I had finished tending the soldier’s wound and slipped away quietly. When we returned to the carriage, as Bürke pulled off her furs, I realized I had never even asked the man’s name.
Not that it would change anything. Once I returned to my own time, I wanted to forget all of this. If I tried to explain what I’d been through, they’d probably lock me in a mental hospital anyway.

I didn’t think I would be able to sleep, yet exhaustion eventually smothered my stubborn consciousness. I drifted into a surprisingly peaceful rest. When I opened my eyes, the muffled sounds of soldiers preparing for morning echoed around us. It felt as if I had closed my eyes only a minute ago, but my body felt lighter—rested.

Before we set off again, I took a short walk into the forest. This time, no one tried to stop me. The first light of dawn filtered through the mist, casting a pale glow over the trees at the edge of the steppe. I had never been anywhere with air this clean. No matter how deeply I breathed, it was never enough. The scent of horse dung wasn’t pleasant, of course, yet something in the air filled me with energy.

When I returned, I noticed the soldier whose wound I had wrapped. He stood beside Commander Chen Bo, speaking to him quietly. The sharp morning cold sliced across my cheeks like a blade. The soldier turned his head toward me—and for a moment, even the wind seemed to stop.
I couldn’t hear his words, but the shift in the Commander’s expression was obvious. It was as if my name had already been etched into the silence of morning.

According to what Bürke learned, we would reach the capital—the general’s estate—before noon. I wasn’t anxious. I was simply eager to put my plan into motion.

When the carriage slowed and finally stopped, voices outside reached us. I lifted the curtain to peek out. Before us stood a massive city gate reinforced with high walls. Dozens of people and carts waited their turn to enter. Our carriage moved forward quickly; clearly, we had some sort of priority. I couldn’t tear my eyes away. If I was going to return home soon, I wanted to see how people lived in this era.

Soldiers stood guard at the gate, alert and cautious. I silently prayed I could go back to my own time without witnessing any war.

Once inside the city, we passed between rows of buildings that I assumed were shops. Despite the early hour, people were already out, tending to their business. A moment later, I spotted market stalls—like an ancient bazaar.
Curiosity prickled under my skin. If I could sneak out later, maybe I could see what people bought and sold in these ancient times.

When the carriage jolted to a stop again, I heard several soldiers speaking outside. We must have arrived at General Han’s estate. Bürke hurriedly placed the veil over my head and adjusted the crown, looking as nervous as I felt.

I didn’t know how Sayina would feel about this, but to me, this marriage meant nothing. The general’s home was just a place to stay until the Blood Moon. Then I would leave without so much as a backward glance.

Bürke stepped out first, lifting the curtain so I could exit easily. I gathered the fabric of my heavy skirt to avoid stepping on it. I could do this. I could endure one ridiculous wedding.

As I stepped out, the cold welcomed me like a hostile spirit. The silence wrapped around the estate wasn’t that of a celebration—it felt more like the stillness before a confrontation.

The massive double doors in front of me were carved from dark walnut. Coiled dragons and swirling clouds had been etched into the wood with such skill that they looked almost alive—waiting to devour me.
The bronze knockers gleamed not with sunlight, but with a hue disturbingly close to dried blood. Armored guards stood on each side, their spears upright, their eyes lowered.

The door creaked open, and a stiff, rigid woman stepped out.

Her hair was pulled tightly into a knot, held by a plain pin. Her dark blue silk robe had not a single wrinkle. Even her posture radiated discipline. Two young women stood behind her, clearly attendants.
It was obvious the first woman held authority here. She wasn’t family—more like someone with long-standing influence within the Han household.
The first wall they placed before Princess Sayina.

The woman’s thin lips parted.
“Princess Sayina,” she said, her voice as cold as a winter morning. “Once you cross this threshold, you will be part of the Han family. Are you prepared to carry the weight of that honor and responsibility?”

I didn’t know what to say. So I simply nodded. I didn’t care about their traditions. I only wanted to know when I could go home. Besides, the cold was sinking into my bones; I had no coat, no jacket, not even furs to warm me.

But as I stepped forward, the woman raised her hand.
“You will use the side entrance,” she said sharply. Her voice cracked through the air like a whip.

Bürke’s face went pale. Shock and fury twisted together.
“That is an insult! The Princess is entering as the official bride—she must enter through the main gate!” she shouted. Her voice echoed across the stone courtyard.

Several bystanders gathered at the far end of the street. No matter the century, people never missed a chance to watch chaos unfold.

The woman’s eyes darkened.
“How dare you speak without permission?” she snapped. She motioned to her attendants. The girls rushed forward. One grabbed Bürke’s arms from behind as she struggled. The other raised her hand to strike—

I caught her wrist.
“Enough,” I said quietly, firmly. “I’ll use the side entrance. Don’t touch her.”

The attendants stepped back. Bürke trembled behind me, swallowing her words.

The woman’s gaze swept over me with disdain—but I ignored it.

As we walked toward the side door, Bürke dragged her feet as if she were walking to her own execution.
Was it really so terrible? A door was a door. Stones and wind led to the same place.
What they thought of me didn’t matter.
This wasn’t my war.

When I stepped over the threshold, I noticed the courtyard was completely empty. The stone tiles were cold, the silence heavy—like stepping into a haunted house. Every footstep echoed back at me, deepening the emptiness.

I wished the ceremony would end quickly.

General Han Ruo watched everything from a distance, his face unreadable.
He knew his mother disapproved of this marriage, but he hadn’t expected her to humiliate the bride so openly. He could have intervened—but he didn’t.
He wanted to see how the princess would respond.

When Sayina walked toward the side entrance without a single complaint, the silence was almost unsettling. Her heavy dress dragged along the stone, yet she held her head high. Ruo had assumed she would crumble under such treatment—but she didn’t.
Her silence defied them more than any outburst could have.

For the first time, he saw something no one else seemed to notice:
Her obedience was not submission.
It was dignity—
a kind of strength.

When the hem of her dress finally disappeared beyond the door, Ruo released a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. After the Han family’s recent decline, all eyes were on them. Everyone expected a scandal.

But the princess had stood against the entire household with nothing but silence—and somehow, it had been louder than a thousand words spoken in the grandest halls.

For a moment, he wondered who she truly was.
The so-called “Princess of the Wild Steppe” had shown a restraint so sharp it bordered on dangerous.

“General, will you not attend the wedding ceremony?” someone asked behind him.

Ruo kept his eyes on the now-empty carriage. The horses exhaled clouds of steam into the cold morning.

“To attend a wedding, one must first accept the bride,” he murmured. The words escaped him through clenched teeth.

Still, the image of her walking through the side entrance lingered in his mind.
Another woman might have screamed or cried.
But she had simply walked—stone-still, unwavering.

Ruo frowned.
“Someone that quiet… is either planning something or doesn’t care at all,” he muttered.

He tugged the reins and rode away from the estate—but the unease inside him refused to fade.