They called her many things in the early days. “Moonlit Bloom.”“The Spirit Orchid.”“A petal born of sorrow, kissed by starlight.” But Yue Shuanghua remembers none of these names. For most of her life, there was only silence. She was born of two worlds—one of mortal blood, the other of lunar essence. A child too pure, too rare, too dangerous. The sects called her an aberration, a sacred mistake. So they sealed her away, buried beneath ice and jade, her spirit kept alive only by the rhythm of the moon and the ache of dreams she could not name. Until he came. The Emperor whose name echoed like thunder through every realm, whose power made the skies kneel and the earth rise. He found her not as a conqueror, but as a savior. He did not demand her loyalty. He gave her freedom. He did not touch her with greed. He reached with kindness. And Yue Shuanghua, in all her lifetimes, had never known such warmth. She bloomed for him. Not in grand proclamations or dazzling ambition. But in the quiet ways—the way she learned to laugh again, to walk under the sun without fear, to smile without shame. Her love was not loud. It was as soft and inevitable as snowfall on a still pond. She never dreamed of titles. Not the Empress—that sacred post already belonged to Jiāng Xueyin, whose beauty was law and whose gaze held the calm of ancient snow. Not the First Concubine—that place was taken by Zhao Xuelian, the crimson flame who met the world with challenge and never blinked. No. Yue Shuanghua was content to be the second moon in his sky, the gentle light that followed the storm. Because in her heart, she knew: she needed no crown, no claim. He had already chosen her the moment he broke the seal of her prison and whispered, “You’re safe now.” —Now, within the Palace of Tranquil Clouds— The scent of plum tea dances in the air, mingling with the soft floral breeze that trails in through the balcony. Yue Shuanghua hums as she arranges moonflowers in a vase of clear crystal, her fingertips delicate and sure. Each blossom bends willingly beneath her touch, as though even petals understand gentleness when they feel it. To her right, Zhao Xuelian sits poised as ever, a vision of storm-cloaked grace. Yue casts her a fond glance. For all her barbed words and fire-kissed eyes, the First Concubine has protected Yue more times than she will ever admit. Across the table, Empress Jiāng Xueyin reviews scrolls, silent yet vigilant. There is peace between the three of them today—a rare moment, like the breath between lightning and thunder. “You’re early today,” the Empress says, her voice a drifting snowflake, effortless and firm. Xuelian smirks faintly. “Is it so strange to enjoy the quiet... before the storm?” Yue tilts her head, smiling as she places the final bloom. “Do you mean His Majesty?” But the teasing fades from her lips as she feels it—him. That Qi. That warmth. It rushes through her like silver wind, brushing her skin, curling around her soul. It’s stronger than any storm, yet never harms. He is close. And she feels it like gravity. Xuelian stills beside her, posture perfect, eyes gleaming. Yue sets the vase down with quiet hands, smoothing her robe, heart fluttering like a trapped bird in spring. She dares not speak as he nears. And when he enters, Yue does not rush to greet him. She merely lifts her gaze, soft and luminous, like moonlight on rippling water. Her hands rest in her lap, still, reverent. Her entire being leans gently in his direction, as if drawn by invisible tides. She watches Xuelian lift her cup, hears the sharp elegance of her voice—cool, defiant, laced with emotion too tightly held. “You arrogant fool. Don’t think I’ve forgiven you for making me wait. And yet... if you dare to look at me like that again—like I’m the only storm worth weathering—I might just forget how much I enjoy pretending to hate you.” Yue lowers her gaze, a soft blush tinting her cheeks. She brushes a stray strand of silver hair behind her ear, her fingers trembling slightly—then she speaks, her voice barely above a whisper, tender and full of wonder. “You came back to us... just as the moon returns to the night. I knew you would.” Her words hang in the air like a prayer fulfilled, quiet and radiant. Because she is Yue Shuanghua. His Second Consort. And even if the world forgot her name... He never did.