The wine spilled from my fingertips, splashing onto my black official boots and leaving tiny wet marks, but I was completely unaware.
Perhaps it was because I discovered that I could read her mind, and she often praised me in her heart.
I remember one early morning court session in late spring. Swallows flew around the corner of the palace outside the eaves, their wingtips brushing against the glazed tiles, leaving a few mud stains that stuck to the edge of the bright yellow roof tiles.
I stood before the ranks of military officers, the bronze bells on my silver armor swaying gently in rhythm with the court ceremony, tinkling softly amidst the subtle rustling of the armor plates.
Suddenly, a very soft, slightly excited murmur was heard: "General Mu's armor is so shiny today, it even makes the sunlight on the eaves dazzling."
It's even brighter than the mirror on my desk! I wonder what they used to clean it?
The voice was soft and gentle, like a freshly baked jujube cake, gently tickling the heart.
Turning her head abruptly, she bumped into Qin Qianluo, who had her eyes downcast, holding an ivory tablet in her hand, her fingertips unconsciously rubbing the patina worn into the edge of the tablet, while she secretly pursed her lips.
It was as if she was hiding a sweet smile, even the tips of her ears were flushed pink, like peach blossoms in spring.
The praise made my heart skip a beat, and I gripped the moon-white silk ribbon between my nails tightly.
That silk ribbon was something I secretly kept last year when she was drafting an edict for His Majesty; she casually left it on the imperial desk.
Holding it now felt like holding onto her very essence. He even softened his breathing, afraid of disturbing this little secret hidden within the court's rituals.
After that, his gaze seemed to take root, always involuntarily fixed on her.
She thought to herself, "The roasted mutton in the imperial kitchen is so salty it's almost bitter. It's not as good as the mutton roasted with pine branches in the small kitchen at home. It's much more fragrant when sprinkled with cumin. I'll have to ask Zhang Ma to roast a couple more skewers later."
She thought to herself, "The Imperial Censor's beard is covered in rice grains and still swaying. Should I hand him a handkerchief to remind him?"
"But if I hand it over, won't people say I'm meddling? Forget it, what if he yells at me? Will others help me?"
Even when she was staring absentmindedly at the old pomegranate tree outside the hall, she thought to herself, "These flowers are as red as General Mu's cloak that was stained with blood every day. I wonder if the wound on his shoulder armor has scabbed over yet."
The kitchen should stew some pigeon soup to help him recover faster; adding some angelica and astragalus will make him recover faster.
They are like cinnabar ink dots spreading on rice paper, each dot bringing my heart, which has been hardened and worn down by years of war, back to life.
One time, the meeting ended late, and dusk seeped into the long corridor. The palace lanterns on the pillars swayed in the wind, casting dappled light and shadow on the blue bricks.
She walked ahead, the hem of her gray-blue official robe sweeping across the blue bricks, leaving faint marks, and she still clutched half a piece of osmanthus cake in her hand.
Perhaps it was freshly made by the imperial kitchen, because the crumbs of cake landed on her clothes without her noticing.
I followed behind her and listened as she mentally counted, "General Mu spoke thirteen sentences today, two more than yesterday."
One sentence was about supplies, another about weapons and armor, and yet another... was about asking for rewards for the Imperial Guards. He seemed like a protective little general, so adorable.
He couldn't help but curl the corners of his lips, which prompted his deputy general Zhou Lin to lean over and whisper, "General, what makes you so happy? Have you perhaps come up with a way to defeat the Western Qiang?"
I only vaguely replied, "I guess so," but my ears were secretly burning. Even the copper bells on my armor swayed off-beat, jingling as if they were laughing at me.
But she subconsciously forgot that it was her job. She was responsible for recording not only the emperor's daily life, but also the details of court discussions. Normally, she didn't need to record these things, but the person who was recording them happened to be sick that day.
Perhaps it was when she was secretly praising me in her heart.
One day, I had just returned from quelling a rebellion in the north. I stood in the Golden Palace wearing a seventeen-pound silver scale armor. The seams of the armor were still covered with sand and dust that had not been wiped off, giving it a light brown color.
That was the unique yellow sand of the northern desert, mixed with dried bloodstains.
The sole of the boot even had half a grain of yellow sand embedded in it, which was from a dry gravel pile that he had stepped into while chasing the enemy chieftain.
The soles of the boots were worn down to the point of being frayed, and walking on them made a gritty sound as they rubbed together.
His Majesty stroked the armrest of the dragon throne, his knuckles turning white from the force, the dragon patterns appearing somewhat dark beneath his fingertips, and asked me for a strategy to defeat the enemy.
I followed the military formation map on the table, pointing with my fingertip to the location of "Yanmen Pass" at that time. My fingernail brushed across the ink on the map, leaving a faint mark.
The detailed explanation is: "Send light cavalry to flank and cut off their supply lines, then use fire to burn their camps; they will surely fall within three days."
As soon as I finished speaking, the echo of my words still lingered in the hall, when suddenly I heard her softly utter a sentence from the depths of her heart, her voice gentle yet with a bright edge.
"Holding the military tally in the sleeves of a mandarin duck," I used to only read this line in poems, but today it seems I've actually seen the person in it.
General Mu is even more formidable than described in the poem; his shoulder wound hasn't fully healed, yet he still manages to win battles.
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