Fated to be queen

The final battle

The palace buzzed with a strange stillness in the following weeks. Under the emperor’s orders, guards tripled their watch. The empress stopped leaving her quarters, and every servant—new and old—was closely monitored.

But even with all the caution, danger had already crept inside.

Late one night, General Wen, one of Yu Shenlong’s most loyal commanders, barged into the war chamber, his face pale and tense.

“Your Majesty,” he said breathlessly, “we’ve found the leak.”

The emperor stood slowly, the scroll he had been reading falling to the table. “Who?”

“A maid—her name is Mei Lien. She’s from the western wing, recently assigned to kitchen duty.”

Yu Shenlong frowned. “I don’t recognize her name.”

“She kept a low profile… but we dug into her background. Her husband was one of Wei Long’s soldiers. He died in the battle two months ago. Since then, she’s been feeding information to Wei Long through encoded letters disguised as laundry inventory.”

The emperor’s fist clenched. “So he’s been watching us… through her.”

The empress, who had overheard from the hallway, stepped in, holding the baby closely. “We could use her,” she said with quiet intensity.

The emperor and the general turned to her.

“She thinks she’s still undetected,” the empress continued. “Let her send one last letter. This time, we’ll be ready.”

The next day, as part of the queen's strategy, the king pretended to be gravely ill.

That very evening, Wei Long received a message from Mei Lien. It read:

“The Emperor has fallen ill. Defenses are weak. A quiet strike will finish everything.”

That night, under the cover of a moonless sky, Wei Long and his most trusted assassins breached the palace walls.

But this time, they were not entering a weakened palace.

They were walking into a trap.

Hidden guards waited silently behind pillars, archers stationed on rooftops. When Wei Long stepped into the royal court, expecting a sleeping empire, the clang of the first sword unsheathing echoed like thunder.

The fight was brutal.

Steel clashed against steel. Screams and shouts filled the once-holy grounds of the court. The emperor, dressed in black armor with golden embroidery, fought like a lion among jackals.

But Wei Long was no fool—he had trained for this moment his entire life.

Their blades met in a final deadly dance. Blow after blow. Cut after cut.

Then, with a devastating strike, Wei Long’s blade sliced through the emperor’s side, sending him crashing to the ground.

“Your reign ends here,” Wei Long hissed.

But as he raised his sword for the final blow, the emperor’s hand reached out, gripping his opponent’s wrist with the last of his strength—and with one final surge, he drove his dagger through Wei Long’s chest.

Wei Long collapsed onto the floor. The battle was finally over.

Yu Shenlong was carried to the healing hall, where his wounds were mostly treated, soaked in blood, unconscious, barely breathing.

The empress, pale and shaking, stood at the gates as the guards brought him in.

“What happened?” she cried.

“He’s alive… but barely,” General Wen whispered. “We don’t know if he’ll make it.”

The entire palace went into mourning.

Candles were lit in every corner. Temple bells rang day and night. Rumors spread through the empire—the Emperor might not live to see the dawn.

Days passed.

But then, one morning, the Empress was awakened by a faint voice.

“…Water…”

She rushed to the bedside. The Emperor’s eyes—tired but alive—opened slowly.

“You—” he whispered, reaching for her hand.

Tears rolled freely down her cheeks. “You came back to me…”

He nodded weakly. “I promised… to protect you both.”

And so he had.

Though the wounds ran deep, both on his body and in the empire, healing had begun.