Chapter 76
JINGYI
She wore no veil on her second wedding day.
That was the first thought, clear and sharp as the temple bell. No gauze, no hat, no golden fringe to blur the world into a soft, forgiving haze.
She wanted everyone to see, to look upon the face of the woman walking toward her future. Not a hidden treasure to be unveiled for a groom’s approval, but herself. Clear-eyed. Certain.
Step-drag, step-drag.
This rhythm was hers—always had been. The measured drumbeat of the procession echoed in the vast hush of the Temple of Heavenly Dawn. Its halls seemed to hover unsupported above a lake of blooming water lilies, their scent rising with the sandalwood incense in a sweet, sacred cloud.
Step-drag, step-drag.
Every other footfall sent a familiar, throbbing reminder up her right leg. Today, she didn’t mask it. She didn’t try to smooth her gait into something it could never be. The ache was her rhythm. The limp was the road she had walked to get here, written in the language of her body.
And as she moved, the ghost of her first wedding walked beside her.
That memory was perfume and panic. The stifling weight of the veil had turned the world into a golden smudge, a terrifying blankness where a groom’s face should be. She had been a proposition then, a political offering, her heart hammering one terrified question: Would he find her wanting?
Now, she lifted her gaze and looked straight ahead.
Alexander stood before the altar of carved jade and sandalwood, a mountain of Tremorian resolve amid the flowing silks of X?en.
His formal coat was a deep, sober black against the brilliant crimsons and golds, but it was his eyes that arrested her.
Summer-sky blue, fixed on her with an awe so profound it stole the air from her lungs.
In his eyes, reflected back, she was not wanting.
She was everything.
The scent of tuberoses and incense wrapped around her, a veil of fragrance meant to carry prayers to heaven. Her own prayer was simple—a raw, grateful exhale in her mind: Thank you. Thank you for this man.
The bowing ranks of nobles passed in a blur of painted faces and silken robes.
Then, a flicker of beloved familiarity: Wu Mā and Fēng, standing among the senior staff.
Their hands were clasped, their faces uplifted, shining with tears of fierce pride.
Emotions tangled in JingYi’s throat. They had loved the scarred, lonely girl.
They were here for the woman she had become.
Her gaze swept on and found the Dowager in the front rank.
A mask of imperial propriety. Their eyes met—a fleeting, charged contact—and the Dowager gave a slow, deliberate inclination of her head.
JingYi would not mistake it for a blessing—not that she wanted one.
It was an acknowledgment, nothing more. Only time would tell if the Dowager would be punished for all the lives she’d ruined, but living well was its own kind of justice.
The Dowager could scheme. The past could haunt. But JingYi would build something new—with Alexander, with the people of Blackwood-Veyrde, with every life she touched as a healer.
That was her answer. That was her revenge.
Then, her focus landed on the small, proud cluster behind Alexander: the Xian family.
Ru Rong’s handkerchief was already pressed to her lips, her eyes shining with tears she made no effort to hide.
Xian Jun stood with a stoic pride that spoke louder than words.
And in Su Lian’s arms, little MeiMei stared, not at the Emperor or their golden surroundings, but at JingYi, a tiny hand pointing as if to say, ‘There’s the moon lady. ’
The sight was a balm. This was not just the court’s political alliance. It was a joining of hearts, witnessed by the people who had taught Alexander what a family could feel like. Their presence was a living, breathing truth in the midst of this pageantry.
Consort LüYin—or rather, Xian Rui—stood beside the little girl. JingYi remembered the day she’d invited the family to enter the palace, how the young woman had wept with joy at the sight of her kin. Decades stolen, bridged in a single embrace. The memory warmed her still.
She reached the altar. The world collapsed into the space between her and Alexander.
Luneth’s priestess began the rites, her voice echoing through the temple’s hush.
The scent of sandalwood grew heavier as she produced the cord—red and gold silk, its threads gleaming as she bound their wrists together.
As the knot tightened, Alexander’s thumb swept a single, covert line across the inside of her wrist. A secret promise. A private vow within the public one.
The ritual words ended. An echo hung in the air.
Alexander didn’t wait. His voice, low and fervent, meant for her alone yet carrying to every stone of the temple, broke the formality.
“The world sees an alliance of nations,” he began, his gaze steady. “But my vow is this: my strength is your shield. My will, your shelter. Where you guide, I will follow. You are my partner. My compass.”
From a small pouch at his belt, he withdrew her ring—a gold band topped with limyerite crystal, catching the light and fracturing it into rainbows.
His hands were steady, but she felt the fine tremor in his touch as he took her left hand.
The tears she had held back broke free then, warm and silent. He slid the ring onto her finger.
It fit—not just her finger, but her soul.
“And my vow is this,” she answered, her voice strong and clear. “My sight is your vision. My voice, your counsel. Where you falter, I will guide you. You are my partner. My home.”
The priestess spoke a final blessing, the words lost to the roaring of her own heart.
Alexander cradled her face, thumbs brushing away her tears. He leaned in and kissed her—the first kiss of their true marriage. It tasted of salt, sacred smoke, and a future so bright it hurt to look at.
The temple erupted into cheers and bells, distant and meaningless against the reality of his lips on hers. The cool weight of the limyerite ring, finally and forever, home on her finger.
It was uncommon for X?en brides to leave so soon after the ceremony, tradition dictating a prolonged period of celebration within the bride’s home court. But JingYi was no ordinary bride, and theirs was no ordinary union. The decision to depart the next morning was hers alone.
She had made it with clear eyes and a full heart.
Alexander had been away from his duties for too long.
Blackwood-Veyrde and Parandor needed its lord.
And, though it surprised her to feel it with such intensity, she needed to return.
She missed the stark, honest beauty of the north.
She missed Yrenna’s laughter, Conrad’s mischievous jests, and the solid reliability of Ulrik and Darion.
She longed to see how Annett and baby Aniva were doing.
They were no longer just Alexander’s people; they were her home, too.
The farewells had been said in the privacy of the Magnolia Palace’s courtyard at sunrise when the air was still sweet with the scent of night-blooming flowers. LinXin had embraced her.
“You must write often,” she said, her voice thick. “The snow, the forests, the . . . the everything.”
“I will send so many letters you will tire of my handwriting,” JingYi promised, holding her tight.
She then turned to ShunLi, who stood with the quiet dignity of an emperor. His eyes, however, held the softness of a brother.
“You take the heart of X?en-Sarai with you, Shō Meisha,” he said.
“And I leave my own here, with you,” she replied. She offered him a deep, respectful bow. “Rule well, brother. And,” she paused, her tone gentling into a sister’s advice, “cherish the bride who will soon come to you. She will be far from her home, too.”
ShunLi’s gaze grew thoughtful, and he gave an acknowledging nod. “Wisdom, as always, from you. I shall heed it.”
She then turned to Wu Mā and Fēng, who stood by the willows. Earlier, Alexander had approached them. He had bowed low, and in careful, heartfelt X?enguā, had said, “Thank you. For your kindness to my wife when she had little.”
Their stunned, tearful nods had said everything.
JingYi went to the old woman first. She took Wu Mā’s weathered hands in her own and bent to press her forehead gently against them—a daughter’s gesture.
“Wu Mā,” she whispered. “I’m leaving again. Who will scold me for working too late now?”
A tear traced the deep groove of Wu Mā’s cheek. Her grip was surprisingly strong. “A good husband will,” she rasped. “Let him. You listen to him when he tells you to rest. And you eat proper meals in that frozen place.”
It was all the wisdom JingYi needed: be loved, be cared for, be nourished.
“I will,” she promised, her own eyes burning.
She then turned to Fēng. The girl immediately dabbed at her eyes with her sleeve, trying for a professional smile that quivered at the edges. “Your Highness, I . . . I took the liberty of preparing a travelling kit. It’s all your favourite herbs—the ones you can’t get elsewhere.”
It was the perfect gift. Not from a subject to a princess, but from one healer to another. JingYi pulled her into a quick, hard embrace. “Thank you. Keep our cabinets in order. And trust your own diagnoses more. You have the eye for it.”
Fēng nodded, swallowing hard, her composure dissolving into a wobbly smile of pride.
Now, at the bustling river port of Changzihuā, the elegant X?en barges bobbed beside the formidable Tremorian ship that would carry them down the Jiandēng River and out to Issoirea.
JingYi stood for a moment, taking in the sights of her city one last time. Alexander stood at the gangplank, a steady, patient presence. He offered her his hand.
“Come,” he said, his voice rough with feeling, his blue eyes fixed on hers, seeing the bittersweet farewell in her heart and understanding it completely. “Let’s go home.”
She placed her hand in his, the limyerite ring solid and sure on her finger. With one last, steadying breath, she stepped onto the deck of the ship, leaving the shore of her past behind.
As the lines were cast off, the deck shifted gently beneath their feet. His hand flexed against her hip—that possessive pressure that now felt like coming home. Last night, those hands had worshipped every inch of her. She could still feel the ghost of them on her skin.
She smiled up at him, a teasing curve of her lips. “I have walked all my life, husband. I believe I can manage a deck.”
His expression stayed solemn, though a glint danced in his eyes. “The deck sways, and I did not cross Issoirea to have my wife stumble on the first day of our journey.”
“How very protective,” she murmured, making no move to pull away from his steady hold. “Though if you keep hovering, I’ll have to distract you.”
“With what?”
“A board game rematch.” Her mouth quirked. “Same rules as before—one question for every captured tile.”
She felt him smile against her temple.
“What about new stakes?” he murmured, voice skating warm along her ear. “Each tile I take, you surrender an article of clothing.”
Her brows rose. “On a crowded deck?”
“In our cabin,” he said, unbothered. “With doors barred, curtains drawn. I’ll start with something innocent—hairpins, ribbons, or a glove.” His voice dropped a pitch. “I can be a patient man.”
She laughed softly. “Patient? The man I once diagnosed with an irritable temperament from a stagnant liver speaks of patience?”
He pulled back just enough to raise an eyebrow. “Irritable temperament, is it? And here I thought you, being the great healer you are, would have cured me by now.”
“It is a chronic condition.” She rose on her toes to brush her lips against his. “But it can be managed with ongoing care. Daily doses of wife. Frequent kisses. The occasional board game victory.”
He caught her mouth in a kiss that was pure joy—light and warm and full of laughter. When he released her, his forehead rested against hers.
As the ship cleaved the water toward the open sea, the curved roofs of X?en-Sarai receded behind them, a silhouette of her past. Before them stretched the horizon—a blank page, a shared breath, the vast and waiting map of their life.
They stood together—warrior and healer, wolf and raven, two souls who had weathered every storm to finally find their way home.