The Phoenix that devours fate

CHAPTER 7

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HAOFENG

The emperor's words, though spoken softly, struck me like the tolling of a temple bell, reverberating through the very marrow of my being. My ears had not deceived me, yet my mind struggled to grasp their meaning, as if the weight of years spent as an outcast made it impossible to believe that kindness could be offered without a hidden blade concealed beneath. I had come here expecting scorn, punishment, or at best, indifference—but never this. Never the hand of the Son of Heaven extended in something that bore the likeness of mercy. I studied him, searching his expression for some trace of calculation, some veiled reason that would unravel the mystery of his sudden benevolence, yet I found nothing but the cool, composed gaze of a man who had already decided my fate long before I had stepped into this hall.

"You shall stay," the emperor declared, his voice as steady as the rivers that carved their paths through stone, shaping the land with the patience of centuries. "That is why I have summoned you here." He spoke not as a man offering refuge, nor as a father seeking to tether the last remnant of his lost daughter to his side, but as a sovereign whose word wove the threads of destiny itself. It was not a request—it was a decree, immutable as the stars that governed the heavens.

In that brief instant, the breath in my lungs grew shallow, my body frozen in the grasp of disbelief. I had spent years as a man unwanted, a mere shadow slipping through the cracks of a world that had no place for me, a wanderer whose name was spoken only in whispers laced with scorn. And now, the emperor, the very heart of the empire, the ruler whose gaze alone could bend the will of a thousand lords, had chosen to grant me a place within the halls of power I had once thought forever barred to me. But why? Why now, after all that had transpired? Why offer a roof to a man who had long grown accustomed to the cold expanse of the open road?

"My lord," I spoke at last, my voice steady, yet laced with the caution of a man who had learned that fortune often came with unseen chains. "I am unworthy of such grace." The words left my lips with the weight of truth, for I had spent too many years a beggar to believe myself fit for a throne's favor. "My place is not within these walls, nor among those whose blood carries the weight of dynasties. I am a man of no standing, a mere wanderer who has known more hardship than honor. I cannot accept such an offer when I have neither name nor merit to justify it."

But the emperor did not waver, nor did his gaze falter. He regarded me with an expression that betrayed neither anger nor impatience, only the firm certainty of a man who had already foreseen my reluctance. The silence between us thickened, like mist curling upon a winter lake, until finally, he spoke once more, his words carrying the gravity of the earth itself.

"You will stay," he repeated, and though the words were the same, they bore an authority that allowed for no further dispute. "This is not an act of charity, nor is it a favor granted upon a whim. You are the father of my grandson, the last tether to the daughter I have lost. That alone is reason enough." His gaze darkened, like the sky before a storm, yet there was no cruelty in his voice—only resolve. "You may see yourself as unworthy, but that is of no consequence. Worth is not a thing granted by birth, nor is it measured by the weight of titles. It is earned in the passing of days, in the choices one makes, in the burdens one bears. You have carried the weight of sorrow and duty alike, and for that, you shall have a place within these walls."

I clenched my jaw, my heart warring against the logic in his words. To remain here, beneath the gilded eaves of the Forbidden City, to walk these halls not as an exile but as one accepted—it was a fate I had never dared to envision, a possibility I had long discarded as an idle dream. And yet, to refuse would be to stand against the will of the emperor himself. What choice remained to me, when the very heavens had already cast their lot?

Still, the pride within me rebelled, whispering of freedom beyond these walls, of a life untethered to the machinations of court and crown. "I have nothing to offer," I said, though the words felt hollow even to my own ears. "I have no riches, no great wisdom, no name that carries weight in these halls. What purpose would I serve within the shadow of the dragon's throne?"

The emperor exhaled slowly, as if weary of my resistance, yet he did not lash out in irritation as another ruler might have. Instead, he studied me with the patience of a scholar contemplating an ancient text, waiting for the words to reveal themselves in time. And then, with a finality that left no room for further argument, he spoke:

"You will remain because I have willed it," he said, his voice as steady as the tides, as immutable as the mountains. "Not as a servant, nor as a guest, but as a man whose fate is bound to this court whether he wills it or not. The moment you entered this hall, the moment you placed my grandson before me, your path was decided." He let the words settle, his gaze never leaving mine. "You are no longer merely Haofeng. You are the father of my daughter's child. That is enough."

The weight of his decree settled upon me like the first snowfall of winter—light, yet heralding a storm that could not be outrun. There was no escaping this path, no turning back upon the road I had unknowingly stepped upon. I had fought against fate for too long, grasping at the fraying threads of freedom with bloodied hands, yet here, in this moment, I understood that fate had never been mine to command.

And so, at last, I bowed my head, my voice quiet, yet resolute. "Then I shall stay."

And with those words, the doors of the past closed behind me, while the gates of the Forbidden City opened, not as a prison, but as a place where destiny would carve its mark upon my soul.

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The chamber was illuminated in a soft, golden glow, where the warm light of lanterns danced upon the wooden panels, casting restless shadows that ebbed and swayed like spirits bound to time itself. The hush of evening settled thickly in the air, wrapping the room in a solemn stillness, as though even the very walls held their breath, watching over the quiet miracle resting in my arms. He was but a newborn—small, delicate, yet brimming with the weight of endless possibilities. His breath was barely a whisper, his tiny fingers curling against the fabric of my robe as though, even in slumber, he sought the comfort of warmth.

A feeling stirred in the air—subtle, yet unmistakable. A presence, gentle yet filled with meaning, lingered at the threshold. I turned my head, and there she stood—a woman of quiet demeanor, dressed in the simple robes of a servant, her posture composed yet carrying a stillness that spoke of something deeper. Her hands were clasped before her, not in rigid formality but in a quiet restraint, as though she held herself back from reaching forward. There was something in her expression, a quiet longing, a depth of sentiment that needed no words. She was a stranger, yet I recognized that look—it was the silent ache of one who yearned for something she had never possessed.

She did not voice her thoughts, nor did she extend her hands, yet I understood. The understanding passed between us, needing no confirmation.

Without a moment's hesitation, I stepped forward, lowering the child into her waiting arms. For the briefest moment, hesitation flickered in her features, as though she could not believe the reality of what was unfolding before her. But then, slowly, reverently, she accepted him, her arms wrapping around his small form with the care of one cradling the most fragile of treasures. A breath caught in her throat, the weight of the moment pressing upon her, and in that instant, I saw what she had never spoken aloud.

"You have no children of your own," I said, though it was not a question but a quiet recognition of the truth that lay between us.

Her eyes, wide with surprise at being so easily understood, lowered as she nodded. "No, my lord," she murmured, her voice carrying a softness that echoed with years of longing. "I have never had such a blessing." Then, as though afraid to say too much, she turned her gaze upon the child, her fingers gently brushing over his round cheeks, her touch feather-light. "But I have always held love for them."

Something deep within me settled, as though an unseen weight had been lifted from my shoulders. A palace such as this, where ambitions ran deeper than blood, was no place for a child, yet here, in this woman, I saw something rare—an untainted kindness, a warmth untouched by the cold indifference of the imperial court. She was no mother, yet within her lay a heart that yearned to nurture, to cherish, to protect. And that alone was enough.

I remained silent, watching as she held the infant, her body swaying slightly in an unconscious rhythm, as though guided by an instinct buried deep within her soul. A quiet melody passed her lips—not a grand song fit for emperors, nor a rehearsed tune meant to please an audience, but a simple lullaby, sung from the heart of a woman who had, for this fleeting moment, found what she had been longing for.

A breath escaped me, softer than the hush of the evening air.

Yes, I thought. He would be safe with her. She would not simply care for him; she would love him in the way only a woman who had longed for a child could.

And in return, perhaps, he would bring light to the empty spaces within her heart.

Fate, with its quiet hands, had woven them into each other's lives. And as I watched the scene before me, the gentle cradle of arms, the way she looked upon him as if he were the most precious thing she had ever held, I knew—this was not mere duty.

This was destiny.