Xi Yu had lived in the cold palace for eighteen years. No more than three people had ever truly seen his face.
One of them died last month.
It was an old eunuch named Zhou, in his sixties, with a lame leg, who had served in the cold palace his entire life.
Other eunuchs and maids were unwilling to come to this place—the cold palace was heavy with negative energy, drafty in winter and leaky in summer. The masters confined here either went mad or died. Stay too long, and even you’d become neither human nor ghost.
Only Old Zhou was willing to come, because in his youth he had received kindness from Xi Yu’s mother—a bowl of hot porridge, remembered for half a lifetime.
Xi Yu actually had another name: Shen Du. That was the name the world knew him by, the name the Emperor had casually bestowed upon him at birth.
He didn’t like it. Later, at the age of five, he took his mother’s surname and gave himself a new name—Xi Yu. Heaven-blessed fortune, kindness repaid.
Old Zhou died on the day of the Beginning of Autumn.
The day before, he had brought Xi Yu a half-worn cotton quilt, saying the cold was coming early this year and he shouldn’t freeze again. The next day, when Xi Yu pushed open the door, he found the old eunuch slumped against the wall outside the cold palace, curled up like a dry stick of firewood, still clutching half a steamed bun in his hand—it was meant for Xi Yu.
Xi Yu crouched beside him for a long time.
No one passed by the cold palace. No one knew an old eunuch had died there. Finally, Xi Yu reached out and closed Old Zhou’s eyes. He carried the body to the entrance of the Imperial Household Department, then quietly withdrew and hid in the shadows.
He waited a long while. Eventually, someone from the Household Department came out—a young eunuch. Seeing the corpse at the gate, he hurried back inside to call for help.
Several men came out, took one look, and without a word—not even bothering to wrap the body in a straw mat—they carried it away.
Xi Yu stood at the gate, watching them disappear inside. The autumn wind swept through the corridor, making his thin sleeves flutter loudly.
His face bore no tears, no expression at all. On that day, the last person in this world who would ever care whether he was cold or not was gone.
Xi Yu turned back into his room, closed the door, and began to grind ink.
He wouldn’t cry. Crying was for those who had a way out. He had no way out—he had only one path: to leave this place.
Xi Yu had never let anyone see his face.
This was how he had survived.
In this devouring palace, a prince without his mother’s clan to protect him, without his father’s favor—his appearance was the most dangerous thing. Too beautiful was a sin; too ugly was also a sin. The best was not to be seen at all.
So for eighteen years in the cold palace, Xi Yu only went out at times when no one else would be around. When he encountered people, he kept his head down and his eyes lowered. His long hair was always left loose, falling across his face to shield his features.
His clothes were always drab, worn-out robes with frayed cuffs, a faded cloth belt tied at his waist. Walking in the night, he looked like a shadow that could disappear at any moment.
No one knew what the young prince in the cold palace looked like.
Occasionally, a palace attendant would pass near the cold palace late at night, glimpsing a thin figure through the crumbling walls—but they’d assume it was just some disfavored concubine who had been locked up for some offense, and wouldn’t even pause their steps.
As time passed, few in the palace spoke of him. They’d only say “that one in the cold palace,” not even bothering with his name.
Only three people had ever truly seen his face: his deceased mother, Old Zhou, and himself. His mother had looked at him one last time on the birthing bed and said his features resembled hers—that he would be very handsome when he grew up. Those were her final words to him, and then she was gone.
Old Zhou had been sent by the Household Department to the cold palace to collect the body of the newly deceased consort.
But in her arms lay a newborn infant, still curled up—his whole body purple and blue, barely strong enough to cry, only twitching his tiny hands weakly.
Old Zhou tucked the infant into his own patched cotton robe. The baby lay against his chest, and gradually stopped crying.
All of this he had learned from Old Zhou.
With his meager monthly stipend, Old Zhou had raised him—sewing his clothes, teaching him to read, and showing him how to hide his face. Eighteen years passed like this.
At the time, the old eunuch had stared at his face for a long while, then finally sighed: “Child, your face will grow. When it does, don’t let anyone see it again.”
Xi Yu took those words to heart. From then on, he never lifted his head in front of another soul.
Now, seated at the only worn wooden table in the cold palace, he ground ink and wrote a letter by the dim light of a dying oil lamp.
His long hair cascaded over his shoulders, its ends carrying a cool, dark luster from years without sunlight—like black satin brushed with frost in the amber glow. The fingers gripping the brush were pale and slender, with defined but not stark joints, nails trimmed short, and a thin layer of calluses formed from years of writing.
The light struck his face from the side, sketching the sharp, lean contours of a youth—a clean jawline that tapered just so, cheekbones not high but enough to anchor the bone structure. It was like a blade newly sharpened, still sheathed, never yet shown.
The lamp flickered, and he looked up. His were peach-blossom eyes, the outer corners naturally upturned, carrying a hint of a smile even when his face was still. Even more striking was the faint, pale red at the corners of his eyes—as if he’d just been crying, or as if brushed with the hue of peach blossoms, lending an extra layer of allure to his features.
Beneath his right eye lay a small tear mole, resting on skin so pale it was nearly translucent—like a grain of black sand fallen on snow.
This face was beautiful, and seven-tenths of that beauty resided in his eyes. But the coldness hidden within them—that was his true face.
After writing the final character, Xi Yu set down the brush and pulled out a jade pendant from under the table. It was a common white jade piece, with an inconspicuous crack along its edge—one he’d spent six months stealing from the Third Prince’s palace.
He picked up another sheet of paper, and in an imitation of the Third Prince’s handwriting, recopied the “evidence” he had long since drafted.
His hand was steady as he ground the ink, each stroke without the slightest hesitation—as if he’d practiced it a thousand times. In truth, he had.
He held the letter up to the oil lamp. The faint flame reflected in his eyes—those beautiful peach-blossom eyes that held both the dancing light and something cold and resolute.
After finishing the secret letter, Xi Yu tucked it under his pillow, extinguished the lamp, and walked to the window.
The cold palace window was covered in old paper, already torn in several places. Through the holes, he could see the jet-black night sky beyond the palace walls.
Only a few days past the Beginning of Autumn, the night had already turned chilly. Wind poured through the holes, stirring the loose strands of hair across his forehead and revealing his full brow and eyes.
In the distance, the Emperor’s residence blazed with light; faint music drifted over—celebrating some festival Xi Yu didn’t know about. The singing was ethereal, passing through layers of halls before reaching the cold palace, its melody lost, only a few strands of string music lingering.
Xi Yu gathered his thin lapels and reached his hand out the window. It was as lean as the rest of him; when his five fingers spread, faint blue veins were visible across the back of his hand. Moonlight pooled in his palm, cold as water.
He touched his fingertip to the thin frost gathering on the windowsill, watching it melt into a droplet beneath his pad. Then he withdrew his hand and touched that droplet to the tear mole at the corner of his eye—like dotting on a single tear.
Having done all this, Xi Yu’s lips curved ever so slightly. It was not a smile of joy. It was the smile of someone who had lain in wait in darkness for eighteen years and finally saw the dawn approaching.
Xi Yu spoke softly, to himself.
“Winter Solstice. Just three more months.”
He turned around, his back to the distant lights and moonlight beyond the window, and walked step by step back into the room. His thin silhouette stood straight as a ramrod, the moonlight stretching his shadow long behind him.
Barefoot on the cold stone floor, his ankles so slender they could be circled with one hand, he walked with steady strides—each step landing in the darkness, each step falling upon his own plan.
Three months from now, news would spread through the six palaces. The forgotten little prince in the cold palace was dead. And Xi Yu would stand on the ground beyond the cold palace, seeing the sky outside the palace walls for the first time.
TOC | More chapters later
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