In the bone-deep chill of early spring, the capital of the People’s Republic of Zhao stirred awake under a sky the color of old iron. Frost still clung to the palace roofs like the ghosts of yesterday’s snow.

Inside a heavy silk carriage rumbling down the stone road toward the Yun clan’s ancestral estate, Yun Xueyan sat alone, eyes open, unblinking. Her fingertips drummed once on the lacquered armrest, then fell still.

Outside, crowds pressed tight against the procession, craning their necks for a glimpse of the Frostroot Heir — the only daughter of Great General Yun Qingzhao, the Empress’s sworn sister and the pillar that propped the northern borders.

If they expected the girl inside to peek through the curtains, to wave or smile, they’d be disappointed. Yun Xueyan never bothered with pointless gestures.

---

Twelve years.

That was how long she had lived at the Xuantian Immortal Sect, since her mother sent her away at age six — to be honed into a blade no enemy could dull.

A blade, not a flower. Never a flower.

---

Her father’s letters had come faithfully — lines of gentle ink about home, about her baby brother Yun Zhen she’d never met. Her mother’s letters were rarer, shorter — single lines carved in neat brushstrokes: Cultivate well. Do not embarrass the Frostroot.

Xueyan never found this cold. She found it… efficient.

---

She shifted her gaze to the silk-covered box on the cushion beside her. Inside lay her formal robes for tonight — deep frost blue, silver vines embroidered at the collar, the mark of the Yun Matriarchal Line. Tonight, all Zhao would gather to witness her Coming of Age Ceremony — the ritual that crowned her the official heir.

Coming of age.

In truth, she had been old since birth.

---

Outside, the wheels jolted. Han Ye’s voice cut through the thin clamor — steady, calm:

> “Mistress, trouble ahead.”

She didn’t move. “How long?”

“Moments.”

He was her shadow, her blade in the dark — a loyal dog who barked only when it mattered.

---

Through the small carved window, she glimpsed the source: a slave market, pressed against the street like rot on a flawless jade tile. It stank of cheap incense and bruised flesh. Ropes coiled around wrists and necks — mostly men, some barely old enough to stand.

In the center, a vassal princess in red brocade held a whip high above her head, shrieking at an older merchant woman. Between them, on his knees, was a young man. Shackled, barefoot, hair falling in his eyes. Calm — too calm for his filthy state.

---

The whip cracked once — not at him, but at her carriage window. The lacquered wood shuddered. Xueyan’s eyes narrowed by a fraction.

---

Han Ye was already half out of the saddle.

“Want him dead, Mistress?”

She didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she studied the boy’s hands. In his palm gleamed a jade token — faint, but unmistakable: the mark of the Yue Lin Pawn, a name she’d glimpsed in the original manuscript. This broken, discarded pawn would one day be bait — the Female Lead’s bait — used to twist the Male Lead’s loyalty, to bloody the Frostroot name.

---

In the original plot, this boy’s end was pitiful. Humiliated, tortured, cast aside like garbage. Worse, he’d be turned on her, used in petty assassinations that only made the original Yun Xueyan look more monstrous — and more alone.

Illogical. Wasteful.

If she must carry this story on her back, she would prune the rotting branches. Even if it was tedious.

---

“Buy him,” she said flatly.

Han Ye didn’t blink. “Yes, Mistress.”

---

The vassal princess shrieked as Han Ye strode through the mud, cutting through the noise like a drawn blade. Her whip struck him — a mistake she regretted instantly as Han Ye’s hand closed on the leather strip and yanked her off balance. The chained boy didn’t flinch — his eyes stayed on Xueyan’s carriage.

---

Money changed hands. The merchant bowed so low her forehead touched her own knees. The princess spat curses in a foreign tongue until Han Ye flicked a silver coin at her face.

---

Inside the carriage, Xueyan watched it all with a mild detachment. Through the narrow window she met the boy’s eyes — dark, resigned, yet somewhere inside them… a glint. Not hope. Something sharper, older. Like he already knew he was a pawn waiting to be placed on a board.

---

The boy was dragged forward. The princess wailed her insult, but no one dared block the Frostroot carriage. Power was simple here: the bigger the crest on your robe, the deeper the bow.

---

Han Ye opened the door.

“He’s yours now.”

---

Yun Xueyan leaned forward slightly, taking the boy’s chin between two fingers — studying him as if he were an alchemy ingredient, a beast worth appraising. He didn’t resist. His skin was cold under her touch.

“Name.”

His lips moved — cracked but clear:

> “Zhao Fei.”

She noted it silently. No Yun, no blood worth claiming. But a use? Maybe.

---

“Get in,” she said. “Try to run — I’ll sever your tendons.”

Her tone held no threat. It was just truth. He didn’t protest. As he stepped in, Han Ye shut the door and swung onto his horse again.

---

The wheels rolled on, carrying the Frostroot Heir toward her ancestral estate, her birthday banquet, her waiting father and brother, and the web of whispers waiting to tangle her feet.

---

Outside, the crowds whispered:

> There goes the Frostroot Daughter — cold as the snow that birthed her.

Inside the carriage, Yun Xueyan’s eyes drifted shut for a moment. In that dark hush behind her lids, she remembered for an instant the tiny dorm back at her real-world university — papers, cold instant noodles, her friend’s hysterical cursing about “Fix my plot!”.

She had agreed, didn’t she?

So she would fix it — piece by piece, pawn by pawn.

By the time Yun Xueyan’s carriage passed beneath the frost-silver gates of the Yun Clan’s ancestral estate, the winter dusk had thickened into a velvet night. Lanterns blazed along the courtyard walls — white and pale blue, the Frostroot’s colors — flickering like fireflies caught in glass.

Han Ye jumped down first, motioning the new slave — Zhao Fei — to follow. The boy moved quietly, bare feet silent on the stone path, iron shackles still biting his wrists. His calm face drew curious stares from the clan servants lined up in rows, heads lowered to the frozen ground as the Frostroot Heir stepped down.

---

Inside the main hall, the air smelled of sandalwood and polished jade. Dozens of low tables stretched toward the ancestral shrine, where the Yun forebears glared down in carved stone. Red silk runners draped each seat, though only the matriarch’s line would take the central dais.

---

At the far end sat General Yun Qingzhao, clad not in her battlefield armor but in deep indigo robes that hinted at restrained elegance — and hidden blades. Her long hair was threaded with froststeel pins, each one a medal from some distant campaign.

Beside her stood a slender, mild-faced man in scholar’s blue: Li Wei, the Empress’s brother, Xueyan’s father — gentle smile, restless fingers hidden in his sleeves.

Near him, a boy of twelve fidgeted with the ceremonial jade clasp at his collar. Yun Zhen — wide-eyed, curious, cheeks flushed from running through the estate minutes before.

---

When Yun Xueyan entered, the hum of polite chatter dipped into uneasy hush. Servants knelt deeper; lesser relatives straightened their backs and lowered their eyes. Even the whispering wind seemed to hold its breath.

---

Yun Qingzhao’s gaze flicked to the shackled boy behind her daughter, then back to her daughter’s expressionless face. A single brow arched, but she said nothing yet.

Li Wei’s smile brightened awkwardly. “Xueyan,” he said softly, stepping forward to take her hands in his. “Twelve years. How you’ve grown.”

She let him hold her hands for exactly three seconds before gently freeing herself. “Father.”

Her voice was steady — neither warm nor cold. Just factual.

---

Yun Zhen, wide-eyed, peered around his father’s sleeve. “Sister?” His voice cracked, more curious than shy.

Xueyan turned her eyes on him — the first flicker of something close to surprise touched her face. The boy looked exactly like the father: soft-featured, delicate-boned, not built for blades or froststeel. Yet his eyes were sharp — sharp enough to notice the shackled figure behind her.

---

“Your brother,” Li Wei said quickly. “He’s been waiting to meet you for so long.”

Xueyan only nodded once. “Zhen.”

He swallowed, then blurted, “Can I see your sword?”

A brief silence. Xueyan’s fingers brushed the frost-blue scabbard at her hip. Then she turned slightly, letting him see the hilt — an unspoken ‘yes’. The boy’s grin flashed wide before their mother’s voice cut through the fragile warmth.

---

“What is this?”

General Yun Qingzhao’s voice wasn’t loud — it didn’t need to be. The entire hall seemed to lean closer.

Her eyes locked on Zhao Fei, still standing just behind Han Ye, head bowed. The sight of a shackled male slave at the Frostroot Banquet made a few distant cousins press napkins to their lips in polite horror.

---

Xueyan answered evenly. “A waste piece from the slave markets. He’s mine now.”

---

Li Wei flinched slightly. Even he knew the court gossip well enough — purchasing a male slave in public would ignite whispers. The Imperial clan might tolerate the Yun clan’s arrogance on the battlefield, but the court adored scandals that could be twisted into leverage.

---

Yun Qingzhao didn’t glance at her husband. Her frost-edged eyes stayed on her daughter. “Why?”

“He’s useful,” Xueyan said simply. “Better I hold the knife than someone else.”

---

A faint flicker of approval sparked at the corner of the General’s mouth. Cold-blooded, precise — exactly what the Frostroot Heir should be. Her mother leaned back slightly, drumming her fingers on the armrest.

---

“Fine. Chain him up in the side hall. He’ll be branded tomorrow at dawn — our crest.”

Zhao Fei didn’t flinch. Neither did Xueyan.

---

Li Wei opened his mouth — closed it. His gentle protest died under Qingzhao’s steady glare. Yun Zhen, however, tugged his sister’s sleeve.

“Does it hurt? The branding?” he asked, curiosity outweighing fear.

“Only once,” Xueyan said, voice flat. The boy nodded as if satisfied — it was an honest answer, and to him, honesty was warmth enough.

---

Servants ushered Zhao Fei away. Han Ye followed in his shadow, ensuring no mishaps — a loyal ghost at Xueyan’s command.

---

A gong rang three times. A steward’s voice cut the hush: “The banquet begins!”

---

---

Hours later, after the clan toasted a dozen cups to Xueyan’s future, to the Empress’s favor, to the Frostroot’s unbroken power, the Great General beckoned her daughter closer. Li Wei and Yun Zhen were led away by a discreet wave of her hand — no men needed for this talk.

---

Behind the shrine wall, the ancestral incense drifted in cold spirals. Yun Qingzhao spoke first, voice low, every word a test.

---

“You’re grown now. The Imperial Court wants you wed before next spring.”

---

Xueyan didn’t flinch. She had read this too — the original plot. A string of farcical blind dates, political bartering disguised as matchmaking, a waste of time for someone who never understood the currency of soft laughter and coy glances.

---

“Decline them,” she said.

Qingzhao’s eyes narrowed. “You refuse your Empress’s word?”

“I’ll marry when it suits the Frostroot — not the throne.”

A silence. Frost met frost — mother and daughter, same steel spines coiled in different bones.

---

Then, unexpectedly, Yun Qingzhao laughed once — dry and sharp. “Good. A flower’s roots must be harder than its petals.”

She reached out — her palm landed heavy on Xueyan’s shoulder. A general’s grip, not a mother’s.

---

---

By midnight, Xueyan stood alone under the ancestral courtyard’s bare plum trees. Frostroot petals — pale ghosts — drifted past her boots.

Behind her, hidden in the shadows, Zhao Fei waited quietly under Han Ye’s watchful eye — a knife she had pulled from the mud. Another piece on the board.

Above her, the palace towers loomed beyond the estate walls — a reminder that the real battle was never just cultivation or swordplay. It was power. It was bloodlines. It was stories twisted by careless authors she now had to mend, one lie at a time.

---

The wind whispered through the branches.

---

“So be it.” she murmured — words spoken to no one but the night, the shrine, and a world she never chose but now owned by sheer logic.

---

At dawn, the Frostroot estate’s training grounds rang with the crisp clash of blades. Even during her brief return, Yun Xueyan did not allow her daily routine to slip — each movement of her froststeel sword drew thin arcs through the mist, a silent vow that no softness would ever rot her edges.

Near the edge of the courtyard, Zhao Fei knelt on the flagstones. His wrists were unchained now — Han Ye had removed the shackles before branding the Frostroot sigil into his shoulder. The fresh mark was hidden under clean linen, but he showed no sign of pain. Instead, he watched her — eyes patient, too calm for a boy discarded as a slave.

---

When her final strike landed, Xueyan sheathed the blade and tossed her sweat-dampened cloak at Han Ye.

“Feed him,” she said, without glancing at Zhao Fei. “Then dress him properly. He’s not to crawl around this estate like a stray dog.”

Han Ye dipped his head, voice mild. “Yes, Mistress.”

---

---

Inside the Frostroot manor, word of the branded boy spread like wildfire through the servants’ halls and the minor cousins’ quarters. Whispers flickered — some daring to wonder if the Heir meant to take him to the capital court. What use could a Frostroot Matriarch have for a lowborn male, if not as a bed slave or bait?

---

By mid-morning, a summons arrived — silken scroll sealed with the Imperial Li sigil, the Empress’s personal command: Attend the Jade Phoenix Hall before dusk.

---

Xueyan read the summons once, then set it aside on her desk. Zhao Fei stood near the doorway, his hair combed back neatly, dressed in a pale robe that made him look almost noble — if not for the thin silver collar locked around his throat.

“Do you know how to read?” she asked suddenly.

He blinked once, then nodded. “Enough to serve, Mistress.”

“Good.” She handed him a stack of older court decrees. “Memorize these. If you’re to stand behind me, you’ll carry what I won’t waste space for.”

He bowed his head, taking the papers without a word of protest.

---

Han Ye watched from the side, arms crossed. “He’s quiet,” he noted when Zhao Fei left the chamber to kneel in the outer hall.

“He’s meant to be,” Xueyan said. “If he starts talking too much, cut out his tongue.”

She said it without venom — a plain statement of fact. Han Ye only smirked. “Understood.”

---

---

By dusk, the Frostroot carriage once more rolled through the capital gates — this time toward the Jade Phoenix Hall, seat of the Imperial Li clan. Lanterns bobbed in the winter twilight, guarded by soldiers clad in crimson armor worked with gold thread.

Outside the great bronze doors, the marble steps crawled with courtiers in embroidered silks — each bowing low as the Frostroot heir passed. Many eyes darted to Zhao Fei, who followed two steps behind her, his collar hidden under a high collar of pale blue silk.

---

Inside the hall, warmth pressed close — sweet incense, drifting harp music, the rustle of sleeves as the nobility gathered for the seasonal audience.

At the dais, the Empress — Li Mingzhu — sat draped in robes so heavy with pearls they shimmered like frost under torchlight. Beside her, the Crown Princess Li Jiawen, her only daughter, leaned close to whisper now and then, lips curved in a half-smile that never reached her cold eyes.

---

Yun Xueyan stepped forward, spine straight, froststeel crest glittering at her collarbone. She bowed, but did not kneel — the Frostroot line only knelt to their own dead.

---

The Empress’s dark gaze flicked from Xueyan’s face to Zhao Fei, then back again. The corner of her mouth twitched in something like amusement.

---

> “Xueyan.” Her voice rang soft and clear. “Twelve years we have not seen you in my hall. You return with… a pet?”

---

Murmurs rippled down the length of the gathering. Some ministers hid smiles behind painted fans.

Xueyan met the Empress’s eyes without blinking. “He is Frostroot property now — a pawn to be used as needed.”

Li Jiawen spoke next, voice sugar-sweet, laced with barbs. “A slave bought from the street? Dear cousin — did the Frostroot coffers empty while you hid in your mountain nest?”

A few courtiers chuckled under their breath.

---

Xueyan did not turn her head toward the Crown Princess — to her, Li Jiawen’s taunts were as fleeting as mist.

“I purchased what others wasted. Waste is offensive.”

---

A flicker of irritation crossed Jiawen’s painted face — the Frostroot girl never rose to bait. Beside her, the Empress only laughed softly.

---

> “Spoken like your mother,” Li Mingzhu said. “Cold as the steel she wields. But steel must be tempered in fire, not just frost.”

---

She leaned back on her throne, fingering a pearl ring. “The court expects your betrothal to be settled this season. You’ve refused every name I sent. Tell me, niece — what sort of man will the Frostroot accept?”

---

A hush fell. Courtiers leaned closer, eager for fresh scandal — perhaps a glimpse of the famous heir’s heart, rumored to be colder than the northern peaks.

---

Yun Xueyan’s gaze drifted briefly toward the golden pillars, the silk banners dancing in the heated air. Love meant nothing to her — a puzzle piece for other people’s games.

“I will wed a man when it is useful to the Frostroot. Not before.”

---

Some gasped at the blunt defiance. Li Jiawen’s fan snapped shut with a crack like ice breaking.

---

The Empress only smiled, slow and sharp. “So be it. But remember — every unwed branch weakens the trunk. Even a Frostroot withers alone.”

---

A veiled threat, but Xueyan felt no sting. She dipped her head once more — a bow, not submission.

---

Behind her, Zhao Fei kept his eyes on the floor, unreadable. Only Han Ye, lingering in the shadows near the doors, caught the flicker of cold calculation in Xueyan’s eyes — the gears turning beneath her perfect stillness.

---

---

When the audience ended, and the Jade Phoenix Hall emptied, Li Jiawen lingered at the steps outside. Her lacquered nails tapped on her jade fan.

---

“Cousin,” she called, as Xueyan passed with Zhao Fei in tow. “Take care. Some pets bite when the leash snaps.”

---

Xueyan didn’t break stride. Zhao Fei lifted his head slightly — his eyes met the Crown Princess’s for half a breath. Something in that silent look made Jiawen’s fan still for an instant — just long enough for Han Ye to catch the faint, cold smile ghosting across Zhao Fei’s mouth before he lowered his head again.

---

---

The carriage rolled back through the frostlit streets. In the shadows of the capital, rumors coiled tighter — a Frostroot heir who would not wed, a branded slave too calm to break, an Empress whose patience thinned by the season.

---

Inside the carriage, Yun Xueyan sat in silence, eyes half-closed, mind turning over plots she’d once skimmed as fiction. If the world demanded she play villain, she would be the final villain — but she would do it cleanly, logically, and on her terms.

Beside her, Zhao Fei sat straight-backed on the floorboards, shackled in loyalty for now — but even a pawn might be useful if one knew when to sacrifice it.

---

Outside, the frost began to fall again — thin flakes drifting down to cloak the capital in pale silence.

---