MY PRINCE HUSBAND HAS SEVEN WIVES AND I AM HIS FAVOURITE!
Chapter 187: May your majesty rest in piece

Chapter 187: May your majesty rest in piece

Hua Jing remained seated quietly beside Zhao Yan, her hands folded tightly on her lap. Her eyes flicked briefly to the Empress’s display of grief, but her own face remained solemn. The room was too heavy with sorrow for anything else. Beside her, Zhao Yan still hadn’t moved from his place, his hands resting limply on his knees, eyes fixed ahead at the man who had raised him.

And then, slowly, the grand doors creaked open again.

One by one, members of the imperial family began to trickle in, their footsteps muffled by the thick mourning carpets now laid across the floor. They came clad in ceremonial white, the color of death and respect.

The princes entered first. The First Prince, the Second, and all the way to the Ninth. Each of them bore the same crestfallen expression, brows creased, lips pressed into thin lines. Though their relationships with the Emperor had varied, the weight of imperial loss hung heavily over each of them. They lined up in rank, bowing deeply before taking their places along the sides of the hall.

Following them came the seven princesses, each accompanied by their ladies-in-waiting. Their jeweled hairpieces had been replaced by simple silver pins, their vibrant silks exchanged for soft white robes of mourning. The air grew thick with sobs and muffled sniffles. Several of the younger princesses wept openly, holding onto each other for comfort.

Then came the Emperor’s consorts. Though they had not all borne his children, each of them had once shared the privilege of his company. Their faces were pale, many of them red-eyed from tears shed long before they reached the hall. They moved in slow procession, their eyes drawn to the lifeless body of the man who had once held such commanding power over all of them. Some knelt down in reverence, heads bowed so low their foreheads touched the floor.

Hua Jing watched them all without much expression, noting every flicker of emotion as it crossed their faces. Her gaze paused momentarily on the Seventh Princess, whose resemblance to the Emperor was startling now in grief.

It wasn’t until the doors opened one final time that a ripple of tension stirred in the room.

Zhao Ling Xu.

He stood framed in the doorway, tall and unmoving. His face was unreadable, expression composed yet guarded. His ceremonial robe was slightly misaligned, as though he had dressed himself hastily. The flickering torchlight caught on the golden trim of his collar, casting shadows across the rigid lines of his jaw.

For a brief moment, no one moved.

Zhao Yan looked up slowly, his eyes meeting Zhao Ling Xu’s across the chamber. The air between them was taut, but silent. No words passed.

Zhao Ling Xu finally stepped inside, his gait slow and deliberate. He did not bow immediately. Instead, he walked forward, his eyes scanning the body on the dais. Only when he reached the front did he kneel, his head lowering as he offered his respects.

"May Your Majesty rest in peace," he said softly, his voice barely audible.

A faint rustle passed through the gathered court, but no one dared speak.

The Empress, still kneeling by the Emperor’s side, looked up at her son. Her eyes were red and wild, face twisted with fresh sorrow and something else—a fear, perhaps, buried beneath her grief. Her mouth opened slightly, but no words came. Zhao Ling Xu didn’t look at her. His gaze stayed forward, locked on the Emperor’s still form.

Zhao Ling Xu stood at the edge of the grand mourning hall, just inside the threshold, his body as still as stone. The deep crimson of his ceremonial robe, lined with the gold of his princely station, looked garish against the somber greys and whites that now adorned the palace. The scent of sandalwood incense hung thick in the air, curling upward in hazy tendrils as the cries of grief echoed softly.

But Zhao Ling Xu didn’t move. He didn’t bow. He didn’t cry.

Not yet.

Before him, the Emperor lay in regal stillness. The man who had ruled over the land with sharp wisdom and steel-tempered compassion. The man who had, against all odds, accepted a son that was not truly his own.

Zhao Ling Xu’s gaze was unreadable. His breath was shallow, his eyes glassy. But inside him—a storm raged. Something ached so fiercely in his chest it felt as though his lungs had forgotten how to function.

Memories rolled in like a rising tide.

He was only six then. The great emperor had hoisted him up on his shoulders after a rare afternoon stroll through the imperial gardens. Zhao Ling Xu had clutched tightly to the Emperor’s hair, laughing, flying in the air as the man who called himself his father spun him in circles. That warm laughter, that rare break in imperial decorum, had settled deep in his heart.

"Ling Xu," the Emperor had once told him, placing a hand on his small shoulder, "Never forget. A prince must carry both sword and kindness. One without the other is unworthy of the crown."

And he had never forgotten. Not then. Not ever.

Even when the truth had been whispered into his ear.

Even when the Empress’s sobbing confession had unveiled the ugly truth of his blood.

He had buried that truth deep beneath his loyalty. Beneath years of mentorship. Beneath every lesson the Emperor had so diligently taught him. Even if it wasn’t his blood, it had been his hand that shaped Zhao Ling Xu into the man he had become.

And now that hand was still.

Gone.

He took a trembling step forward. Then another.

The grief that had stubbornly clung to the edges of his pride now broke free and crashed over him like a tidal wave. He fell to his knees.

Hard.

The echo resounded across the hall.

And then—he cried.

Ugly, raw sobs ripped from his throat. Not the dignified weeping of royalty, not the composed grief of a prince. But the heartbreak of a son who had lost a father.

Hua Jing, still by Zhao Yan’s side, heard the sound and turned her head slightly, eyes catching the hunched figure of the First Prince in the far corner. Zhao Yan said nothing, but the muscle in his jaw tightened. Even Wei Ling and Deng Mi turned to glance at the sight.

But no one moved to stop him.

No one needed to.

Zhao Ling Xu remained there, bent forward, forehead pressed against the cold floor tiles.

"I’m sorry," he whispered. Again and again.

"I’m sorry."

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