Snow still lined the edges of the inner courtyard, though the sun had risen higher today, casting pale gold across the lacquered wood beams and frozen stone. Shen Yueli watched it melt from the covered corridor outside the women's quarters, listening as the droplets tapped softly onto the tiled path below.
A quiet thaw, unnoticed by most.
Like her heart, she thought, watching the water slip down with such gentle finality.
Inside the hall, the women of the Lin family sat in warmth and splendor. The scent of sandalwood hung thick in the air. Her mother-in-law, Dowager Lin, reclined on the raised platform, swathed in dark silk, her brows drawn in silent disapproval. To her left sat the sisters—Madam Suyin and Madam Minhua—each adorned with jewelry finer than what Yueli ever dared to wear, though she, not they, was the lady of this household.
She never minded their richer colors. She only minded the way they looked at her, as if she were a vase out of place—too plain, too fragile, too easily cracked.
"Such a quiet one, our dear Yueli," Suyin said, sipping her tea without looking up. "Almost like a shadow. You walk in and I hardly notice."
"Perhaps she's learning to disappear," Minhua offered, with a laugh like bells dipped in vinegar. "How practical. Especially when guests come. So we don't have to explain why she never speaks."
Yueli kept her eyes on her teacup. It had a fine crack along the rim, just shallow enough to be missed by careless hands.
"Minhua." The Dowager's voice was low, sharp. Not in her defense—only to quiet the noise. "Enough."
The room stilled for a breath, then the door slid open behind them.
Footsteps. Unhurried. Familiar.
She didn't need to turn.
Lin Yuan had returned from his morning reports.
He did not greet the room, as always. Instead, his gaze swept the scene briefly before pausing—just for a second—on her bowed head.
He had seen her. He always did.
She looked up slowly, waiting.
Would he speak?
Would he stop them?
Would he—just once—place a wall between her and their barbed tongues?
But he only stepped past her, to the seat beside the Dowager, and accepted the cup of tea offered by his sister Minhua.
"Your trip to the barracks went well, son?" the Dowager asked.
"Well enough," he said. "We will need more grain by spring. The northern storehouses are thinned from the blizzard."
"And your steward?"
"Efficient. As always."
Yueli listened, unmoving. She knew this version of him best—the composed strategist, the dutiful son, the man who existed in perfect stillness, like a sword hanging on the wall: visible, sharp, untouched.
When the tea was finished and the meal concluded, she stood and prepared to leave. No one stopped her. They never did.
But as she stepped into the corridor, she felt it—a presence just behind her.
"Yueli."
Her heart stuttered. She turned.
Yuan stood there, his expression unreadable. But his eyes…
For the briefest moment, they looked softer than they should have. As though he meant to say something more.
"Yes, my lord?"
He hesitated. "You shouldn't take their words to heart."
She blinked. That was all he would say?
"Should I take yours instead?" she asked quietly. "At least theirs cut openly."
A flicker passed through his face—so small it might have been imagined. A twitch at the corner of his mouth. A breath too quick.
But then he straightened, and the wall between them rebuilt itself in an instant.
"Be careful what you say, Yueli. Words have weight."
She lowered her gaze. "So do silences."
And she turned, leaving him standing in the hallway where sunlight touched everything except the space where he stood.
….
The clatter of porcelain echoed through the east wing dining hall as Lady Shen Yueli knelt beside her mother-in-law's table, her back straight despite the dull ache that had crept into her spine.
"You used too much salt again," the Dowager Lin said, without looking up from her bowl. Her voice was clipped, cool, as if every word was a judgement passed down from the heavens themselves. "Do they not teach noble daughters proper taste anymore? How many more years till you learn how to make a decent meal?"
Yueli lowered her eyes, fingers tightening in her lap. "I will instruct the kitchen more carefully, Mother."
A scoff came from across the room—Madam Lin Suyin, the elder of her husband's two sisters, daintily dabbed at her lips with a silk handkerchief. "It's not the kitchen's fault, jiejie. Even with the finest ingredients, a goose cannot act graceful like a swan."
Yueli said nothing.
"You mustn't be too harsh, dajie," added Lin Minhua, the younger sister, barely veiling her smile. "Sister-in-law has many burdens. She must practice how to sit pretty for hours while her husband's name is sung at court. Such a lonely, ornamental life."
Little sparrows mocking a crane. No one corrected them.
Yueli's ears burned. Her hands, still folded neatly, had long since gone numb from being pressed into her robes. She wanted to leave, to breathe, to speak. But one did not interrupt the Dowager. One did not shame the Lin family with tears.
Then, as if summoned by her restraint, the door slid open.
General Lin Yuan stepped inside, tall and composed in his dark robes, the sword at his side catching the afternoon light. Every voice stilled at once. Even the Dowager straightened.
He walked toward the table, his gaze sweeping briefly over the room—then pausing on Yueli.
She rose, smoothing her robes with practiced grace. "My lord."
"Why are you here?" he asked, not unkindly, but without warmth either.
She blinked. "The Dowager summoned me for lunch."
His gaze shifted to his mother. "Is it necessary to summon my wife like a servant?"
The Dowager merely sipped her tea. "If she cannot endure a midday meal, how will she endure bearing your name?"
Yuan said nothing. His silence was not unusual—it was his weapon and his shield. But today, something inside Yueli cracked.
"I have endured many things, Mother," she said quietly. "Not all of them dignified."
A sharp silence fell over the room.
The Dowager's eyes narrowed. The sisters exchanged glances like hawks scenting blood.
Lin Yuan's voice was low. "Yueli."
She turned to him, heart pounding. "Must I be insulted in your presence and still remain silent?"
He stepped closer, his expression unreadable. "You are a daughter of Shen, a wife of Lin. Dignity lies in restraint. If you respond to every insult, you only draw more shame upon yourself."
Yueli looked at him then—not the general, not the noble heir, but the man she had loved from the shadows of her own life.
So calm. So careful. So far away.
She bowed, lower than necessary. "Forgive me, my lord. I forgot my place."
And then she turned, slowly, and walked out of the hall. Her steps were steady. Her face, expressionless. But her throat ached with the pressure of unshed tears, and her chest felt hollow—like an empty scroll no one would ever write love upon.
She remembered, just before the door closed behind her, the sound of one of the sisters whispering:
"Even she knows she's not wanted."
And for the first time, she wondered not just what if he had married Wen Qingxue, but why did he marry me at all?