It took her a moment to process, and then she turned around, her eyes bright with realization.

But she saw the boy’s back to her, his slender, solitary figure sinking into the dim shadows of the room.

He wore the same indifferent, cold demeanor, as if he hadn’t spoken at all.

She had foolishly thought that by saying thank you, the tension between them would be erased.

How wrong she was.

Jiang Rao’s shoulders slumped, her head lowering as she turned and left.

Rong Ting’s gaze remained fixed on the pouch in his hand, though his ears were attuned to the sound of her footsteps.

She was small, her steps light and delicate, but she walked quickly. The crunch of her feet in the snow grew softer, gradually fading away.

Until, finally, it vanished entirely.

Only then did he turn his head, his gaze sweeping over the snowy courtyard.

On the vast, white snowfield, a small trail of footprints had appeared.

He looked down at the pouch in his hand, his long fingers slowly curling around it, holding it tightly in his palm.

No one had ever made him a pouch before.

This old pouch had been dirty since the day he found it.

But now, it felt unexpectedly fresh and clean.

…

That night, the north wind howled.

The worn wooden window couldn’t block the biting cold, creaking and groaning as the wind blew through, making the room as damp and cold as the outdoors and the bare white walls seemed empty.

In the darkness, Rong Ting grimaced in pain, cold sweat beading on his forehead.

From the next room, Wang Zhou’s snoring was thunderous. Rong Ting curled up under the blanket, shivering.

He accidentally rolled off the bed, and when he tried to push himself up using the bed for support, he found he lacked the strength. Resigned, he lay on the floor instead.

The floor was unbearably cold, and the thin blanket barely covered him, offering no warmth. It was impossible to sleep in such conditions.

His dark gaze fixed on the endless night, the world a blur of black. It felt like he had returned to the cold nights of his childhood.

The nights when his brothers had locked him in the cold palace.

Countless concubines had died there—some from hanging, others from illness. They locked the door and wouldn’t let him out.

The wailing winds howled through the cracks in the window, cutting through the air. Small and frail, he huddled under a table, trying to shield himself from the biting cold.

In the dark, the sound of rats gnawing echoed, but he didn’t dare blink. His eyes remained fixed on the door, waiting, desperately hoping for someone to open it.

But all he got was another night of endless cold and darkness.

These nights of barely hanging on, enduring the cold and despair without end, felt like they would never stop, endlessly grinding away at his hope, as though the night would last forever.

Now that he was grown, he looked at the door with no expectation that anyone would come.

As dawn began to break, bringing the first rays of sunlight to warm his body a little but the place was far from the cold solitude he felt.

Royal Palace.

In the splendid Jinxi Hall of the palace, warm stove blazed on all sides making the room as warm as spring. The furnishings were luxurious and grand. On the table, a thin wine was heated, filling the air with the aroma of food and drink.

Emperor Zhao, Empress Jiahe, and their twelve-year-old seventeenth son were sitting together, enjoying a late-night meal, the atmosphere warm and harmonious.

Noticing the pleasant mood, Empress Jiahe smiled and, with a hint of pride said to Emperor Zhao. “Our Xiao Shiqi has been practicing archery diligently lately and has made significant progress. Would Your Majesty like to see?”

Emperor Zhao who had a particular fondness for archery, became immediately interested upon hearing this and ordered a eunuch to bring the bow and target.

The Empress, thinking that her son could impress the Emperor with his archery skills and gain his favor, felt a sense of delight in her heart. She smiled, her lips curving upwards.

The Seventeenth Prince eagerly rubbed his hands together, stepped forward, and shot an arrow. However, it missed the target and struck the wall.

It was just one arrow, and although Emperor Zhao said nothing, the Empress’s face immediately fell.

Then, the Seventeenth Prince shot again, and once more, the arrow flew wide.

The Empress’s expression turned colder, her face hardening with every failed attempt.

Out of the last ten arrows, only one came close to hitting the target.

Seeing this, the Empress grew anxious, nearly wishing she could step in for her son and give it a try herself.

She had told him to practice diligently, so how had he ended up like this?

The smile that had once lingered on Emperor Zhao’s face slowly faded, revealing traces of displeasure.

The Empress awkwardly laughed, trying to excuse her son, saying. “Xiao Shiqi has been busy with his studies lately. He’s been working so hard; he must be a bit tired.”

Emperor Zhao furrowed his brow. “Archery also depends on natural talent. It’s not enough to just put in the effort. Perhaps Xiao Shiqi has other strengths; there’s no need to fixate on this.”

His fingers tapped restlessly on the table, and then he suddenly shifted the conversation. “How is Xiao Jiu doing lately? I remember his archery skills were quite good.”

The Empress froze, momentarily stunned.

Emperor Zhao had many children—seventeen in total, of which twelve survived, excluding those who had died young.

Among the seventeen princes and princesses, Rong Ting who was ninth, had a mother of lowly status. She had been a palace maid, but her beauty had caught the Emperor’s eye, leading to his favor. She became pregnant, but unfortunately, she died during childbirth due to complications, leaving Rong Ting without a mother.

Rong Ting was born motherless and, shortly after his birth was sent to be raised by Empress Jiahe.

The world praised Empress Jiahe for her gentleness and grace, treating other people’s children as her own, but they did not know that she was outwardly kind while inwardly as poisonous as a serpent.

Although she took Rong Ting in, it was only to gain the Emperor’s and the public’s admiration for her generosity. Deep down, she harbored hatred for the palace maid who had won the Emperor’s favor. Not a single day did she ever treat Rong Ting as her own child, and she took her revenge on him.

Though Rong Ting was raised in her household, he lacked a mother’s care, suffering from neglect and poverty, abandoned within the palace, as insignificant as a weed.

From a young age, he was frail and introverted, often hidden behind the crowd, unnoticed. However, when he was thirteen, during a visit from foreign dignitaries bearing tributes, he surprised everyone by winning three consecutive matches against the foreign men. His success left a profound impression.

During a hunting trip, the young Rong Ting drew his bow and never missed a shot, full of vigor and confidence.

Emperor Zhao was delighted, showering him with praise.

This made Empress Jiahe extremely wary of him.

Unlike previous dynasties, where the eldest son was made crown prince, the Great Zhao Empire passed the throne to the most capable rather than the eldest. Emperor Zhao had never named a crown prince. If, in the end, her own son, Xiao Shiqi were to be overshadowed by a son born to a lowly palace maid, how could she bear such a blow?

Last autumn, during a hunting trip, she secretly sent assassins to injure Rong Ting’s legs. She then concocted a story about the chaos in the capital, claiming the culprit had escaped, and suggested that the countryside was a more suitable place for him to recuperate. She promised that the imperial physicians’ prescriptions would be followed, and Rong Ting was sent to the countryside under the guise of healing.

For the past year, Emperor Zhao had not asked about Rong Ting, so his sudden question today caught Empress Jiahe off guard, causing her to break out in a cold sweat.

However, after years of living in the depths of the palace, she had developed a remarkable level of composure and self-control. She quickly suppressed her fear, regained her calm expression, and responded. “I send someone to inquire about Xiao Jiu every month. The latest report says his leg has recovered well, but full recovery will take some more time.”

A flicker of doubt crossed Emperor Zhao’s face. “Xiao Jiu has been gone for a year. Why does it still take more time for him to recover?”

Empress Jiahe pressed her palm, her eyes darkening slightly as she replied steadily. “During the autumn hunt, Xiao Jiu was badly injured by assassins. The wound was so deep it reached the bone. Even the imperial physicians said it would take longer for him to recover. He needs more time to heal, which will be beneficial for his body.”

Upon hearing this, Emperor Zhao’s face showed a trace of regret. He instructed, “Next time you send his allowance, make sure to also bring some good herbs from the Imperial Medical Bureau. Though the countryside is quiet and suitable for recuperation, I imagine the quality of the medicine there is not as good as in the palace.”

Empress Jiahe lowered her gaze, her expression one of extreme gentleness and thoughtfulness, like a well-versed concubine who understood her emperor’s heart. “Your Majesty, you care deeply for your son. I will certainly take care of your concerns. I’ll instruct the Imperial Medical Bureau to send the herbs and have them delivered the next time someone visits Xiao Jiu.”

Emperor Zhao nodded in satisfaction. After a light evening meal, he left the Jinxiu hall.

Empress Jiahe watched him leave with a soft, gentle gaze, but once he turned the corner, her expression changed drastically.

She replayed the earlier scene in her mind: she had instructed her son to perform well in front of Emperor Zhao, but instead of gaining admiration, he had earned disapproval for his lack of talent, which reminded the emperor of Rong Ting. She felt a mix of regret and hatred, her eyes cold and sharp, as if laced with poison.

She punished Xiao Shiqi by making him stand facing the wall for half an hour. Then, she summoned a maid and ordered her to throw away all the herbs that had been brought from the Imperial Medical Bureau into the palace’s gutters, feeding them to the stray dogs that roamed the streets.

…..

The cold wind howled through the night, only easing when the first light of dawn began to break.

Rong Ting’s legs had been pressed against the cold floor all night. The unrelenting pain kept him restless, preventing him from finding any comfort, and he remained awake throughout the night.

As the morning light filtered in, he lowered his gaze to his weak, injured legs. Dark bruises marred his skin, and his eyes, cold and lifeless like still water, reflected his bleak thoughts.

His leg injuries had worsened.

It seemed they might be beyond recovery.

=^_^=