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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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“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.
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“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.
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Xueyan answered evenly. “A waste piece from the slave markets. He’s mine now.”
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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.
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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.”
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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.
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“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.
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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.
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Servants ushered Zhao Fei away. Han Ye followed in his shadow, ensuring no mishaps — a loyal ghost at Xueyan’s command.
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A gong rang three times. A steward’s voice cut the hush: “The banquet begins!”
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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.
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Behind the shrine wall, the ancestral incense drifted in cold spirals. Yun Qingzhao spoke first, voice low, every word a test.
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“You’re grown now. The Imperial Court wants you wed before next spring.”
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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.
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“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.
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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.
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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.
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The wind whispered through the branches.
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“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.
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