Tiān Jùn woke screaming.
Incense smoke choked the air above him, thick and endless.
His breath tore from his lungs as he jerked upright.
"Mother!"
Silk sheets clung damply to his skin. His hands shook as if cold had seeped into his blood.
"I'm here," Queen Yù Yuè said, drawing him against her chest. "I'm here."
He clutched her sleeve, as though she might vanish if he let go. His heart hammered wildly beneath her palm.
"I saw it again," he whispered.
She brushed his sweat-soaked hair from his forehead.
"Tell me," she murmured.
But Tiān Jùn shook his head. Tears spilled down his cheeks. The words would not come. Some part of him feared that speaking them aloud would make the dream real.
"Don't be afraid," she said quickly, pressing a kiss to his brow. "Nothing will happen to you. I promise."
The lie tasted bitter even as she spoke it.
At dawn, King Tiān Lóngxuān and his queen stood before the High Priest at Sì Tiān Temple.
The hall loomed vast and ancient, its stone pillars drenched in incense. Candlelight flickered across relics older than the kingdom itself.
At the center of the chamber, the High Priest sat cross-legged.
Tiān Jùn slept fitfully in his mother's arms while the hours stretched on.
The priest did not move, his eyes closed, posture fixed.
His incantation pressed heavily against the air, as if he were speaking to something no one else could hear.
At last, his eyes flew open.
The hall's stillness broke.
"Let him dream," the priest said.
Queen Yù Yuè stiffened.
"When the time is right," the priest continued softly, "the flame will return to the fire."
She felt blood drain from her face.
Beside her, King Tiān Lóngxuān did not speak. His posture remained rigid, his expression composed—but fear flickered beneath it, swift and unmistakable.
The priest closed his eyes again, retreating into silence as though the matter were already decided.
That night, the dreams returned with greater force.
Tiān Jùn woke up gasping, pain tearing through his chest as air rushed back into his lungs. His fingers trembled, numb with cold. He stumbled from his chambers and collapsed into his mother's arms, convulsing.
"I was looking for something… I didn't know what. Then something grabbed me."
His voice broke.
"I cried. No one came for me."
Queen Yù Yuè held him tighter, as if her arms alone could shield him from fate.
It was already midnight before he returned to sleep, but she sat watching him.
Thoughts flooded her mind.
She gently patted his hair.
By morning, she stood before the King's chamber, demanding an audience.
The guards refused her.
They were following the king's orders.
She did not move.
Only when the sun climbed high did the doors finally creak open.
King Tiān Lóngxuān dismissed all attendants. The chamber felt suddenly too small, heavy with unspoken truths.
"My lord…"
In the prince's chambers, young Tiān Jùn woke up alone.
"Mother?" he called.
No answer.
A maid bowed respectfully and whispered, "Her Majesty is with the King."
Uneasy, Tiān Jùn crept down the corridor. The guards stood stiffly, saying nothing.
"Is my mother inside?" he asked.
A maid nodded softly.
The corridor was too quiet. Too still.
His childish heart beating hard, the boy stepped close to the chamber doors — and heard voices.
He peered through a narrow crack.
Queen Yù Yuè stood facing her husband, her eyes full of sorrow.
"My king... I don't want our son to die," she pleaded. "These dreams — they're not ordinary anymore."
"Our son…"
These dreams are getting worse," she said,
"Your Highness…"
The king turned away, his shoulders rigid.
"I know," he said at last. "They will only grow worse. That is why… it may be time to find him a companion."
She stared at him in disbelief.
Yù Yuè fell to her knees.
"He is still a child," she cried. "He knows nothing of cultivation, nothing of power—he is our son!"
"His magic is still controllable…"
Silence stretched between them, brittle as glass.
Then the king's restraint shattered.
"What would you have me do?" he roared. "Yù Yuè! What should I do? We can't have another child. I'm cursed!"
Outside the chamber doors, unseen and unheard, Tiān Jùn lost his balance and collapsed to his knees.
Far to the south, fate took another shape.
Lord Chen was a wealthy trader of the Southern Province, respected by villagers and merchants alike. His estate stood as a symbol of fortune, its halls filled with laughter—until the night of his wedding, when a voice echoed through the darkness of his dream.
"My soul will walk your halls."
He jolted awake, heart pounding.
Months later, his wife conceived.
On the night her labor began, Chen kowtowed in prayer at the temple; he almost dozed off.
The voice from his dream returned.
"Am I welcome in your family?"
"If you are my wife's child," Chen whispered, widening his eyes, "then you are welcome."
The voice thundered in reply.
"Hurry. She will leave soon."
He staggered to his feet, calling for his assistant. They rushed back home through the streets.
As he reached the threshold, he heard the cry of a newborn... and the cheers of his household.
He burst into the chamber.
There she was — his child. His daughter lay wrapped in cloth, tiny and perfect. Relief surged through him.
His wife lay beside her, still breathing. Hope flared in his chest.
"I'm a father..." he whispered, overwhelmed.
But then—
His wife drew one sharp breath.
And gave up her ghost.
The night celebration became mournful.
By morning, visitors filled the yard.
Lord Chen's Estate was filled with people of different classes, people he didn't expect.
His wife had been an imperial dancer, admired by nobles across the province.
Now, visitors entered only to find Chen sitting alone in his chamber, staring at nothing.
Even his business rivals came to pay respects. Chen received them without expression, speaking politely, as if grief had hollowed him out.
Lord Chen remained with his In-law; grief was his daily companion.
He almost forgot he had a child.
What stirred him from his pain was a letter from his business partner.
He was about to return to his town when he received a message about his younger sister.
He watched his sleeping baby, lost in thought.
He buried his wife, but his grief remained.
He named his daughter Mò Lián.
The girl grew beneath the stern gaze of her mother's family—rigid, spiritual, unyielding in their rules.
Lord Chen remained distant, consumed by business in his hometown, the Southern Province. He rarely visits.
Mò Lián grew up calling her grandparents "Mama, Papa."
She watched other young parents braid their children's hair, but her parents were always taking her to the temple.
She became accustomed to chanting, the endless burning of incense, and meditation.
Mò Lián loved playing with her fellow children, but their parents' gaze was too strong for her to uphold. She was an outdoor person. She played only when her aunt visited.
Lord Chen lost his business contract as rumors spread.
"His family has misfortune. Why then did he marry from the temple?"
"Hahaha. He was seeking more favour, but his misfortune has just expanded."
"I know he is famous and rich. Who knows what he does to get all those? Hmph."
As years passed, Mò Lián became accustomed to seeing her father annually. He visited only during festivals, a fleeting shadow of a father.
She met Yù Xuān, a kind soul older than her, from the sacred inner temple island.
The two had grown together. Mò Lián lived cloistered within the monk quarters, while Yù Xuān belonged near the temple island, where only royal priests were allowed to serve. Their stations were divided, their worlds never meant to touch—yet friendship found them, binding them in ways that defied rank.
Whenever Mò Lián felt caged or restless, she would sneak away to see her.
But these visits always came with consequences.
Her grandparents never wanted what happened to their daughter to repeat.
They chose to raise Mò Lián away from the normal world. Their daughter did, and she became famous; she even married a wealthy man, but what came after was terrible.
But Mò Lián always found ways to escape.