MY PRINCE HUSBAND HAS SEVEN WIVES AND I AM HIS FAVOURITE!

The Prime Minister’s eyes flickered, and for the first time that night, a glimmer of something akin to respect passed through them. But the battle was far from over.

With a renewed determination, he lunged forward, his sword aiming straight for her heart. Hua Jing met him head-on, steel clashing, echoes of war ringing in the night. The dance of death continued, both warriors relentless, neither willing to yield.

Steel clashed violently against steel, the shrill sound of metal slicing the air echoing beneath the canopy of moonlight. Sparks erupted like bursts of fire every time Hua Jing’s blade collided with the Prime Minister’s, painting the air with glimmering arcs of orange. The courtyard, dim but serene moments before, had become a battlefield lit only by the furious dance of two titans.

Hua Jing, still clad in her royal blue robes now splattered with fresh blood and soot, looked nothing like the poised consort who had once stepped gracefully through the palace gates. Her hair was wild, her breath ragged, but her eyes—her eyes burned with something primal, something wild and utterly unrelenting.

The Prime Minister moved like a shadow. Inky black robes whipped around him, his blade an extension of his arm, every motion precise, lethal. The two of them clashed again, blades scraping in a powerful lock. Their faces were inches apart, breath mingling with heat and fury.

"I must say," the Prime Minister hissed through clenched teeth, "I never imagined you could last this long."

Hua Jing gave him a dark smile, sweat and blood streaking down her cheek. "That’s because you imagined me dead before I even began."

Their swords broke apart with a screech, and they spun again. The light caught their movements in rapid flashes—her royal blue against his void-black—a storm of rage and retribution. To an onlooker, it would have looked choreographed, almost beautiful, but this was a deadly dance. And both were fighting to kill.

Every time her blade struck his, the fury inside her grew. Every clang reminded her of the ambush on that lonely road. Of Zhao Yan, cradling his injured side. Of the bandits and the false leads. Of how everything had started to unravel, all tracing back to this very man now grinning before her.

She hadn’t known back then—hadn’t allowed herself to admit what she felt for Zhao Yan. But now, with every breath she fought to take, she knew. She loved him. She loved him with a kind of force that terrified her. And this man before her, this monster, had tried to take him away from her.

A scream ripped from her throat as she lunged, faster, harder, her blade a streak of silver fury. The Prime Minister staggered back, blocking just in time, his boots skidding across the stone. He smirked again, but it was tight now, unsure.

"Love makes you weak," he spat.

"No," Hua Jing snarled, her next strike nearly disarming him. "It makes me terrifying."

---

Back in the palace, Xie Lin was pacing the length of Hua Jing’s private chambers, her steps frantic and uneven. The soft glow of the lanterns did little to comfort her. It had been hours since her lady had left, and still there was no sign of her return.

She shouldn’t have gone alone. She shouldn’t have let her go at all. But Hua Jing had insisted, had looked her in the eye and said not to call anyone. To trust her. Xie Lin had tried. She really had.

But now the silence outside was deafening.

Sweat trickled down her temple as she moved to the door again, hesitating. Her hand hovered over the wood. Maybe she should go find Wei Ling. Maybe she should risk the consequences.

No. She remembered the last thing Hua Jing had said. "Don’t call anyone unless I don’t come back by dawn."

But dawn was still a few hours away.

Still, her heart was beating so fast she thought it might explode. The feeling in her chest—this oppressive, crushing weight—told her something was wrong. Deeply wrong.

She turned back toward the room, intending to sit again, to try and force herself into patience, when the door suddenly burst open.

She gasped.

Standing in the entrance was none other than Zhao Yan.

His hair was slightly disheveled, his outer robe dust-streaked and wrinkled as if he had just returned from riding hard. His brow was furrowed deeply, and his eyes, those sharp eyes, scanned the room desperately. For a moment, Xia Lin saw the flicker of hope light up his gaze.

And then it vanished when he realized Hua Jing was not there.

"Where is she?" he asked sharply.

Xia Lin’s lips trembled. She tried to speak, but her voice broke.

He took a step forward, his voice sterner now. "Xia Lin, where is Lady Hua Jing?"

And then something inside her snapped. Tears welled up in her eyes as she dropped to her knees, sobbing, her voice raw and full of fear.

"Please, please go save my lady! Please! Please save her before it’s too late!"

Zhao Yan froze.

His heart thundered in his chest.

Too late?

Without another word, he turned and bolted out of the chambers, his sword already drawn from his side as he moved like the wind, guided only by instinct and the desperate pounding of his heart.

Wherever she was—whatever danger she was in—he had to get to her.

Before it really was too late!

...

The night air was thick, heavy with the scent of rain that hadn’t yet fallen. The winds stirred violently, as though echoing the turmoil in Zhao Yan’s chest. As soon as Xie Lin’s desperate plea left her mouth, Zhao Yan was already in motion, his breath sharp, his pulse louder than a war drum.

Outside, Wei Ling and Deng Mi stood like silent shadows under the flickering torches, alert and waiting. The horse was already saddled. They had known Zhao Yan’s visit to Lady Hua would be short—only a glance to make sure she was safe before returning to the Emperor’s side. None of them had expected this.

As Zhao Yan emerged from the courtyard, Wei Ling straightened instantly. "Your Highness?"