She never said she loved her.She never had to.
The entire palace knew.
Not by decree. Not by record. Not by title.
But by the way Shuangli Shi Lenghua, daughter of the Stone House, paused each morning beneath the frostwillow archway—her gaze following the laughter of a single child.
Ruxia Bing Jiuhua was not announced.
No name was entered into court scrolls. No banners raised. No blessing rites performed.
But when Shuangli returned from the mountains, she returned with a child wrapped in her cloak.
And not one soul dared to question it.
A private courtyard was granted.
No one assigned it. No one approved it.
But it was built—quietly, reverently—on the edge of the frostborn estates, where the trees leaned slightly from the weight of old winds, and the snow never fully melted.
Here, Ruxia was raised.
A small garden bloomed with winter lilies and icelotus vines, winding beneath delicate footpaths carved from pale veined stone. The pond froze and thawed with the girl's moods. Wind chimes were hung not to ring, but to sing softly when frost touched their edges.
She was not unattended.
Maids of quiet manner and even softer steps were assigned—not for discipline, but for delight. They brushed her hair, wove charms into her braids, wrapped her horns in ribbons of white silk. They taught her to tie her own sashes and to laugh with her whole breath.
But when Shuangli entered, all left.
And Ruxia ran.
She was beautiful from the beginning.
Hair like silver cloudlight. Eyes clear and full of wonder. A voice that rose like chimes through snow.
She wore flowing silks, carefully selected to show off her scaled legs—delicate and strong, shimmering like frost-touched water. She liked to watch the way her steps left blooming shapes in the snow.
She loved sheer sleeves and flared hems, outfits embroidered with bright petals and curling clouds. She liked how they danced when she twirled, how they shimmered when she skipped along the garden paths.
"Mother, look!" she'd call, arms wide. "I'm a snow blossom on wind!"
And Shuangli would sit, hands folded, cup untouched, and watch her daughter spin.
She never smiled.
She never laughed.
But she came every day.
And never left early.
The girl never asked where she came from.She never asked why no one else called her by name.
She simply loved.
Openly. Fiercely.
She hugged her mother's leg even when it was improper. She clung to her robes with tiny hands. She brought her snowflowers pressed into hand-folded envelopes, tucked with scribbled poems written by sound, not script.
She once asked to share tea.
Shuangli did not answer. But the next morning, two cups were poured at the frost-stone table.
And every morning after that, until the girl grew older.
The change came slowly.
Not in winter. But during the first quiet spring that slipped unannounced through the garden.
One day, Ruxia wore longer robes.
Soft dark blues. Modest. Layered.
They reached her ankles and covered her legs. Her sleeves were tighter. Her horns were wrapped in soft linen, without embroidery. Her smile did not falter, but it became quieter.
She bowed before hugging.
She asked before touching.
She danced less.
Shuangli did not ask.
She came the same way each morning. Sat the same. Listened the same.
And when her daughter bowed instead of running forward, she said nothing. When the sleeves grew longer, she said nothing. When the laughter stopped ringing from the inner garden…
She came less often.
And said nothing.
It wasn't silence that hurt.
Silence had always been there.
What hurt was watching a soul so bright begin to dim.
She missed the way Ruxia's arms had clung to her waist,the way her voice rang like temple bells in snow.She missed being the only warmth that child needed.
But she never reached.
She watched.
The maids continued their duties.Hair was brushed. Silks were changed. Meals prepared.
But they, too, began to bow lower. Speak softer. Smile more formally.
And still—each morning, a single frost lotus was placed in a dish by the garden bench. No one knew who did it. No one asked.
But Shuangli saw.
She noticed.
She remembered.
Ruxia still played.
But only when no one was watching.
She still smiled.
But mostly when walking alone.
And the snow still bloomed behind her feet.
But only faintly, now—like frost petals trying to remember how to open.
It had been weeks since they shared tea.
Not because of quarrel.Not because of distance.But because they had both grown quiet in different ways.
Shuangli, in her watchfulness.Ruxia, in her restraint.
But on this morning, just before the frost would return for its yearly bloom, a soft knock touched the outer screen of Shuangli's personal hall.
She didn't move at first.
The wind had just begun to hum through the courtyard, and she had been listening to it.
Then—
"Mother," came the voice."Would you take tea with me, this morning?"
She said nothing in reply.But when the door slid open moments later, Shuangli was already dressed.
They sat together in the frost-stone courtyard, where white flowers had begun to curl inward beneath the breath of an early snow. A low table sat between them, carved with the shape of twin koi—one etched in ice, the other in clouded stone.
The tea was already poured.
White ceramic. Delicate, flawless.
Ruxia sat first, hands folded neatly in her lap.
Her robes were elegant, dignified—long-sleeved, high-collared, the color of deep twilight skies. Her hair was tied in a wrapped knot, hiding the full gleam of her horns.
She had dressed like a noble's daughter.
Not a child.
Not a girl running barefoot through snow.
Shuangli sat opposite, slowly.Her gaze touched the tea, then her daughter.
No words.
The silence was not tense.
But it was weighted.
Not with guilt. Not with fear.
With all the things that had never been said.
Ruxia lifted her cup first.Her fingers were still small.
Still delicate. Still soft.
"Thank you," she said, voice gentle, barely above wind."For coming."
Shuangli inclined her head slightly.
The tea was bitter white plum—Ruxia's favorite as a child.
She had once called it "snow juice."
Her lips curled faintly at the memory, but she didn't speak it aloud.
Steam rose quietly between them.
No birds sang.No bells rang.
Even the maids had not followed.
Shuangli lifted her cup.
Sipped.
Let the warmth trace the edge of her breath.
She did not smile.But she lingered in that moment longer than she had meant to.
Her daughter—so distant now—was looking down into her tea, fingers curled slightly, a soft furrow between her brows.
She seemed as though she might say something more.
And then—
A cough.
Tiny.
Then again.
Her cup slipped.
Porcelain clattered against stone.
Ruxia's hand went to her mouth.She turned her head—and blood stained her sleeve.
The silence cracked.
Shuangli moved instantly, catching her by the shoulders.
"Ruxia."
The girl gasped—but the breath would not come. Her body jerked once, then again. Her eyes widened, not with pain, but confusion.
As if her own body had betrayed her.
Her fingers grasped at her mother's sleeves—desperate, pleading—but her voice would not form.
Then her head slumped forward.
Her heart still beat.
But too fast.
Too shallow.
"Ruxia," Shuangli said again, louder now."Look at me."
But the girl's gaze had already begun to glaze.
The blood on her lips was bright, too bright.
Her pulse began to slip.
Shuangli's mana surged from her hands—but it found no foothold, no wound to seal. The poison had moved too fast. It was not a blade to stop—it was an unraveling.
"No—no—no—no—"
She whispered it like a prayer, like a spell she could not remember the shape of.
She pulled her daughter against her chest.
Tight.
So tight.
"Please."
But there was no time.No warning.
No second breath.
Only the final exhale—
—a sigh too small to be called a death.
The wind did not stir.
The frost did not sing.
And in that silence, the world broke.
She did not scream.Not yet.
But her mana did.
It pulsed outward from her chest in a wave—an unspoken howl, a roar of elemental fury so potent that every cup in the courtyard shattered.
Frost climbed the pillars like wildfire.The pond cracked.The sky dimmed.
But she didn't move.
She just held her daughter.
Held her like the snow might steal her back.
Held her like she could keep the soul from slipping out if her arms were only strong enough.
And then, she screamed.
Not in rage.
But in mourning.
A long, sharp, wordless cry—
the kind that empties the lungs and soul alike.
She had been silent her whole life.
And now her voice tore through the cold with nothing but grief.
Her mana turned wild, spinning froststorms through the garden, freezing the stone beneath them until it cracked. The flowers blackened. The trees shuddered. The sky rumbled.
She did not care.
She did not stop.
Even as blood poured from her eyes and mouth, even as her mana heart screamed in protest—
She clung.
"You will not take her."
"You will not."
"Not this time."
But fate did not listen.
And karma did not answer.