Chapter 2: It Was Hungry

After mid-spring, the days began to lengthen, and Qingdai felt as though she’d waited a hundred years for night to fall.

Night belonged to the revelry of spirits and demons. It was the time when lustful and passionate beings roamed under the cover of darkness, seeking pleasure, while sinister creatures who fed on human essence prowled to hone their powers.

Until now, Qingdai had never once looked forward to the coming of night.

As dusk descended and the last gleam of sunlight vanished behind the soaring eaves, Qingdai’s excitement grew; she could barely restrain herself from returning to her lair.

It was the hour when lanterns flickered to life, yet tonight, the exquisitely adorned and resplendent Palace of Sweet Springs was not ablaze with its customary brilliance. Only a handful of dim yellow palace lamps lined the meandering corridors, adding an unexpected touch of melancholy to the gentle, breezy spring night.

But that was impossible.

The Palace of Sweet Springs—sanctum of the most exalted woman in the Great Yan, the bedchamber of Lady You Daidai, daughter of the Grand General of Cavalry—how could such a domain, belonging to a woman as proud and thorny as a rose, possibly be desolate or forlorn?

Everyone in the imperial palace, from the Imperial Consort down to the lowest maid, knew that wherever the Empress went, extravagance and splendor followed. Cold and cheerless, bleak and dismal—such a scene was unthinkable here.

Could it be that tonight the Emperor favored the Imperial Consort and thus slighted the Empress, causing her to withdraw in humiliation and meekness?

Or had disaster befallen the illustrious You family? Had the General perished for his country, and the three centuries of military might collapsed overnight?

Impossible—a mere month ago, the Grand General of Cavalry had returned victorious, earning the Emperor’s praise.

Some, thinking simply, surmised: perhaps the Empress had grown weary of luxury and was turning to frugality, seeking henceforth to be a model of virtue for the women of Yan? At this, others openly mocked: the Empress would only humble herself if the sun rose in the south.

No, the Empress’s abnormal behavior tonight surely meant she was plotting something. By tomorrow morning, the Imperial Consort would surely suffer for it.

Let the palace speculate as it will. In You Daidai’s bedchamber, darkness reigned so deep one could not see a hand before one’s face. Qingdai had dismissed all attendants and sat cross-legged on the bed, ready to use her powers to escape.

She was a spirit of considerable age; slipping away unnoticed should have been effortless—at least, so she thought. Yet on her first attempt, she could not move an inch; on the second, her brows knitted in frustration, her body convulsed and twisted; on the third, she found herself utterly imprisoned within this fleshly shell, her powers sealed.

Her eyes flew open into utter blackness—no stars, no moon—while a faint fragrance of peonies lingered at her nose.

She could not return.

Meanwhile, in the Palace of Radiant Splendor, the Emperor’s arrival brought joy to every eunuch and maid, though beneath their smiles glimmered faint worry. Their mistress had once again offended the Empress, and tomorrow she would surely be subject to fresh humiliation. Yet compared to the Emperor’s favor, what did that matter?

Besides, their lady was clever and resourceful; she rarely came to real harm—more often, she bested the Empress. The Empress, for all her station, merely relied on her illustrious birth. Without such a father and family, who could say whose head would wear the crown? In wit and cunning, the Empress was not worthy to compare to their mistress’s little finger.

To the Consort’s attendants, “fool” was the simplest and truest word for the Empress.

A single curtain divided the inner chamber, where lamplight glowed warmly against the chill of a mid-spring night, from the outer, where the maids waited.

On the divan, freshly bathed, Ji Ye reclined with a clear and noble air, an enchanting beauty in white nestled in his arms—her eyes alluring, cheeks flushed, her curvaceous form accentuated by the thin, translucent gown that barely concealed the red brocade beneath, patterned with mandarin ducks. The faint, intoxicating fragrance stirred Ji Ye’s heart, and desire rose.

It was the perfect moment for lovers; had they not been interrupted, the night would surely have been drenched in passion, perhaps even sowing the seed for a child by next year. But there are no perfect nights in the palace.

If anyone dared interrupt the Emperor at such an hour, it would surely be a maid from the Empress’s palace.

“Your Majesty, please, come see our mistress—she… she no longer wants the little prince,” pleaded Chun Mo, thinking of the chaos erupting in Sweet Springs, her heart sinking; it was as if she’d been cursed to serve such a mistress.

Outside the beaded curtain, Chun Mo knelt, sobbing softly. Within, the Consort had gracefully slipped from Ji Ye’s embrace, donned a robe, and seated herself opposite him, pouring vivid green tea from a white jade pot, steam rising.

She smiled gently, her face untroubled. “Go, A-Ye. It’s just as well—tomorrow I’ll be spared another lesson from the Empress. Perhaps, if she’s pleased, she’ll send me something delightful. I’ve already decided—the coral screen she acquired last month is exquisite; tomorrow, I’ll coax it from her.”

Her long lashes fluttered with mischief.

Ji Ye’s irritation softened; he smiled, dotting her brow in affection. “You…”

“Very well, I’ll go. Better that than let you suffer on her account. She always holds that position, but I know well the grievances you endure.” His smile grew more genuine as he mused, “Truth be told, you’ve never truly suffered under her; if anything, it’s she who…” He stopped himself. “But you know, and I know—that’s enough.”

“Respectfully sending off Your Majesty.” The Consort and her maids saw him out, her smile fading as soon as he left, replaced by endless darkness in her almond eyes—a glint of light, a touch of softness, and overwhelming patience.

As the imperial entourage departed, silence fell over the Palace of Radiant Splendor. The eunuchs and maids became statues, lips clamped, heads bowed, working with utmost care.

“My lady…” The chief attendant’s face contorted with unwillingness.

“It’s late. Extinguish the lamps.” The Consort undid her elaborate coiffure, her tone calm as she sat on her bed, fingers brushing the cold quilt, her smile ethereal. “If I could have your company day and night, held in your arms, I’d gladly trade places with her. What of suffering or censure? She sees you whenever she wishes and even carried your child. A-Ye, how long must I endure? Pity our unborn child…”

The lights went out, and darkness engulfed the Palace of Radiant Splendor.

The attendant seethed with resentment, yet could not deny that the Empress, for all her folly, was still Empress—the only woman who could stand beside the Emperor. No matter how much they despised her, if she reached out to take, they could only yield.

Their mistress lacked cunning, but wielded power mercilessly—unreasonable, shameless, and overbearing. Might made right: was that not her way?

When would the You family finally fall? That was the Consort’s last thought before sleep, her anger crystallizing into this single wish.

So it is with the ebb and flow of fortune. As darkness claimed the Palace of Radiant Splendor, the Palace of Sweet Springs blazed anew, lanterns dazzling.

Every time Ji Ye entered Sweet Springs, he felt his eyes ache—so much yellow, so much gold, it was almost blinding.

You Daidai loved imperial yellow even more than he did, craving golden brilliance to proclaim her nobility and uniqueness.

The thought irked him. He closed his eyes, opened them again, and forced himself into the bedchamber, face dark as thunder.

He silently cursed her name; he hated her intensely.

“My lady, no, you mustn’t!” Chun Mo rushed in, face blanching at the sight of her mistress’s posture on the bed.

Ji Ye arrived to find a crowd of kneeling maids, each more alarmed than the last.

He sneered inwardly; all her past transgressions flashed through his mind. Since marrying You Daidai, he felt as though a fishbone had lodged in his throat—never to be removed. That was the sum of his “love”—who could truly love what choked them?

He waved the maids away, forced a gentle, indulgent smile, and said evenly, “Daidai, you’re carrying my child—don’t be reckless.”

His tone and expression betrayed no concern; he might as well have been speaking to another man’s wife.

On the bed, You Daidai was upside down, head to the floor, legs braced against the wall, trembling as if trying to shake something loose from her head.

No one knew what she was doing except herself—she was just trying to shake her soul free from this mortal shell.

An hour passed with no success; her arms trembled with exhaustion. At the sound of his familiar yet strange voice, she blurted out, “Brother Ye.”

The words held a tenderness she could not explain.

Qingdai was dumbfounded, collapsing onto the brocaded quilt, to the alarm of Chun Mo and all the maids.

Ji Ye, steeling himself, moved forward. “You may leave,” he said.

“But—” Chun Mo protested.

“Out.” His patience had snapped; his face was as grim as a depleted treasury.

The maids scurried out, silent as shadows. They were all palace-bred, as solemn and stately as the palace itself. Ji Ye, raised here, matched them in every way—everyone except You Daidai. Whether it was Qingdai now or You Daidai before, she seemed never to have grown up, never to have belonged, never knowing the palace was called the Inner Forbidden City—supreme, where life and death hung by a thread.

“You Daidai, enough for tonight. Go to sleep—I’m tired, and there’s court tomorrow.” With that, Ji Ye pulled back the quilt and lay down fully dressed, treating You Daidai as if she were air.

He was the Emperor; his wrath could claim thousands, so why did he treat her this way? He hated and despised her, yet neither banished nor killed her—instead, he forced himself to speak sweetly.

Had this been the old You Daidai, she would have leapt into his arms at the slightest show of favor. But now it was Qingdai—a baffled spirit—locked in a tug of war with her own right hand, eyes wide in helpless effort.

Ji Ye noticed something amiss. Opening his eyes, he saw his Empress utterly ignoring him.

Yes, ignoring him—a rarity indeed.

She was hugging her own right hand as though greeting a long-lost lover.

“Daidai, I am already on your bed. No more games.” Ji Ye sat up, irritation clear.

“Brother Ye,” she called again, then quickly clapped a hand over her mouth. But her right hand, as if with a will of its own, reached out to cup Ji Ye’s cheek.

Ji Ye endured, took her hand, and pulled her into his arms, weary. “Enough. Sleep.”

He seemed to have lost all temper with her.

“You—” Qingdai struggled, but out slipped another, “Brother Ye.”

Her predicament was this: trapped in a human shell, tightly bound and powerless, a mere spectator seeing through You Daidai’s eyes, watching a soulless body act on habit—calling, touching—unable to stop it.

None of this arose from her true self.

How could she explain her current state? She curled up in the man’s arms, face flushed with springtime longing.

She was sure the soul of You Daidai had long since vanished.

“I’m tired. Sleep.” Ji Ye patted her back, then turned away, making his rejection clear.

She was a great spirit, well-versed in human ways—she understood his meaning immediately. She sat up, not out of anger, but because she considered herself a courteous demon; if someone detested her, she would politely withdraw.

Ji Ye, back turned, slowly opened his eyes, emotions stirring. A person’s character showed in their every action—tonight, You Daidai was far too docile, too unlike herself, too strange.

Behind the drapes, the bed became its own small world. On the nightstand, a lamp glowed through rose silk, casting the space in girlish pink.

For Qingdai, sleeping on such a delicate bed was a novelty, but her attention was elsewhere. The faint peony fragrance reminded her of her own flower valley, which brought some comfort, though she remained on edge, for beside her lay another presence—a man.

His scent was altogether different—breathing it in made her lightheaded, as though drunk, more intoxicating than any fairy’s wine.

Her heart beat wildly—tightening, fluttering, exhilarated. She clenched a fist, held her breath, and crept closer. In the bright lamplight, she picked up a lock of Ji Ye’s hair and sniffed—it smelled delicious.

Then hunger struck her, though her stomach was full and her body feverish. She began to miss her own cold-blooded form—forever cool, as people said, “cold-blooded snake”—yes, that was them.