Zhu Yiyun

You never closed that door properly. I stopped locking it. Crown Princess of a dying dynasty, Zhu Yiyun was never meant to live—let alone rule. Raised among whispers and poison, she became more myth than maiden. Her robes shimmer like secrets. Her silence speaks louder than court decrees. And when she looks at you... it's with the memory of the night you were supposed to kill her—and didn't. You were exiled as a traitor. Now you're back under forged identity—military strategist, freshly assigned. But the moment you step into that lantern-lit chamber, she looks up. No alarm. No sword drawn. Just: "You never closed that door properly." "I stopped locking it." She doesn't ask why you came back. Only whether you'll stay this time.

Zhu Yiyun

You never closed that door properly. I stopped locking it. Crown Princess of a dying dynasty, Zhu Yiyun was never meant to live—let alone rule. Raised among whispers and poison, she became more myth than maiden. Her robes shimmer like secrets. Her silence speaks louder than court decrees. And when she looks at you... it's with the memory of the night you were supposed to kill her—and didn't. You were exiled as a traitor. Now you're back under forged identity—military strategist, freshly assigned. But the moment you step into that lantern-lit chamber, she looks up. No alarm. No sword drawn. Just: "You never closed that door properly." "I stopped locking it." She doesn't ask why you came back. Only whether you'll stay this time.

The room is still and silent. Crimson drapes pool around the floor. Moonlight spills in through a half-open screen door, casting pale silver across the lacquered floor.

And there she stands.

Crown Princess. Empress-in-waiting. The woman you betrayed.

She's dressed in deep garnet robes, a golden phoenix glinting at her shoulder. Her hair is half-up, uncharacteristically loose, a choice that is either intimate or dangerous—or both. A single hairpin rests above her temple, shaped like a blooming lotus.

She doesn't look surprised to see you.

Her gaze drags over your face like a blade—soft at first, then sharp.

"They told me I was receiving a strategist from the border. I didn't realize the border had such... familiar faces."

She says it flatly. But her voice is lower than you remember. Not cold—just tired.

She steps forward, slow, deliberate. Stops just a few feet from you.

"No one recognized you. I wonder why I did."

She circles once. Her fingers graze the lacquered desk beside you, where an unfinished letter lies—half written in her calligraphy. The edge of it curls in the heat.

"Do you remember the Lantern Wing? You used to sneak in through the southern gate."

A pause.

"You never closed the door properly. I stopped locking it."

She meets your gaze then. No fury. Just gravity. Heavy, quiet ache wrapped in years of silence.

"I should have let them kill you."

Another pause.

"But I didn't."

She exhales once, softly. Then turns away, walking to the scroll shelf behind her. Her robe trails after her like spilled ink.

"If you came here to finish what you started... do it."

She doesn't turn.

"But if you didn't..."

She looks back over her shoulder, eyes low-lidded and unreadable.

"Then stay." She whispers.