MY PRINCE HUSBAND HAS SEVEN WIVES AND I AM HIS FAVOURITE!
Chapter 42: He is dead

Chapter 42: He is dead

For a moment, he lingered, his eyes tracing the smudges of dirt on her face, the stray strands of hair that framed her features.

Her lips were slightly parted, her expression completely unguarded in sleep.

The sight stirred something unfamiliar in him, something he couldn’t quite name.

---

He shook his head, pulling himself away from the thoughts that threatened to distract him.

The fire was dying down, and they couldn’t risk losing its warmth.

Zhao Yan stood and made his way to the cave entrance, his movements slow and deliberate.

---

The snow had stopped falling, but the ground was still blanketed in white.

He stepped out cautiously, his boots crunching against the frozen ground as he searched for sticks to feed the fire.

The air was bitterly cold, each breath visible as a puff of mist.

---

It didn’t take long to gather enough wood.

He returned to the cave and added the sticks to the embers, coaxing the flames back to life.

The fire roared to life, casting a warm glow that chased away the shadows clinging to the cave walls.

---

Zhao Yan glanced at Hua Jing, who hadn’t moved an inch.

Her face was still peaceful, untouched by the worries that weighed heavily on his own mind.

He knelt beside her, brushing a strand of hair away from her forehead.

---

"Hua Jing," he murmured, his voice barely audible over the crackle of the fire.

"You should get some rest. When you wake up, I’ll take us out of here."

His fingers lingered for a moment before he pulled back, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

...

Across the empire, in a distant palace cloaked in snow, a man stood by a frost-covered window.

His long winter coat was lined with fur, the rich fabric trailing the ground as he clasped his hands behind his back.

His expression was grim, his jaw set tightly as he stared out into the night.

Yet, his eyes betrayed a flicker of hope, a quiet yearning for news that had yet to arrive.

Behind him, two guards sat cross-legged on the floor, their focus on a game of Go.

The black and white stones clattered softly against the wooden board as they played, their low murmurs filling the otherwise silent chamber.

The man by the window exhaled slowly, his breath fogging the glass.

He turned, his gaze sweeping over the guards.

"Has there been any word?" he asked, his voice low but firm.

The guards paused their game, glancing up at him.

One of them hesitated before shaking his head.

"Not yet, my lord. We are still awaiting the messenger."

The man’s lips pressed into a thin line, his expression darkening.

"Tell them to hurry," he said coldly.

"I do not like to be kept waiting."

"Yes, my lord."

The guards quickly resumed their game, their movements more subdued under the weight of their superior’s presence.

The man turned back to the window, his fingers tapping against the glass.

His thoughts were a whirlwind of possibilities, each one more troubling than the last.

....

The man by the window stiffened, his fingers pausing mid-tap against the frosted glass.

The muffled sound of rushed footsteps echoed down the corridor, sharp and urgent, breaking the silence of the room.

His dark eyes narrowed as he turned slightly, his gaze flicking toward the closed door.

A loud knock rang out, so forceful it felt like the door might splinter under the impact.

The guards in the room shot each other wary glances, their game of Go forgotten as they reached for their weapons.

The man at the window raised a hand, gesturing sharply toward the door.

---

The guards moved swiftly, their footsteps echoing against the stone floor as they approached the door.

When it swung open, they were met with a sight that made one guard stumble back, his face twisting in shock.

"Ah!" he cried out, his voice filled with alarm.

The figure at the threshold was barely standing, his clothes tattered and soaked with blood.

His face was pale, almost ghostly, and his chest heaved as he struggled for air.

Before the guards could react further, the man staggered inside, his boots leaving crimson stains on the floor.

Behind him, others followed, each one in a similarly battered state.

They moved with a desperate urgency, their eyes darting nervously around the room.

The man by the window turned fully now, his expression hard as steel.

He stepped forward, his voice slicing through the tense air.

"Report."

The leader of the group stumbled forward, his legs shaking as he attempted to bow.

"My lord..." he began, his voice weak and trembling.

But before he could continue, his knees buckled, and he collapsed onto the floor.

The blood pooling beneath him spread steadily, staining the intricate patterns of the carpet.

One of the guards instinctively stepped back, his face pale.

The man by the window didn’t flinch. His dark gaze bore into the fallen figure.

"I said report," he repeated, his tone sharp and unyielding.

The wounded man struggled to lift his head, his breath ragged.

"We..." he began again, his words barely audible.

But whatever he was about to say was cut off as his body slumped forward, completely spent.

The others in the group stood frozen, their faces etched with a mix of fear and exhaustion.

The man by the window surveyed them coldly, his piercing gaze demanding answers.

Finally, one of the remaining soldiers stepped forward.

He was trembling, his lips barely able to form the words.

"Mingruo..." he said, his voice cracking.

The man by the window leaned forward slightly, his expression unreadable.

"What about Mingruo?"

The soldier swallowed hard, his throat bobbing visibly.

He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out.

The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating, until finally, he managed to force out a single, broken phrase.

"Mingruo... didn’t make it."

The man stiffened for a moment. His face quickly became pale.

His reeling thoughts could only become better if the next question was answered as he wanted,

"What about the prince? Did you manage to kill the prince?