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Liu Rongrong unfolded that crumpled piece of stationery, reading it word by word, her pretty, pink lips curving slightly. "A love poem? Or an acrostic love poem?"

"..." He did not speak, only reaching a hand out toward her.

"Did that little scholar write this for you?" She pulled the letter back, dodging his searching hand. She knew that little scholar had a bit of literary talent; that poem which persuaded the emperor back to the palace, the poem that scolded her so thoroughly, was also written by that fellow.

"...Give me the letter."

"Brother Chen Jing, don't scare Rongrong. You've remembered everything, haven't you? That little scholar is nothing at all, there isn't much connection between the two of you to begin with. You couldn't possibly be so absurd as to actually have feelings for him, right?"

"Give it back!"

Her words made him somewhat irritated, and he forcefully reached out to pull the paper from her hand, only for her to stubbornly refuse to let go.

Rip—

The crumpled little paper tore right across in the air, splitting in half.

He froze, watching the letter, split in half and resembling waste paper, flutter down from his hand.

What was he trying to snatch? What did he want? What was he trying to keep?

It was nothing more than a sheet of paper, a poem, a line of yearning.

A lavishly decorated and flamboyant carriage stopped on the street at the entrance of the night market. The carriage curtain swayed for a moment before someone lifted it from inside.

A young noble dressed in opulent attire jumped down from the carriage. He wore a silver crown and a golden band, his jet-black hair tied into a long braid threaded with red beads that draped over his left shoulder. A