The Ashes of Wan Biya | Royal Plague #2

Wan Biya woke with a violent cough.

Her body lurched forward as if dragged from the depths of water, her lungs burning, her throat raw. She clutched at the thin blanket beneath her fingers, nails digging into worn fabric as she struggled to breathe.

Air.

She needed air.

Her chest heaved, each inhale sharp and painful, as though her body had forgotten how to live.

For a moment, just a moment, she thought she was still falling.

Falling…

The wind tearing past her ears, the emptiness beneath her feet, the crushing certainty that there would be no tomorrow.

Her fingers trembled.

Her breath hitched.

And then, silence.

It was quiet, too quiet. No roaring wind, no rushing abyss, no shattering impact.

Only the faint creak of wood. The distant chirp of insects. The soft rustle of a curtain stirred by the breeze.

Wan Biya froze.

Slowly, painfully, she lifted her head.

The room was dim, lit only by the pale glow of early morning seeping through a paper window. The scent of old incense lingered faintly in the air. A wooden table stood in the corner, chipped and familiar. A clay teapot rested upon it, untouched.

Her gaze moved, inch by inch.

The walls.

The bedding.

The worn floorboards.

Her breath stopped. “No…” Her voice came out hoarse, barely more than a whisper.

She knew this place, she knew it too well. This was her home, her home before the palace.

Before the silks. Before the gold. Before the humiliation. Before him.

Her body trembled as she pushed herself upright. The world spun briefly, her vision blurring, but she forced herself to remain steady. This room…

This small, simple room…

It belonged to the temple.

To the life she had once abandoned so willingly, so foolishly.

Fragments began to rise.

At first, they came slowly, like ripples across still water, then they surged.

A smile. A gentle voice. A prince standing beneath blooming trees. Eyes that had looked at her as though she mattered.

Her hands clenched. Her breathing grew uneven again, but this time, not from panic.

From something darker.

The memories did not stop, they never did.

She saw herself kneeling in the palace halls. Waiting. Always waiting.

Waiting for a glance. For a word. For affection that never came.

She heard the laughter. Not his, they were never his. The other women. His wives, their whispers, their mockery.

Her nails dug into her palms.

“I will come tonight.” Those words had once been everything.

Hope.

Joy.

Fulfillment.

She had believed him.

She remembered how she had prepared.

Carefully.

Tenderly.

Like a bride who had waited far too long.

Her hands had trembled then too, but with excitement, not dread. Her heart had pounded, not with fear, but love. She had loved him, so deeply, so blindly.

Her breath faltered.

Her vision darkened.

The door sliding open, the sound of footsteps, her pulse racing.

And then, laughter, not hers, never hers.

Her stomach twisted violently.

She saw it again.

She could not stop seeing it.

Him, with another woman, before her, without shame, without hesitation, without even looking at her.

Her body curled inward as if struck. A broken sound escaped her throat.

Once.

Twice.

Ten times.

Each time he called her, each time she hoped, each time he destroyed her.

Something inside her cracked.

No…

It had shattered long ago.

Now it only remembered how it broke.

“I loved you…” The words slipped from her lips without meaning to.

Soft.

Empty.

Dead.

Her hands fell to her lap.

Still.

Lifeless.

The memories shifted.

Darker now.

Colder.

The palace gates, the night air, her bare feet against stone as she ran.

No destination.

No dignity left to protect.

She reached it, the army camp. Rough voices. Hungry eyes.

“I was sent by the Crown Prince.” She had said it herself. She had offered herself. Not because she wanted to live, but because she no longer cared if she did.

Her breath shook.

Her stomach tightened.

She remembered the weight of it and the consequences, the life growing inside her.

Unwanted.

Unplanned.

Unforgivable.

Biya’s eyes snapped shut.

The cliff.

The wind.

The end.

“I am tired…” She had whispered it then, to no one and to everything.

Her fingers curled tightly into the bedding.

“If I get to live again…” Her voice had been steady.

Clear.

Certain.

“All of them will suffer.” Her eyes flew open.

Silence filled the room once more, but this time, it was not empty.

It was suffocating.

Wan Biya sat there, unmoving.

Unblinking.

Unbreathing.

Slowly…

Very slowly…

Her expression changed.

The softness faded.

The pain did not disappear, it settled.

Hardened.

Sharpened.

Her lips curved, not into a smile, something colder.

Something quieter.

A week.

She knew this moment.

She knew this time.

One week before the bridal selection, one week before everything began.

Her gaze lowered to her hands.

Unmarked, untouched, clean and alive.

A soft laugh escaped her.

Low, unsteady and unfamiliar. “Heavens…” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “…you should not have given me another chance.”

Her eyes lifted.

Clear now, focused, terrifyingly calm.

“They will regret it.”

Biya rose slowly from the bed. Her legs trembled, but she did not fall, she would never fall again.

The room no longer felt small. It felt like the beginning of something.

Her mind was already moving.

Planning.

Calculating.

Rewriting fate.

The Crown Prince, the Empress.

The women who laughed.

Every single one of them.

She would not beg.

She would not break.

She would not love.

Not again.

This time, she would choose.

And this time, she will win.