder. They weren’t bound by blood, but by grief shared in silence. Battles fought alone in the same gilded prison.
When they finally pulled apart, LinXin’s hand found JingYi’s cheek. Her eyes were still bright, still fierce.
“Sister?” she asked.
JingYi nodded. “Sister.”