Chapter 80: Cold War

The letter from Liuyun lay close at hand, yet Ye Qianran did not touch it. Outside, the northern wind howled; her gaze lingered on the envelope. The drawing room was so silent it seemed one could hear the sound of flowers blooming. After a long while, as if steeling herself, she reached out to take the letter, but Juanbi, swift of hand and sharp of eye, stopped her. “Miss, you are married now. It would be better not to read this letter.”

Ye Qianran raised her eyes to look at her and said nothing.

Juanbi released her grip and knelt before her. “Miss, though Mr. Wei may seem frivolous and careless, as if nothing matters to him, I truly feel he is sincere toward you. Since you have chosen to marry him, you should let go of Young Master Liuyun.”

Ye Qianran bit her lip.

Juanbi took her hand. “What will it change if you read it? What if it brings only pain? You and he are no longer connected—don’t let him disturb your life again.”

Ye Qianran stared at her intently. Some resolve seemed to waver within her. Juanbi gave her hand a squeeze and nodded. “Miss, don’t read it. This letter can bring nothing good to your future.”

Ye Qianran closed her eyes. Her hand, still holding the letter, slowly sank down, yet her heart continued to wrestle, restless, as if some unnameable force was at work, stirring her thoughts into confusion. She opened her eyes, glanced at Juanbi, and tore open the envelope after all.

Juanbi let out a sigh. It was as if something in the air had fractured with a sharp crack. She stood and said nothing more.

“Qianran, I have lost count of how many times I’ve woken from dreams, only to find the space beside me still empty, without you. I step outside the tent, look up at the clear moon above the horizon, and then I hear a distant, cold flute—so lonely, so desolate, echoing the state of my own heart. The war rages on, but I am weary of it. This is not the righteous duty of a man when the nation is at peril, not the responsibility citizens must bear in the face of invasion; it is only the reckless warmongering and power struggles among the royal kin.

This war—its hunger to conquer is like a vast whirlpool, dragging all the innocent into its depths with irresistible force. The horns sound from all directions, the mighty river sinks beneath the sunset, the lonely city gates are shut. The geese’s mournful cries, the blaring of bugles between encampments—each sound gnaws at the heart. But none can escape: from general to soldier, all are victims. On the battlefield, I watch desperate faces sink before my eyes, helpless to save them, unable to turn back. War is, by its nature, a cruel thing.

I am a survivor among the dead and should feel fortunate, but all I have left is longing and sorrow for you. They come in mighty waves, overwhelming as floodwaters—I am powerless to resist and can only be swept along. I recall the way you smiled, the way you grew angry, your stubbornness, the hand I once held, the waist I once embraced... The memories are so vivid, but you are not here.

The last star has finally vanished beyond the horizon. I gaze at the sky, think of you one last time tonight. Tomorrow, the war resumes. I will place you in my heart, keep you there, and wait until the next deep, silent night to think of you again. Liuyun.”

Setting the letter down, Ye Qianran closed her eyes, a deep frown creasing her brow.

Juanbi could only sigh and slip quietly from the room.

As dusk fell, Ye Qianran stood by the window. Snow drifted in through the half-open sash; the northern wind slashed at her face like a blade. She stood unmoving. Night thickened. From within, looking out, the world was blanketed in white, pure as a primeval land untouched by humankind. The candlelight behind her stretched her shadow long. Wei Zhuang came up quietly and embraced her from behind, hoping to startle her. The moment his hands encircled her waist, Ye Qianran spun around and shoved him away with lightning speed. Taken aback by her reaction, Wei Zhuang staggered and almost lost his balance. When he steadied himself, he smiled gently. “Did I startle you?”

Ye Qianran, still shaken, stared at him. Wei Zhuang teased, “You look truly frightened.” He stepped forward, intending to take her hand, but Ye Qianran shifted slightly, deftly avoiding him. His hand hung awkwardly in midair. After a moment of confusion, he caught her anxious gaze, and a dim, rueful smile crossed his face. He walked around her and closed the window.

Ye Qianran instinctively stepped back, her voice barely a whisper. “Tonight, I’d like to be alone.” Wei Zhuang heard every word.

He turned to her; his tone was devoid of emotion. “What does that mean?”

Ye Qianran lowered her eyes to the floor. “I want to move back to the small house I used to live in.”

Wei Zhuang watched her for a while, a faint, cold smile playing at his lips. “Someone came by today, didn’t they?”

Ye Qianran said nothing.

A self-mocking curve touched his mouth, and he looked a little crestfallen. “So that’s it. No wonder.” Then he looked up, his face gentle again. “Since you don’t wish to see me, there’s no reason for me to stay. The one who should leave isn’t you—it’s me.” With that, he strode out, not lingering for a moment.

Huaniang happened to be coming in with a hand warmer. Seeing him leave, she asked in confusion, “Young master, you just got back—why are you leaving again?”

Without turning, Wei Zhuang waved her off and said nothing.

Watching his retreating figure, Ye Qianran breathed a sigh of relief, but her body suddenly felt drained, and she collapsed weakly into a chair.

Huaniang looked at her and sighed.

Another quarrel.

It was not until the following evening that he returned, reeking of wine, and sat across from her, staring fixedly. Ye Qianran said nothing, nor did he. After a while, he left again, this time staying away for three days.

Ye Qianran moved back to her former quarters, though she herself did not know why. Ever since reading Liuyun’s letter, every moment spent with Wei Zhuang felt like a betrayal of Liuyun, yet her reason insisted she was, in truth, betraying Wei Zhuang. She was trapped in a torment she could not escape. Even after four days of cold silence with Wei Zhuang, she did not know how to set herself free.

And during those four days, something happened—a bolt from the blue for Ye Qianran.

She was pregnant.

When the physician told her, Ye Qianran was struck dumb, as if thunderstruck.

She had never considered such a possibility.

Though she was married, she had never truly accepted it in her heart. Sometimes she would even feel, in a daze, that she had not wed at all. The wedding had been so simple it was easy to forget; at times she wondered if it had all been a dream.

But now, she was pregnant.

She had never thought about it, but reality pressed inescapably before her.

Neither joy nor sorrow—her mind was a blank.

Once she recovered, Ye Qianran instructed Huaniang not to tell Wei Zhuang; she wanted to tell him herself. Huaniang agreed with a smile, being someone who understood such feelings—a woman wanting to tell her husband herself, hoping to see his joy.

But for Ye Qianran, it was only a stalling tactic. For now, she did not want Wei Zhuang to know.

Because she did not want this child.

The thought struck her as cruel, yet she could not welcome the child with happiness.

There remained so much unresolved between her and Wei Zhuang. Though he claimed to love her, though sometimes lying beside him brought her a sense of peace, though on occasion she could sense his heavy affection, more often she felt lost and chaotic. Often, when she stared at his face so close to hers, she would suddenly doubt whether those tender words he spoke were true or false.

Ye Qianran was uncertain.

Somewhere within her, a sensitive place had never believed this man could remain faithful—not to her, not to any other woman.

It was not a matter of trust, but of knowing he had always lived a drifting life—his carelessness and love of freedom had shaped him, and no woman or thing could change that.

She knew nothing of his past loves, but Ye Qianran could guess: surely a garden in bloom, lively and perfumed.

She disliked this feeling of confusion and uncertainty, of grasping at nothing.

So she hesitated.

With Wei Zhuang, she was miserly, never willing to give an inch. She was too afraid—afraid that if she let herself fall, she would never be able to extricate herself, would be lost forever. She moved with extreme caution, as if treading on thin ice.

Until their feelings were certain, she did not want a child. What she wanted was a pure, untainted love, born only for her—not mixed with anything else.

That evening, while Ye Qianran was eating, Wei Zhuang lifted the curtain and entered.

After three days apart, Ye Qianran felt as though a lifetime had passed. She never understood this man.

Three days ago, he had appeared before her, drunk. She thought he would say something, perhaps demand an explanation, but he had said and asked nothing. Three days later, she expected him to return despondent or angry, but instead he came back refreshed, smiling, as if the events of four days ago had never happened.

She had started the quarrel, but she was not better for it. She had spent her days in unaccountable torment, even her dreams disordered. Those four days had felt like a month.

Wei Zhuang seemed untouched by such confusion. His disappointment, she thought, could only trouble him for a single day.

Ye Qianran’s lips curved in a faint, ironic smile, but her eyes held no warmth.

Wei Zhuang, by habit, sat down beside her. He said nothing, nor did he explain where he had been—he simply watched her in silence.

He did not speak, and neither did Ye Qianran.

Wei Zhuang gazed at her with a look of curiosity, as if to test her patience, but Ye Qianran ignored him completely, not even glancing his way.

Leaning closer, his tone was almost teasing. “Don’t you have anything you want to ask me?”

Ye Qianran gave a low, brief laugh. The two were so close, their breaths mingled, brushing each other’s skin. Her smile was radiant. “Why did you come back?”

Wei Zhuang drew back, regarding her carefully. “Most wives, faced with this situation, would ask, ‘Where have you been?’ Why do you ask it this way?”

Ye Qianran lowered her head and smiled again. “Does it make a difference?”

Wei Zhuang reached out, playing idly with the earring at her lobe, his voice languid, careless. “No difference, really. I just wanted to see you.” With that, he stood. “But now, I must go out again. Shengsheng is still waiting for me. Madam, rest well.”

Ye Qianran’s hand on the table suddenly clenched.

Wei Zhuang walked out. Juanbi, who had been silent all along, grew anxious and called after him, “Sir, actually the mistress…”

She wanted to tell him Ye Qianran was pregnant.

Wei Zhuang paused, not turning, obviously waiting for her to continue.

“Juanbi,” Ye Qianran quickly cut her off, signaling with her eyes not to speak.

Juanbi looked at Ye Qianran, then at Wei Zhuang about to leave, stamped her foot, and could say nothing more.

Wei Zhuang lifted the curtain and left.

Juanbi, exasperated, asked, “Miss, why won’t you let me tell him? If he knew, he wouldn’t leave.”

Ye Qianran picked up her chopsticks and glanced at her coolly. “Perhaps he doesn’t want to know at all.”

Outside, the wind and snow grew fiercer.