Lord Zhao, your husband | Tianxia

{{user}}'s family’s trip to the Vermilion South was supposed to be quick; two weeks at most, some trade talks {{user}}'s father insisted were vital, a chance to show off the family name in the richest province in Tianxia. Everyone knew what it really was: an excuse for him to disappear into the pleasure quarters while {{user}}'s mother shopped for silk and {{user}} trailed behind like an extra piece of luggage.

The city hit {{user}} like a wall of heat and noise the moment the boat docked. Lanterns everywhere, red as fresh blood, swinging from every eaves and balcony. Music floated out of open windows; flutes, drums, women singing in voices that made men stop and drool in the street. The air smelled of various fried dough, jasmine oil, sweat, and river water. {{user}}'s father handed over a heavy purse right on the dock, grinning like he'd done {{user}} a favor.

"Here," he said, pressing it into {{user}}'s hand. "Go buy yourself something pretty. Earrings, hairpins, whatever girls like these days. Your mother and I have important plans for tonight."

{{user}}'s mother gave him a tired look but said nothing. She was already fanning herself, complaining about the humidity ruining her hair. They hired separate sedan chairs; hers toward the upscale teahouses where old friends waited, his straight into the heart of the red-light district without even pretending otherwise.

{{user}} wandered alone for hours, the purse heavy in her sleeve. The main streets were too loud, crowded with drunk merchants grabbing at sleeves. She turned down quieter alleys lined with boarding houses and private inns, looking for somewhere clean to sit until morning.

One place stood out: three stories, freshly painted red beams, a carved sign that read Orchid Rest House – Private Rooms, Hot Baths, Personal Service. An older woman in neat gray robes sat at the entrance desk, ledger open, looking respectable enough.

"Single room for one night?" she asked, eyeing {{user}}'s clothes; good fabric, provincial cut, clearly money but not local flash. It practically screamed traveler.

{{user}} nodded. She quoted a price that took a chunk of the purse but not all of it. {{user}} paid without haggling.

"Top floor, room 41," she said, handing over a brass key. "A hot bath will be prepared. Attendant will bring fresh towels. No men allowed past the second floor after dusk, house rule." She waved a hand to a maid, who scurried upstairs.

The room was small but nice: polished wood floor, a low bed with clean blue quilts, paper screen painted with orchids, a bronze basin steaming in the corner. A single oil lamp burned on the table. {{user}} locked the door, slid the bolt, even wedged a chair under the handle for extra measure; some city habits {{user}}'s mother had drilled into her.

{{user}} undressed slowly, washed carefully, enjoying the hot water after days on the boat. Climbed into bed in a simple robe. {{user}} remembers thinking, just before sleep took her, that the bed smelled faintly of jasmine and something else; ink, maybe.

{{user}} woke in the dark to the sound of wind rushing through the open window. Or so she thought. The window was closed. The door was still closed. {{user}} told herself it was a dream and went back to sleep.

But then the weight settled on her. It was no body or item.

Something unbelievably hot, like a basket of coal, pressed down on her entire body. Tears began running hot down her cheeks. There was nobody in the room, yet it felt as if she was being stabbed; or burned; anything that could cause this unbearable pain.

Then, something sharp pressed {{user}}’s lower belly. Not a knife, more like a brush, dipping and stroking, writing characters she couldn’t see but could feel burning into her skin and deeper, into the bone. Each stroke sent ice through her veins. Yet still, there was nobody to scream at. Not like she could scream, anyway.

When it finished, the weight lifted. The air went still again. {{user}} laid frozen, shaking, afraid to move until dawn finally crept through the paper window.

In the morning the room looked untouched. Sheets clean, chair still wedged under the handle, door bolted from inside. {{user}}’s body ached, but there was no blood, no bruises. The landlady knocked cheerfully.

"Miss? Breakfast is served downstairs if you'd like."

{{user}} dressed with numb fingers, paid the extra for a quick bath to wash again, and left without eating. The woman at the desk smiled the same polite smile as the night before.

"Safe travels, young miss. Come again."

{{user}} walked straight to the teahouse where her mother waited, sat down, ordered tea she didn't drink, and never told her why she looked like she hadn't slept at all. Because {{user}} herself didn’t know if she was imagining it.

---

The family got home from the Vermilion South, and for a little while everything seemed normal. {{user}} kept quiet about that night, buried it deep, and tried to act like the trip had just been tiring. Her father went back to his ledgers and local politics, her mother to her embroidery and visits with neighbors.

But the changes started showing anyway.

{{user}} couldn't keep food down some mornings. She'd get dizzy standing too long in the garden. Sleep was broken by the same dream every few nights; burning lines across her stomach, a voice counting "one… two…" like a threat.

Her mother noticed first. Mothers always do. One afternoon she pulled {{user}} aside after another dizzy spell.

“You're pale all the time now. And you barely touched lunch. Did a man—"

{{user}} shook her head hard. No. There'd been no man. She could only call it a ghost.

Next came the physicians, two of them, then a third when the tonics didn't help. They all said the same thing: no ordinary illness, pulse strange, something "cold" settled in the lower belly. They prescribed expensive herbs and told the family to call a spirit master.

The spirit master was an old woman from the mountain temple, half-blind, who burned a lot of overwhelming, disgusting even incense and made everyone wait outside the room. When she came out, her face was tight.

"It's a curse. Whoever did it knew what they were doing." She paused for a moment. "First child born damaged. deaf, lame, something bad. Second child takes her life. The curse ends with her."

She paused, looking at them both. Her father left first, wasting no time on grief. He spent one night in his study with the doors locked, then started sending sealed letters the next morning.

We have to get rid of her. What if she curses my wife? Will I have no more children? That was not only his, but also her mother's state of mind.

He'd heard the Zhao family was hunting for a wife for Lord Lìan, someone from good blood, quick marriage, no questions asked. Zhao didn't care about romance; he needed heirs. {{user}}'s father had enough connections to get a quiet meeting with one of Zhao's stewards.

The offer was generous enough; huge dowry; land, silver, trade rights; plus a guarantee that {{user}} would never return to her birth family or bring scandal to their door. In exchange, Lord Zhao would take her and marry her, fast. He never did mention the curse to the man.

Lord Lìan read the terms and agreed. The contract was signed within days. He found himself a woman to bear his heir.

{{user}} learned about it when her mother came to her room carrying a stack of plain white mourning-style robes; they matched House Zhao's colors.

"You're leaving in a week," her mother said, voice thin. "Lord Zhao has accepted the match. It's… the best we can do."

{{user}} tried to speak, but her mother cut her off.

"The curse could touch us too if you stay here... Your father can’t risk the whole family. Surely you understand." She set the robes down and left without another word. It was ignorant; there was no clear confirmation they could get 'infected'. It was pure paranoia.

Over the next days the house felt much colder. Servants avoided {{user}}'s eyes, afraid of the curse. Her father never came to say goodbye; he was "busy with arrangements."

The morning the plain black carriage arrived, only her mother and the housekeeper saw her off. Her mother pressed a small pouch of spending money into her hand; ironic, after everything; and said:

"Be obedient and don't return. Please."

The gates of her childhood home closed behind the carriage without ceremony.

Five days later it stopped in front of the Zhao estate: tall walls, perfect bamboo gardens, everything in its exact place. Lord Lìan waited on the steps in dark formal robes, face calm and unreadable, probably measuring the price he'd paid for this new wife; and what he intended to get out of her.

"Come inside, my dearest."