As she spoke, she picked up a rge writing brush and wrote three characters: Ying Qionglou.

  Ying Qionglou raised an eyebrow—it was the first time he’d seen someone else write his name.

  The Empress’s calligraphy wasn’t delicate or graceful; it had a touch of sharpness to it. At first gnce, it wasn’t particurly outstanding, yet there was something captivating in its spirit.

  The ancients sometimes expressed their emotions through ink and brush, not just through the meaning between the lines, but through the very essence of the characters themselves.

  Sometimes, a single piece of writing could convey one’s feelings through the brushstrokes alone.

  That was what they called the meaning within the characters.

  Just like how swordsmen speak of "sword intent," or musicians speak of "musical intent," it was a subtle realm, something that could only be felt, not expined.

  Wumian continued writing:

  "The moon above shines on Wumian.It ought to be a pace of jade and clouds,Unafraid of cold at the heights.The moon wanes, as it always has,But may people live long,And share its beauty from afar."

  Ying Qionglou couldn’t quite describe the strange feeling that stirred in his chest. “If Su Dongpo knew you were altering his verse like this,” he said, “I wonder how he’d feel.”

  But despite the pyful bsphemy, he could vaguely sense what the Empress was truly trying to say between the lines.

  Wumian gave him a sideways gnce and smiled. “Well then, if you see Su Dongpo in your dreams tonight, remember to tell him for me.”

  (Transtor Xiaobai: Su Dongpo (苏东坡), also known as Su Shi (苏轼), was a famous Chinese poet, writer, calligrapher, statesman, and gastronome of the Song Dynasty (1037–1101). "Dongpo" (meaning "Eastern Slope") was his literary pseudonym, and he's often affectionately referred to by that name.)

  It was common at the time to say one dreamed of ancient sages—such remarks were never offensive.

  “…Alright,” Ying Qionglou pyed along with a nod.

  Wumian chuckled softly, setting that sheet aside and pulling out another.

  “What about Your Majesty? What will you write?”

  “…I’ll, ah… review some memorials,” Ying Qionglou said. “Lu Zhong, fetch them.”

  He had intended to rest tonight, but seeing the Empress so diligent, he would feel guilty doing nothing.

  Wumian reached out to stop Lu Zhong. “Don’t go. His Majesty isn’t trying to write, and I was thoughtless. He’s been exhausted tely—he should rest properly.”

  She set down her brush as well. “Why don’t we go out to the garden pavilion and talk over tea instead?”

  “Alright,” Ying Qionglou agreed, quietly thinking to himself that the Empress had become far more perceptive than before.

  They sat together in a small pavilion near Wumian’s swing. There were trees nearby, including pomegranate trees Ying Qionglou had once had pnted for her. Since they’d been recently transpnted, few bore fruit this year.

  Wumian thought they could be grafted next year. Maybe then the fruit would be plentiful and sweet.

  She also had plenty of jasmine blooming in the pace, the fragrance curling through the air like mist.

  The two of them sat drinking tea. It was peaceful and comfortable.

  The night breeze had begun to rise, cool and refreshing. Wumian tilted her head up to look at the stars above—what a beautiful night sky.

  It felt too perfect.

  Ying Qionglou noticed her gaze and looked up as well. “You like watching the stars, Empress?”

  “Don’t you?” Wumian turned and smiled at him. “Just think, perhaps each star in this vast sky is a massive world beyond our imagining. Some barren, lifeless. Some were torn by storms and lightning. Some cold like frozen hells, others bzing with eternal fire. And perhaps, just perhaps, some are like our own—with seasons, rivers, and life. Right now, there might be someone, somewhere out there, sitting with their beloved, drinking tea and looking up at the sky—just like us.”

  Then she raised her teacup to the heavens and murmured, “A toast to you.”

  A toast to who she once was.

  Ying Qionglou hadn’t said anything, but Lu Zhong instinctively followed her gaze upward—the Empress’s words had sounded oddly convincing.

  Ying Qionglou furrowed his brow and then rexed. “It’s an interesting thought. But if they really live on those stars… how do they not fall off?”

  Because of gravity, you silly man.

  But Wumian only smiled. “Who knows? Maybe from where they stand, we’re the ones who look like a star. And maybe they’re wondering how we don’t fall off either.”

  Ying Qionglou shook his head. “Alright. You have quite the imagination.”

  In those days, people believed stars were gods. The night sky was divine—an oracle of peace or disaster. They’d twist and shape the consteltions to interpret omens from above.

  But who could say they were wrong?

  People in the present could not truly understand the stars. And people in the future would not fully understand pnets either.

  Whether a thousand years ago or a thousand years from now, humankind remains equally ignorant.

  Yet this Empress of his—even if he brushed it off as childishness—had a certain captivating charm.

  “It’s getting te.”

  Wumian rose. “Yes, it is.”

  She held out her hand with a wink. “Your Majesty?”

  Ying Qionglou looked down and reached out to take her slender, soft hand as they walked back inside together.

  The Emperor, who hadn’t visited the inner pace in over ten days, was clearly excited. In bed, he devoured her again and again.

  But only he knew—through all of it, he kept thinking about that moment she raised her teacup to the stars. Her face glowed pale under the moonlight, her expression carrying a meaning he could not grasp, yet one that deeply drew him in.

  Wumian clung to his neck, whispering soft pleas in his ear, occasionally nipping at him pyfully.

  It left Ying Qionglou completely unsure whether she was genuinely begging or merely teasing.

  During the final round, she wrapped herself around him, and for the first time, he saw her react so genuinely on the bed.

  Her cheeks flushed, her teary eyes shimmered with a misty grievance, and her pink lips pouted as if in protest—but her body clearly told him how much she enjoyed it.

  He reached out and covered her eyes with his palm. “You’re too tempting.”

  Much ter, as cicadas sang and frogs croaked in the summer night, Wumian muttered, “Your Majesty is so annoying. From now on, don’t call me tempting.”

  What kind of domineering emperor talk was that? Good thing it came after the deed—otherwise she would’ve burst out ughing.

  By morning, Wumian awoke to find the Emperor had already left. Though the flood relief work had eased, there was still much to manage. Even without attending court, his duties piled up.

  Wumian had slept in that day, so much so that even Linshui’s repeated attempts to wake her had failed.

  By the time she got up, all the other consorts had arrived and were waiting.

  No need to specute what was on their minds. Though His Majesty had dined with Li Fei the night before, he had spent the night in Fengyi Pace.

  The Empress, certainly…

  When Wumian finally arrived, the consorts rose to greet her with proper courtesies. She waved a hand lightly. “Be seated. I’ve kept you waiting.”

  Hu Meiren suddenly chimed in, her voice too casual, “Your Majesty kept His Majesty company st night. Naturally, a te morning is to be expected.”

  Wumian took her seat, her expression calm as her gaze swept zily across the room. “Hu Meiren speaks too freely. Dock her sary for three months. She may leave.”