I am Princess Ning of the Ning Dynasty, and also the fourth monarch, Ning Yuanhe.

At this moment, my fingertips brushed against the gilded dragon scales on the armrest of the dragon throne, and the cool touch spread from my fingertips to my heart.

In a daze, I glimpsed my childhood self again—always hiding behind the carved wooden screen in the Hall of Mental Cultivation.

Wearing soft-soled shoes embroidered with pink and white peach blossoms, she looked up at her father, the emperor, on the throne through the openwork pattern of the screen.

At that time, the dragon throne was nothing more than a hazy silhouette cast by imperial power to me, and the ethereal sandalwood incense drifting from the three-legged bronze incense burner in the palace.

It was the tired yet gentle gaze that my father occasionally glanced up at while reviewing memorials.

It was as his fingertips, wielding the vermilion brush, that left behind heavy responsibilities, none of which concerned me.

I never imagined that one day I would be the one to shoulder the responsibility of building this vast empire.

The Hall of Mental Cultivation in my childhood was always immersed in the rich, lingering scent of ink and candle wax.

Before dawn, the moss at the base of the palace walls was covered with morning dew, reflecting shimmering light.

The stone lion in front of the steps was still dozing off with its eyes half-closed, and the moss at the corners of its mouth looked like undried saliva.

The eunuchs on night watch had just finished changing the third shift of the clapper. The sound of the clapper carried far through the empty palace corridors before gradually dissipating into the morning mist.

The Emperor was already dressed in a black court robe embroidered with dragons. The dragons were embroidered with gold thread and gleamed with a dull luster in the dim light.

He sat upright before the imperial desk, which was covered with bright yellow brocade. The brocade was embroidered with intricate cloud patterns, and the edges were slightly frayed from years of use.

The memorials on the table were piled higher than the bronze tripod beside it, each one weighed down by a small wooden plaque with the name of the official who submitted the memorial and the reason for the memorial.

The edges of the memorial were slightly curled, a sign that it had been turned over by countless people.

The vermilion pen hovered on the paper at his fingertips, pausing occasionally. His knuckles turned bluish-white from the force he exerted, and his brows furrowed into a deep "川" shape, even the stray hairs on his forehead seemed to tighten.

Sometimes he would write quickly, his vermilion comments falling on the yellowed memorials, like marks etched on the mountains and rivers.

I once sneaked up to his feet, looked up and watched him write. The ink in the inkstone swayed gently with his movements, reflecting the white hair at his temples.

The white hair seemed to grow wildly as time went by. Just a few days ago, there were only a few strands, hidden among the black hair and not easily noticed. In less than ten months, half of the temples had turned white.

It grows faster than the vines that sprout after the spring rain in the Imperial Garden, faster than the lamp oil that burns out on a winter night. It grows so fast that if you reach out to grab it, you only grasp emptiness in your palm, leaving you with nothing but a heart full of melancholy.

As night deepened, whenever I turned over in my sleep, I could always see a faint candlelight shining through the window lattice of the Hall of Mental Cultivation, like a lonely star in the dark night, shining in the boundless darkness.

The personal maid whispered that the emperor often reviewed memorials until late at night, and the bird's nest porridge sent by the imperial kitchen was reheated three times, but it still got cold in the end.

He only allowed the eunuch to bring him a simple bowl of white fungus soup with a little rock sugar in it, which was the only sweetness he could accept.

Compared to the cumbersome military and political affairs of the previous dynasty, the turmoil in the harem was more like a tangled spider web, winding around and making it hard to breathe.

Today, Consort Zhang, clutching a silk handkerchief embroidered with crabapple blossoms and with red-rimmed eyes, sidled up to her father, the Emperor.

The pearl hairpin at her temple swayed gently with her sobs, and a few tears rolled down onto her silk handkerchief, leaving small damp marks.

She choked up as she said that the pearls in her allowance were smaller than last month's, and that the Imperial Household Department must be deliberately neglecting her because of her low rank.

Her words were filled with grievance, and she would occasionally steal glances at her father's expression.

The next day, Consort Li knelt again at the foot of the steps of the Hall of Mental Cultivation, her skirt stained with mud and her hairpin askew, sobbing and complaining.

It is said that the head maid, relying on the support of the Imperial Concubine, replaced the brocade fabric of her clothes with coarse linen, and the maids around her were also mistreated, only able to eat stale rice and coarse porridge every day.

These things aren't big deals, just minor grievances of a young woman; yet they're not insignificant either, they're like needles, constantly pricking and making one restless.

The emperor had just escaped from the previous dynasty's grain and fodder management and border defense matters. He rubbed his throbbing temples and pressed his fingertips to his brow to relieve the fatigue of the past few days.

You have to turn around and put on a gentle expression, offering kind words of comfort to those who are wronged.

"I'll have the Imperial Household Department replenish some of your pearls, each the size of a pigeon's egg. They'll be even shinier than the last ones. String them into a bracelet and wear it on your wrist; you'll definitely be the most eye-catching person in the palace."

“The old nanny doesn’t know the rules. I’m punishing her by making her work in the laundry department for six months washing clothes. I’ll also get you a more considerate nanny. From now on, no one will dare to bully you.”

I stood behind the screen and watched, and I noticed that his brows never truly relaxed.

Even the air in the Hall of Mental Cultivation felt like crumpled brocade, taut and ready to burst at the slightest pressure, making even breathing a delicate matter.

But the Empress Dowager's Chang Le Palace was a completely different, tranquil place.

There was none of the hustle and bustle of other palaces here, no concubines crowding the door to deliver gifts. They carried exquisite brocade boxes, yet dared not even approach the gates of Chang Le Palace.

There were no eunuchs or palace maids peeking around to find out what was going on, and even the palace servants passing by treaded lightly, afraid of disturbing the tranquility of the place.

Only the elegant sandalwood incense, which burns year-round, is a rare fragrance that my mother found in Jiangnan. When it burns, it can bring peace to one's mind.

There was also the ever-blooming, pure white orchid by the window. It was planted by my mother herself and irrigated with spring water drawn from Yuquan Mountain.

Its leaves are long and emerald green, and its flowers have a faint fragrance when they bloom. Like its nature, it is unassuming yet reassuring.

The Empress Dowager often leaned on the chaise longue covered with a peacock blue velvet carpet, which was a tribute from the Western Regions and felt soft and smooth to the touch. Beside the chaise longue was a soft cushion embroidered with orchids.

She wore only a simple mutton-fat jade hairpin in her hair. The hairpin was pure white and had no carvings, which made her skin look even whiter.

The earrings are two round South Sea pearls that gleam softly in the light.

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