The red wedding candles burned low, their flames wavering like restless spirits beneath the carved beams of the bridal chamber. Amber light spilled across silk draperies and the canopy of the marriage bed, while thin curls of smoke rose from the bronze incense burner shaped like a qilin [a mythical creature symbolizing auspicious power and protection]. The air was heavy with the fragrance of ambergris incense [long valued in imperial households for calming the mind and warding off ill fortune], sweet and faintly bitter.
Bai Wan sat stiffly upon the edge of the wedding bed, her embroidered red veil already removed, yet her posture remained as rigid as if she still wore it. Between her fingers, she twisted her handkerchief until the fine silk creased. In her previous life, she had only seen Prince Ning once—just once. At that time, her consciousness had been slipping away like sand through broken fingers. She had not seen his face clearly; she had only felt it—an oppressive force, cold and absolute, like standing beneath a mountain peak in winter.
Life was truly unpredictable. Who could have imagined that she would open her eyes again, reborn into youth—and that the very prince who would one day command the court and terrify the capital would now lie before her, hovering between life and death?
She could not help but turn her head slightly. Only a glance. Just one glance. And she immediately lowered her eyes. Of course she knew the difference between men and women. As a physician’s disciple, she had treated countless patients—elderly men with sunken cheeks, frail widows, thin children, and poor villagers worn by hunger. She had attended noblewomen hidden behind screens and elderly officials coughing blood into embroidered cloths. She had rarely treated young men. Yet even with all her experience, this one was… too tall. Too broad. Too solid.
Her gaze darted nervously around the chamber instead: the marriage bed carved from dark rosewood, wider than ordinary beds by several chi [a traditional Chinese unit of length, roughly one-third of a meter]; the ceiling high and shadowed; the furnishings simple yet refined, each piece exuding quiet wealth befitting a prince. She studied the beams, the lattice windows, even the floor tiles. But she did not dare look at him again. Even though the man behind her was barely breathing, even though he lay unconscious, she did not dare.
Silence lingered like mist. Then—knock, knock.
A maidservant’s voice came softly from outside the door. “Princess Consort [Wangfei – the lawful wife of a Prince], may this servant speak?”
Bai Wan froze. Her title. She swallowed and forced out a faint hum of acknowledgment, careful not to let her voice tremble. Another voice followed—a young man’s, yet hoarse, as if worn by sleepless nights.
“This subordinate apologizes for disturbing Princess Consort. We have long attended to His Highness [Wangye – Prince Ning], but as today is the wedding night, it would be improper for us to enter. We must trouble Your Highness.”
Bai Wan blinked, stunned. The voice continued steadily.
“His Highness values cleanliness. He must be wiped down daily. The water should be lukewarm—neither too hot nor too cold. Afterward, dry him thoroughly to prevent chill. He must also have his lips moistened with tea water before rest, using clean cotton. Do not touch the cotton’s tip with your hand. He sweats heavily at night. The medicine prescribed is ‘hot’ in nature [in traditional Chinese medicine, certain herbs are classified as ‘hot’ or ‘cold’ in property]. You must wipe him every hour. His wounds have been bound by the Imperial Physician [Taiyi – official court doctor of the Imperial Medical Bureau]. Do not disturb the bandages. Avoid wetting the injuries.”
A pause followed. “And do not touch His Highness’s neck. Though unconscious, he remains… instinctively defensive.”
Bai Wan’s heart skipped. Her memory flashed back to that gaze in her former life—sharp, ruthless, overwhelming. She shrank further toward the foot of the bed. But the instructions were not yet finished.
“Burn ambergris incense through the night. The incense burner must not be moved—it affects the feng shui [the geomantic arrangement believed to influence fortune and vitality]. The candles must remain lit. The Master from the Imperial Observatory [Qintianjian – the bureau responsible for astrology and divination] warned that His Highness occasionally experiences soul-separation. Light will guide his spirit back.”
Bai Wan blinked. “…Soul-separation?” After a long hesitation, she ventured timidly, “When His Highness led troops at the border… was he equally particular?”
The man paused before replying calmly, “The borderlands are harsh. Conditions were different. Now that His Highness has returned to the capital, proper care is natural.”
Bai Wan fell silent. Outside, Chi Jun [personal guard and close retainer to Prince Ning] continued speaking for some time, listing details with meticulous seriousness. Bai Wan memorized each word carefully. At last, satisfied, Chi Jun withdrew. As he passed beneath the moon gate, Wei Han [another trusted guard of Prince Ning] stopped him.
“Are you certain this will drive her away?”
Chi Jun answered matter-of-factly, “The Earl of Guangling’s eldest daughter has been pampered since childhood. Once she realizes how troublesome serving His Highness is, she will retreat home.”
They did not know that the bride inside was not the pampered legitimate daughter.
Wei Han frowned. “But what if she harms His Highness?”
Chi Jun laughed lightly, pointing to the faint bruise upon his own neck. “What could a frail woman accomplish? She likely cannot even move His Highness. Besides, guards surround the residence. And if she acts foolishly…” His smile deepened. “His Highness might awaken and strangle her.”
Wei Han immediately felt awe.
Inside, warm water was brought. Bai Wan sat unmoving for a long time. No wonder her elder sister, Bai Heng [legitimate daughter of the Earl of Guangling], had fled in the previous life. Even these rules alone would suffocate anyone unused to hardship. Yet Bai Wan did not have the luxury of retreat. She tested the water temperature. A little too warm. She waited. Then she carried the basin back to the bed.
Gritting her teeth, she raised her eyes and saw him properly. He was not the burly, scar-faced warrior she had imagined. His nose was high and straight. His lips thin. His eyes—long and narrow, phoenix-shaped [fengyan – eyes associated with nobility and sharp intelligence]. Beneath his left brow lay a scar, pale but old. He looked fierce, but not crude. Not rugged. In fact—strikingly handsome.
Her breath caught. The charcoal brazier burned brightly, casting shadows along the planes of his body. She reached for his collar. Her slender fingers trembled. She withdrew abruptly, burying her face in her hands, only the tips of her ears glowing crimson.
“A physician must not harbor impure thoughts,” she whispered fiercely to herself. “If Master knew, she would call me a quack harming patients. It is merely flesh. A larger piece of flesh…”
Her blush deepened. Finally, she pulled his robe open. The fabric slipped aside, revealing strong pectoral muscles, firm and sculpted. Below them—eight distinct abdominal muscles, defined and hard. Bai Wan stared, then forcibly looked away. She wrung out her cloth and knelt beside him. Carefully—so carefully—she began wiping his chest, avoiding the bandaged wounds. Her hand was pale against his sun-bronzed skin. She did not notice the faint tightening of his brows, nor the subtle twitch of his fingers. She murmured softly as she worked.
“This wound lies half an inch from the heart… no wonder you remain unconscious. You are my lifeline now…”
When it came time to turn him over, she hesitated. “So long…” She pushed. Nothing. She pushed harder. Still nothing. His body was like carved stone. Was it possible for muscles to remain so taut while unconscious? Of course. A commander hardened by years of war.
Suddenly inspired, Bai Wan lay beside him. She braced herself. Kicked against his back. Pushed with all her strength. “Hey—!”
Success. But—thud. His head struck the wall. Silence.
Bai Wan froze. “Don’t die!” she cried, scrambling toward him. If he died, she would not survive. She checked his breath. Still there. She nearly wept in relief. Then she found it—a fresh, round swelling upon his head. “…Ah.” She clutched her own half-healed forehead wound in sympathy. This was truly disastrous.
At that moment—thump—from outside. “Princess Consort, shall we change the water?”
Dozens of black-clad guards hidden upon rooftops and within the courtyard had already drawn their swords at the sound of the impact. Bai Wan quickly covered Prince Ning with a quilt. “Yes, please,” she replied.
The maid Mo Xia [senior personal maid assigned to attend the Princess Consort] entered silently, replacing the water. Her eyes flicked toward Bai Wan—and widened faintly. Such strength from such a delicate bride?
“I was about to wipe His Highness’s back,” Bai Wan said awkwardly. “Would you assist?”
“This servant would not dare,” Mo Xia replied respectfully, and withdrew.
Night stretched long. Hour by hour, Bai Wan wiped away sweat, moistened lips with tea, replenished incense, and adjusted candles. She dared not sleep. Only at dawn, when his breathing steadied, did she finally drift off against the bedframe. Yet even in sleep, she felt it—a gaze. Cold. Sharp. Murderous. As if blades of frost pierced through her bones. She jolted awake after only two hours. Heart pounding, she turned. He lay exactly as before. Unmoving.
In the afternoon, Imperial Physicians arrived—two elderly men in official robes [court attire signifying rank within the Imperial Medical Bureau], accompanied by three younger physicians. They bowed briefly to Princess Consort Bai Wan and entered directly. Before she could follow, an elderly nanny stood behind her.
“Princess Consort, please wait. This servant is Huifang, attendant of Virtuous Consort Xian [Xian Fei – an imperial consort ranked below the Empress but above ordinary concubines].”
Bai Wan bowed slightly. “Aunt Huifang.”
“The Prince’s illness is for physicians to examine. We women should not interfere. The Consort has words to convey.”
Behind a sandalwood-inlaid rosewood screen, they sat. Huifang smiled faintly. “Her Highness was unable to attend yesterday due to sudden illness.”
Bai Wan lowered her gaze. “I would not dare take offense.”
Huifang’s tone softened, yet the meaning remained sharp. “The marriage was arranged by decree from the Imperial Observatory, to dispel misfortune from Prince Ning.” Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Though the bride is not the legitimate daughter…”
Bai Wan’s face paled. Huifang patted her hand. “In matters of life and death, rank may be set aside. So long as His Highness survives, it matters little who fulfills the ritual.”
The implication cut deep. Even Bai Heng would not have been enough, had she failed. Huifang continued, “Her Majesty harbors no resentment. Without that decree, no daughter of the Earl’s Manor would have sufficed.”
Rewards were presented. Then—a servant rushed in, whispering urgently. Huifang’s face changed dramatically. She slammed her hand on the table and stood up, exclaiming, “The Guangling Marquis’s Mansion has such audacity! How dare they harbor such malicious intentions and plot against the royal family!” Baiwan was startled and also stood up, shaking her head repeatedly, “I didn’t!”
Bai Wan stood abruptly. “I did not—!”
Huifang’s voice turned icy. “We shall report this to His Majesty and the Empress [Huanghou – the lawful wife of the Emperor and supreme woman of the inner court].”
Bai Wan clutched her sleeve desperately. “What happened to His Highness?”
Huifang shook her off coldly. “Princess Consort, you should consider how to explain deceiving the Emperor and marrying in another’s stead first.”
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