In the mortal realm, by April, all blossoms have faded.

In the late spring of the sixteenth year of Chengxiao, the Crown Princess, Lady Xu, fell victim to an assassination and met her death. The entire nation mourned; she was buried with great honor in the imperial mausoleum.

...Late spring... Once again, it was late spring.

In the late spring of the eighth year of Chengxiao, he had learned of Azhao’s death in just this way, never getting to see her one last time.

In the late spring of the sixteenth year of Chengxiao, he was far away in the western frontier; his Crown Princess had fallen from a cliff and disappeared, and once more he did not see her at the end.

Perhaps it was precisely because of these two events that, in all the decades that followed, Fu Lancheng could never welcome the arrival of late spring. In the shadow of the palace’s thousandfold corridors, the gardens bloomed in profusion, a riot of color stretched for miles in the spring breeze, yet the Crown Prince’s brow was always touched by a cold indifference. He disliked spring, and he disliked the month of April.

The Empress had taken to her bed in grief for days on end. The Emperor could do nothing to ease her sorrow but wait for Fu Lancheng to return from Cliff Zhaoguan to the palace and preside over the Crown Princess’s funeral himself. Yet Fu Lancheng, after searching the cliffs for half a month and finding nothing, immediately rode hard and fast to Wuxing Mountain. With no other choice, the Emperor ordered the Ministry of Rites to arrange the funeral according to the highest standards of the royal house.

Fu Lancheng remained at Wuxing Mountain for three whole days. When his attendants reported that the Emperor had conferred a posthumous title on the Crown Princess and asked him to return to the capital to preside over the mourning rites, he had barely spoken a word in all these weeks. Only upon hearing of the posthumous title did he slowly rise, his movements so sluggish that he nearly stumbled to his knees. Unsteadily, he regained his balance and went to open the door.

As he passed outside the meditation hall, he caught sight of a great peach tree in the courtyard, already budding with fresh shoots, its delicate pink blossoms swaying in the light. The Crown Prince stopped abruptly, gazing at the peach tree for a long time, unmoving. The abbot of Panlong Monastery, draped in a crimson kasaya, with white brows and a long beard, bowed and said, “Your Grace, this is an early peach tree; it should have bloomed a month ago, but because of the mountain’s chill, it blossoms here much later than elsewhere.”

Whether Fu Lancheng heard the abbot or not, none could say. After a while, he drew the long sword at his side and, with a single stroke, split the peach tree cleanly in two. The young monks and guards watching nearby all bowed their heads, not daring to breathe. A few braver souls glanced up, glimpsing the brutal, swift cut left in the wood—deadly and fierce.

They thought, This tree is surely doomed now...

Only the abbot’s expression remained unchanged. He spoke gently, “The sword in Your Grace’s hand is indeed a famous blade.”

The ferocity in Fu Lancheng’s eyes faded a little as he looked at the sword in his hand. After searching for a month, the guards had found only one sword at the base of the cliff. The survivors said it was the one the Crown Princess had wielded the day she was attacked—Solitary Grace.

She knew how to wield a sword? Xu Guiyi, raised in the gentle land of Ze, frail and often ill since childhood—she could use a sword? She had hidden many things from him, indeed.

After Fu Lancheng departed with his retinue, the young monks asked the abbot how to deal with the ruined peach tree. The abbot only recited softly, “When all the flowers in the world have faded in April, the peach blossoms in the mountains begin to bloom,” and turned away.

He was right. For Fu Lancheng, mountain peach blossoms need never bloom again.

In the Eastern Palace, Cheng Hewei sat on the floor of the Hall of Eastern Radiance, her whole body trembling. In her arms she clutched a light green jacket that Xu Guiyi had often worn in life, her tears falling in endless, silken streams.

In late spring of the eighth year of Chengxiao, her Azhao had died—dead at thirteen, in the brightest flush of youth.

In late spring of the sixteenth year, Xu Guiyi too had died—dead at twenty-three, in the prime of her life.

She had barely awakened from the nightmare of Azhao’s departure, and had once, in her boundless joy, believed that Xu Guiyi was her Azhao. Yet her dreams shattered over and over. Again and again, she watched her beloved ones leave, powerless to stop them.

That night, a fierce wind whipped up; thunder rolled, and a sudden downpour broke over Guangling. In a single night, all the peach blossoms of the Eastern Palace fell. By morning, most palace staff were sweeping away the petals in the courtyards. As the long wind blew, Lu Zhirou supported Cheng Hewei out of Chunhui Hall. Looking upon the drifting peach-blossom snow, her tears blurred her vision once more.

“Your Graces, the Crown Prince... the Crown Prince has returned to the palace,” a young attendant hurried in to report.

Cheng Hewei and Lu Zhirou showed little change in their mournful expressions. Cheng Hewei’s tears flowed numb and unending, while Lu Zhirou bit her lip to stifle her sobs, raised her hand, and said sorrowfully, “We understand. You may go.”

When Fu Lancheng returned to the Eastern Palace, he was met by a hall of mourning: black cloth, white paper, everyone in mourning dress. The weeping that had sounded intermittently ceased entirely when Fu Lancheng entered; a dreadful silence fell.

Nurse Wu and Xiyue had cried their eyes red, clinging to each other for comfort; Qingyu stood quietly to the side, silent and tearless; in the side hall, Xu Zhouyan and Lady Shen looked haggard and withered. From the House of Duke Cheng'en, Xu Zhuning, only days after childbirth, wailed to be allowed to attend but was forcibly kept in her chambers by Xu Chengzhen.

Fu Lancheng gazed fixedly at Xu Guiyi’s memorial tablet. The last memory he had of her face was that day beneath the Jiu Hua Gate, snow drifting down from the sky to brush his brow and her eyes. She had stepped forward and gently brushed the snow from his brow; for once, he had returned the gesture, softly dusting the frost from the corner of her eye.

She had looked at him quietly, composed and gentle, serene as a clear pool. Smiling, she had said, “I shall await Your Grace’s return here in Guangling.” At the time, he had been somewhat lost, but as his fingertips left the corner of her eye, he managed at last to give her a faint smile.

He had never imagined that this would be the sum of their lives together.

At this memory, a pain gripped Fu Lancheng’s heart, an anxious unrest surging up once more—just as in years past, as if he were drowning in a deep sea, unable to open his eyes or draw breath. The feeling was achingly familiar.

The officials from the Ministry of Rites, seeing Fu Lancheng enter, had intended to discuss arrangements with him. But the Crown Prince, standing before the Crown Princess’s memorial, suddenly let out a chilling laugh. His laughter was sharp, choked with sobs, rising in the solemn, silent mourning hall—clear, uncanny, and growing ever louder.

The Crown Prince... has he gone mad? Should they summon the imperial physicians at once? Or report immediately to His Majesty? The onlookers were struck dumb with fear by Fu Lancheng’s reaction, at a total loss.

The next day, the Emperor ordered Xie Xu of the Ministry of Rites to bring the draft of the posthumous title for Fu Lancheng’s review. At that moment, Fu Lancheng held a plain jade pendant in his hand, concealed within his sleeve so none could see its style or quality.

“Your Highness, these are the posthumous titles prepared by the Ministry of Rites for the late Crown Princess. His Majesty requests your personal review.” Xie Xu bowed as he spoke.

Fu Lancheng lifted his gaze and instructed Qingyu at his side, “You may go.” Qingyu straightened from her kneel, wiped her tears, bowed, and withdrew.

Xie Xu promptly offered the booklet with both hands. “Your Highness, please take a look. If they are not to your liking, you may speak directly to me—we can revise them as needed.”

Once Xie Xu and the others had departed, Fu Lancheng at last revealed the jade pendant in his hand, staring at it with such intensity that he seemed determined to carve out the character “Pei” from its surface.

He had seen such a jade before.

The late Pei Zhaojin once had an identical piece, but hers was engraved with the character “Pei”—a symbol of her family’s glory.

The one Fu Lancheng now held—given to him just now by Qingyu—had been entrusted to Qingyu by Xu Guiyi at the very end. It was pure white, flawless, with no inscription.

Though it was not Pei Zhaojin’s, Fu Lancheng knew: aside from the Pei clan, where else in the world could such jade be found?

Qingyu had said, “The Crown Princess told me, if Your Highness is ever troubled and cannot see the truth, go to see Marquis Gongmin. He will tell you.”

Marquis Gongmin—Nangong Mingchen...

He recalled, in a haze, that on the snowy slopes of Cuolan Mountain, Nangong Mingchen had once said to him, “Better to cherish those before your eyes, than gaze longingly at distant lands.”

He also remembered clearly, before leaving the capital for the western frontier, when Nangong Mingchen came to see him off, his tone sharp, “Have you heard the saying, ‘Worn out shoes in search, yet what you seek comes easily at last’?”

So this is how it was. So this is how it was...

No wonder everyone recites: the more dazzling a soul in this world, the harder it is to keep them by your side.

For Fu Lancheng, the gap between loss and recovery, and recovery and loss, was but the span of a single day—a fleeting dream of deer.

By evening, the Ministry of Rites received the booklet returned by the Crown Prince’s attendants. After reading it, Assistant Minister Xie Xu’s face changed drastically and he hurried into the palace to seek the Emperor’s counsel.

The Ministry had proposed several posthumous titles, among which the Emperor had chosen “Jingyi.”

Yet the booklet now bore a changed title: “Jingxiaohuichen”—four characters. Never in the history of the realm had a consort of the Crown Prince received a four-character posthumous title at the first bestowal. It was unheard of—such length reserved for subsequent generations’ additions, never at first ennoblement.

They dared not defy ancestral custom, nor contradict the Crown Prince’s will, so they could only turn to the Emperor.

The Emperor at first refused, finding it absurd, and was about to reject the proposal when he paused, recalling the bonds of father and son, and the Crown Princess’s death while protecting the Empress.

The next day, the Emperor dispatched Xie Xu once more to the Eastern Palace to negotiate with Fu Lancheng. Xie Xu, all smiles, said obsequiously, “His Majesty feels the posthumous title for the late Crown Princess is still unsettled. If Your Highness was unsatisfied with our original proposals, we have revised them again.”

“...Your Highness, see here: Jingzhao, Jingxiao, Jingchun—all are excellent options. Which does Your Highness prefer? After all, a four-character posthumous title at first bestowal has never been done—it truly violates our traditions...”

No matter how Xie Xu pleaded, Fu Lancheng would not yield. During this time, Nangong Mingchen came to pay his respects. Xie Xu looked to him for help, hoping the gentle young Marquis would persuade the Crown Prince.

But Nangong Mingchen acted as though he hadn’t heard, turning away and, without a word, drew two sutra scrolls from his sleeve to offer before the late Crown Princess’s memorial.

So another day passed. Minister of Rites Cao Bin, seeking a compromise, suggested to the Emperor that a three-character title might be acceptable, not too disruptive of custom.

The Emperor, sighing long and hard in the Palace of Supreme Peace, finally acceded.

This time, Minister Cao Bin and Assistant Xie Xu together went to the Eastern Palace to negotiate. After nearly two hours of exhausting debate, Fu Lancheng relented and agreed to “Jingxiaocheng,” three characters. Overjoyed, the Ministry of Rites rushed back to report to the Emperor.

But then... the Emperor sensed something was wrong. Upon investigation, he found the character “Cheng” conflicted with Fu Lancheng’s own name.

And so, back and forth, the title was revised four or five times, until at last it was settled as “Xiaozhaohui”—three characters. Thus Xu Guiyi’s final posthumous title became: “Her Imperial Highness, Crown Princess Xiaozhaohui.”

The mourning of the royal house was the grief of the heir as well; all of Guangling lay shrouded in sorrow for more than a month.