Sumala placed the child in the cradle and, hearing Da Yuer talking to herself, smiled and asked, "If you met the Great Khan twenty years earlier, would you want to be like the Fourteenth Consort or our Great Consort?"
Da Yuer was caught off guard by the question. It was true—being the head of the household was no easy task. It came with even more responsibilities, and if she couldn't bear a son, she would find herself in a position like her aunt, forced to push others for heirs.
"Whether early or late, I believe that being able to meet him in this lifetime is already a blessing." Sumala continued with a smile, "The Great Khan would be happy if he knew your wish."
Da Yuer sighed, "I don't want to be declaring my love for him all the time. It makes me seem so frivolous. If he understands my heart, I don't need to say a word. But if he doesn't, no amount of words will make him care."
She turned her gaze toward the darkened room across the courtyard, unsure whether Hong Taiji was asleep or lost in the company of another woman. A feeling of bitterness welled up in her.
Maybe it was for the best that she didn't meet him twenty years earlier—she couldn't match Jeje's tolerance. She would never be able to handle a life where Hong Taiji kept having one woman after another. The sad truth was that she herself was just another one of those women.
"I don't have Aunt's patience, nor Qiqige's strength. All I have are high hopes and my life…"
"Miss, you're speaking nonsense again!" Sumala cut her off, playfully covering Da Yuer's mouth. Ignoring the usual boundaries of servant and mistress, Sumala teased, "You've been learning too many of the Han people's sayings, speaking out of turn!"
The unsaid phrase—"a life as fragile as paper"—resonated with Da Yuer. The first time she'd heard it, she couldn't help but admire the Han people. Their words captured the essence of life's sorrows and joys with such simplicity, piercing straight to the heart.
Under the same night sky, Dorgon returned home, reeking of alcohol.
He raised his head to the moon and was flooded with memories of eight years ago—when his mother was strangled to death. His body trembled with rage, his fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles cracked. The moonlight reflecting in his eyes turned into a violent glint, filled with a desire for revenge.
Qiqige emerged to greet him, sensing his turmoil. She stood silently at his side, waiting patiently for her husband to calm down.
As Dorgon's anger gradually subsided, he finally came back to himself. Seeing Qiqige waiting for him, he stepped forward and took her arm. "It's so late. I told you not to wait up for me."
"Did you drink too much? Are you feeling unwell?" Qiqige asked, her voice filled with concern. "I've made some milk porridge and hangover soup. Which would you prefer?"
Dorgon shook his head. "Neither, I didn't drink much."
Despite his words, once he stepped inside, he didn't even bother undressing or washing up before collapsing into bed. Qiqige came to help him undress, and he lazily allowed her to fuss over him.
She wiped his face, and when he opened his eyes, he smiled gently at her.
"Are you leaving tomorrow?" Qiqige asked.
"No, not tomorrow. I'm waiting for Hong Taiji's orders. But it'll be in the next few days."
"I've made you a new winter coat and a fur-lined cloak. Make sure to take them with you when you go. The weather will turn cold soon, and you should remember to keep warm," Qiqige said, her voice steady. "And don't be too kind-hearted and give them away to your men. The army's supplies are not lacking, and they don't need your clothes."
Dorgon chuckled. "I know. Those are your thoughtful gifts—I wouldn't just hand them out to anyone."
As he spoke, he took her hand and held it in his palm. "Qiqige, I know… I know everything."
The ever-strong and proud Qiqige felt a warmth well up in her eyes, and she sniffled, trying to hide her emotions. "It's alright. These days, we hardly see each other, and you can still say sweet things to comfort me. But when the fighting stops and we're together every day, you'll probably get tired of me. Dorgon, go and fight your wars, achieve your glory. I'm fine at home, so don't worry about me."
Dorgon was deeply moved, feeling a wave of guilt wash over him. He couldn't understand why he, who had Qiqige's unwavering devotion, still harboured feelings for another woman.
He felt like he was betraying Qiqige, yet his affection for Da Yuer was something no one knew about, a secret that he would have to keep buried in his heart for the rest of his life.
Qiqige lay down next to him, sensing that her husband had no desire for intimacy tonight. She decided to talk about the events that had transpired in Shengjing that day, particularly the gathering that had caused so much attention.
"Hairanju… if she stays by the Khan's side, it'll break Da Yuer's heart. You can see how much she cares for the Great Khan—it's written all over her face," Qiqige sighed. "Poor Da Yuer, and she still worries about bearing a son."
Her voice softened as she continued, almost hesitant to ask, "Dorgon… we haven't had a child of our own yet. Do you blame me for that?"