CHAPTER 208: EVEN IF THE EMPIRE BURNS

The night was silent, save for the wind brushing softly against the eaves of the hut.

A soft glow from a single lantern painted shadows on the old wooden walls, flickering gently with every movement. Zhao Yan and Hua Jing walked side by side, the warmth of the fire behind them still clinging to their backs. As they approached the doorway of their shared hut, Gu Wei—still chewing on a piece of roasted rabbit—called out from his stool.

"Keep it down in there."

Hua Jing nearly tripped over her own feet. "W-What?!"

Gu Wei didn’t even look up. "I know it’s been a long time, but I’m old and my ears still work."

Hua Jing’s cheeks burned instantly, but Zhao Yan only laughed.

"Stay out of it, old man."

And with that, he opened the door, ushered Hua Jing inside, and shut it behind them.

The interior was small. Humble. A modest sleeping mat, a folded blanket, and a low wooden table tucked in the corner. The lantern sat on a short shelf, its golden flame the only source of light.

Hua Jing stepped in slowly, glancing around the room. There was nothing extravagant here. No silk, no incense, no palace carvings. This wasn’t the place a prince belonged. It was weather-worn and quiet and plain.

And yet—it felt safe.

Before she could take another step, a strong hand caught her wrist.

She turned, surprised—but the moment was gone as Zhao Yan pulled her gently back, and she fell against the broad, familiar shape of his chest.

Her breath caught.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just held her.

Tight. Solid. Real.

His chin lowered to rest atop her head. His hand slid across her back, splaying out to cover as much of her as he could, as if to anchor her there. To prove to himself she wouldn’t vanish again.

Hua Jing closed her eyes.

They stood like that for a long time. Two souls that had been torn apart by war and death and betrayal—now bound again in the quiet of a mountain hut.

Her hands curled into his robe.

"I thought I’d lost you," she whispered. "I thought I’d never see you again."

"I’m sorry," he said, voice low. "So many times, I wished I could’ve reached for you."

"You should’ve let me come."

"I couldn’t."

"You should’ve."

His arms tightened.

She looked up at him, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes again. "I would’ve followed you into death."

He leaned down, slowly, brushing his forehead against hers.

"I know," he murmured.

And then—

He kissed her.

It wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t desperate.

It was full. Slow. Like a prayer.

Like they were trying to make up for all the moments they thought were gone.

Her fingers climbed to the back of his neck, threading through his hair. His hand slid to the small of her back, bringing her closer, until there was no space left between them.

The world outside faded.

The pain, the grief, the wars—they vanished.

There was only this moment.

Only the warmth of skin and breath.

Only the quiet beat of two hearts that refused to stop.

He lifted her gently, hands steady as he laid her back onto the mat. She reached up, never letting him go, eyes wide with something deeper than longing—need.

Not physical.

Something else.

Something whole.

Something sacred.

He leaned over her, studying her face as if memorizing every line. She looked up at him, breathless.

"I don’t care where we are," she said. "I don’t care what happens tomorrow. This—this is all I wanted."

"You have me," he said. "And you always will."

She smiled through her tears. "Even if the empire burns?"

He kissed her forehead. "Let it.

Their lips met again, slower this time, like the pause between thunder and lightning—charged and full of breathless silence. The kiss deepened, his hand brushing her jaw, her fingers curling into his collar.

Outside, the wind pressed softly against the hut’s wooden frame, but the air inside was growing warm.

Too warm.

The kind of warmth that came not just from firelight, but from closeness.

From wanting.

Zhao Yan’s fingertips lingered at her waist, drawing slow lines through the folds of her robe. Her pulse quickened beneath his touch. Her hands moved of their own will, tracing the familiar path of his shoulders, the back of his neck, the place behind his ear where he was always most tender.

Neither of them spoke.

There were no clever words. No royal declarations.

Only the sound of breath between them, the rustle of fabric as his outer robe slid to the floor, the soft gasp when he gently lowered her to the edge of the mat.

She didn’t resist.

She welcomed it.

Every movement was a silent vow.

Zhao Yan leaned over her, the lantern casting amber across his face, and she stared up at him like he was the last thing she’d ever want to see in this world.

The heat between them rose steadily, not rushed, but inevitable. It built in the silence, in the weight of every look, every sigh, every heartbeat that thudded louder in her ears.

He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and she caught his wrist and held it there.

"I missed you," she whispered.

"I never stopped thinking about you," he replied.

His words were like fire in her blood.

When they kissed again, it was slower. Deeper.

When her robe loosened beneath his hands, it was not shame she felt—but belonging.

They moved together, gently at first, testing the space between longing and need, then with more certainty, as if to say: We’re alive. We’re here. This moment is ours.

What passed between them wasn’t just reunion.

It was refuge.

And when they finally lay tangled together in the hush of that flickering room, the world outside could have crumbled—and neither would have noticed.

Their clothes rustled, soft and slow, discarded not in haste but in reverence. Every kiss, every touch was a vow. A promise. A tether pulling them together, tighter and tighter, until neither of them remembered what it was to be apart.

There was no palace between them now.

No titles.

No thrones.

Just Hua Jing and Zhao Yan.

Two hearts. One breath.

The lantern flame flickered higher as if stirred by their closeness, shadows dancing across the walls. Their hands found each other again and again, holding, exploring, clinging.

And in that small room, on that humble mat, they loved each other.

Fully.

Silently.

In a way no one would ever see, no one could ever take away.

Later, with her head resting on his shoulder, her fingers drawing slow, lazy circles across his chest, she whispered, "I’m scared."

Zhao Yan, half-asleep, shifted to press a kiss into her hair. "Of what?"

"That this moment will vanish. That I’ll wake up and it’ll all be gone again."

He pulled her closer. "It won’t."

"You promise?"

"I do."