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

The world around Hua Jing dissolved into a blur of motion and sound.

Screams and cries of victory mingled with the ragged moans of the dying, the clash of steel still echoing somewhere in the distance. But all of it was a muffled drone, a world apart from the icy silence that wrapped around her as she cradled Zhao Yan’s still body in her arms.

His warmth seeped into her bloodied palms, even as she felt it fading. Every heartbeat of his grew weaker, his breath a mere flutter against her throat. His head lay heavy on her shoulder, dark hair matted with sweat and blood.

She couldn’t hear anything beyond the ragged rasp of his breath. Couldn’t see anything beyond the flickering rise and fall of his chest. The arrow jutted from him like a dark promise, its shaft slick with his blood.

No... no...

She whispered the denial over and over, her lips brushing against his ear as she held him tighter, as if her arms alone could hold him to life.

She didn’t notice the soldiers around them, didn’t see the frantic movements of the royal physicians who had arrived and now surrounded them, their hands slick with blood as they worked feverishly.

She didn’t see the blood that streaked her own face where she had brushed her tears away with red-stained fingers.

The air stank of blood and sweat and fear. Torches burned in iron sconces, their light wavering as shadows danced along the jade walls of the courtyard. The marble beneath her knees was cold and slick, her crimson robes heavy with the prince’s lifeblood.

Somewhere nearby, Deng Mi was barking orders to the remaining guards, his voice hard and unyielding. Wei Ling’s sword gleamed in the half-light as he kept the physicians safe, cutting down a final bandit who tried to break through.

Hua Jing heard none of it.

All she could see was the prince. All she could feel was the icy dread pooling in her gut, the echo of her own heartbeat—too fast, too loud, and yet somehow so far away.

This is not how it was supposed to end.

She remembered how he had laughed with her only nights before, the warmth in his eyes as he spoke of a future they could build together. She remembered the way his voice had sounded—steady and sure—even in the darkest of hours.

She remembered his promises. And hers.

Stay with me, Zhao Yan... please...

The world blurred again as tears welled up, hot and fierce, spilling over to mingle with the blood on her cheeks. She pressed her forehead to his, her breath coming in shallow, ragged sobs.

But even as she wept, she felt the blood beneath her hands growing colder. The prince’s breaths grew slower, the tremor of life in him fainter with every passing second.

"Hurry," a physician snapped at another. "He’s losing too much blood—bring the salves! Tear away the arrowhead—"

Their words cut through the fog in her mind. She drew back, blinking at the men who had surrounded them. Their faces were tight with concentration, hands moving quickly as they worked to save him. One man pressed linen to the wound, the white already dark with red. Another was mixing herbs in a small jade bowl, his fingers quick and practiced.

They worked as if the empire itself depended on it.

And maybe it did.

Hua Jing couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. She could only watch as they fought to keep Zhao Yan tethered to this world. Her hands trembled as she rested them lightly on his shoulders, as if to anchor him here with her.

Don’t leave me.

Someone brushed past her, nearly knocking her aside as they dropped to their knees beside the prince. She didn’t even glance up—her entire world narrowed to the faint rise and fall of his chest, the pale strain of his lips.

The blood on her robes was warm at first. Now it was cold, clinging to her like a second skin.

She didn’t know how long she knelt there—seconds or hours, it made no difference. Time had stopped the moment the arrow struck.

She heard the physicians muttering to themselves, the rustle of their hurried movements. She heard the faint crackle of distant fires, the dying wails of a battlefield that had almost quieted. All of it seemed far away.

At last, one of the physicians pressed a hand to Zhao Yan’s chest and looked up, his eyes grave.

"He is alive," he said softly, though his voice shook. "But only just. We must move him to the inner palace and continue there, or we will lose him."

Hua Jing’s breath caught, relief and terror warring inside her. She nodded stiffly, not trusting her voice. The physicians moved quickly, lifting Zhao Yan’s limp body with the care of men handling something more precious than gold.

As they carried him away, Hua Jing rose unsteadily, her legs weak and trembling. Her gaze followed the prince, her heart in her throat.

Around her, the courtyard was littered with the dead and dying. The night was cold, the sky heavy with the promise of rain.

The war was over. She could see it in the faces of those around her—soldiers slumped in exhaustion, the few remaining bandits already fleeing into the shadows. The empire was theirs again.

But as she stood there, covered in blood, Hua Jing didn’t feel the triumph that should have been hers.

All she felt was the cold emptiness of the space beside her, the weight of every promise that had yet to be fulfilled.

A single breath, and then she turned away from the prince’s path, her red robes whispering across the marble floor as she took a slow step back.

In the sudden stillness, a figure approached her.

Wei Ling’s familiar form stepped into view, his sword held low, his face grave. His eyes swept over her, taking in the blood that stained her from head to toe, the distant, lost look in her eyes.

For a moment, he said nothing. Then he gave a soft sigh. "It’s over," he said quietly, though the finality in his voice was a heavy weight. "Pei Rong is dead. Most of his men are gone—scattered like leaves in the wind..."