Everyone in the capital knew Lord Bradley Sterling, heir to the Sterling estate, was hopelessly in love with Miss Layla Cunningham, the minister’s daughter.

Then, after Layla inadvertently drew a divination slip at Kingsport Monastery that read “fated to bear no children,” not a soul dared propose.

So Bradley declared he had drawn the same ill-fated lot. He knelt in the ancestral hall for three days and nights, endured thirty-three lashes, and nearly gave his life to secure her hand.

On their wedding night, the man who claimed no religious belief summoned the abbot to seek a remedy. Willingly taking vows, he donned monastic robes and entered seclusion at Kingsport Monastery for three years, chanting prayers and striking the ritual block.

All that time, Layla lived as a wife in name only.

Yet she never complained, steadfastly awaiting their reunion.

For nine hundred and ninety-nine days, without fail, through rain or shine, Layla would climb the mountain path to the monastery, kneeling and bowing low with every third step. At the summit, she copied a volume of the Diamond Sutra in her own blood and burned it as an offering.

The abbot said sincerity would move the heavens.

Today was the final day. Layla had come especially early.

It was the dead of winter. The rain had frozen into stinging pellets that turned to ice upon the ground.

“May my husband, Bradley Sterling, find joy and health, and live a long life.”

With devout reverence, Layla bowed her head, performing ritual prostrations every few steps as she climbed, the prayer a constant whisper on her lips.

Her maid, Julia, held an umbrella to little avail. Icy pellets dusted Layla’s fox-fur cloak. She shivered, her breath misting the air, yet the relentless rhythm of her ascent never faltered.

The staircase seemed endless. A single misstep would send her tumbling to her death.

Reaching the monastery gate, she stumbled and fell, striking her forehead hard enough to raise a lump. Her cloak was smeared with dark mud.

Layla scrambled to her feet. To approach the sacred task in such a state felt disrespectful.

So Julia found her a warm cell in which to change.

One final volume, copied in blood, and the curse of their “childless fate” would be broken.

Bradley could return to her. They would raise a family and grow old together.

At the thought, a smile warmed Layla’s face. The familiar, sharp pain returned as the dagger sliced her wrist.

She dipped the brush into the welling blood—but before it could touch the paper, indecent sounds drifted from the adjoining cell.

“My lord, you spend every day here entangled with me. What if your wife discovers us?”

“She’s too busy with her prostrations and her bloody scriptures. Now, be good. Turn over.”

“But today is the last day. What will become of me after this, Eva?”

“To make a place for you as my mistress, I arranged for her to draw that barren lot. Yet on the day she entered my house, she still looked down on you, humiliated you. Three years have passed. That pride of hers must be worn away. Does it not reassure you, watching her pitiful decline with me here every day?”

Eva had been his mistress—the concubine his mother had selected to secure the succession.

On the day Layla wed Bradley, he had presented the girl to her. “This is the woman Mother chose to bear me an heir…”

Layla had immediately thought of her own fate and frowned uneasily.

Unable to bear her distress, Bradley sent Eva away at once, holding and comforting Layla for a long time.

But Eva appeared on a chair outside their bridal chamber, a white silk cord in hand, weeping bitterly.

“If my lady cannot abide me, then grant me this cord. Let me hang myself and be done with it.”

Fearing a scandal would displease his mother, Bradley spent the entire night coaxing Eva in a side chamber. He never came to the bridal suite, never consummated the marriage.

He had said, “Layla, my love, our wedding day should not be tainted by such ill omens.”

Yet the very next day, he produced a divination slip from Kingsport Monastery, marked with the worst fortune.

“The abbot says a childless fate is our divine will. But if the one I love kneels in prayer for nine hundred and ninety-nine days and copies the sacred texts in her own blood, the curse can be broken. Layla, are you willing?”

In their childhood, Layla had fallen into the water. Bradley risked his life to save her. Since that day, her heart had been his.

Later, it was Bradley who fabricated the lie about his own barren fate and insisted on marrying her.

Disregarding her parents’ objections, Layla began her devotions for him the day after the wedding, becoming the capital’s notorious, love-mad fool.

To show his sincerity, Bradley waited for her at the monastery each day.

He said, “Dearest, you do so much for me. I will never fail you!”

“Having no heirs was never the great matter. But now that we are joined, if my fault leaves you childless and full of regret, no punishment could ever atone.”

“I will wait for you at Kingsport Monastery. Let us strive together, husband and wife, for our future child.”

“My sweet, though I have taken vows, my heart is not pure. I pray all the gods will take pity and allow me to devote myself to you alone.”

Back then, Layla wept with gratitude, believing she had found her lifelong happiness—believing Bradley had shouldered the burden of a barren fate for her sake, sparing her the pain of her own exposed wound.

But today, the gods had opened her eyes. The one to whom he had devoted himself was not her, but that servant girl—Eva, who had initiated him into the ways of the bedchamber.

His daily visits to “wait” for her were merely an excuse to watch her humiliation with his mistress!

It was divine mercy that let her see the full truth today, turning three years of devotion into a bitter jest.

Amidst Eva’s soft moans, the brush in Layla’s hand snapped. The broken piece struck the paper, the blood spreading in a sinister bloom.

She caught Julia’s arm as the maid moved to kick the door down and shook her head.

So these three years of kneeling had all been a lie—a colossal deception constructed around a fabricated crime.

Layla’s face turned deathly pale. She stared at the wound on her wrist, opened anew each day for three years, never allowed to heal. It gaped like a mouth, the raised, gnarled scars around it like twisted worms mocking her stupidity.

With a bitter smile, she took up a new brush. She had copied 998 volumes for him. This final one would repay the debt for her childhood rescue.

Saturating the brush with fresh blood, she set to work with solemn, single-minded focus.

When it came time for the final dedication, her brush halted. The once-familiar phrase, “May my husband, Bradley Sterling, find joy and health, and live a long life,” now refused to form.

After a moment’s thought, she wrote instead: *May the man who saved me in childhood achieve his heart’s desire.*

Layla stood. Suddenly, she remembered the young man who, three years ago, had mounted his horse for the frontier, his eyes full of quiet sorrow. “Layla, I go to the border where life and death are uncertain. If you ever change your mind, as long as I live, even if mountains crumble and oceans run dry, I will come for you.”

Layla lowered her gaze. For three years, he had sent her letters each month. They spoke of camp life, polite and distant. Only the final two words, “Awaiting your reply,” held a thread of earnest hope.

She had never answered.

Layla looked at the scripture before her, the ink still wet. Her eyes rested on the phrase: “achieve his heart’s desire.” A strange feeling stirred within her.

She said, “Julia, send a letter to the General’s residence. Tell him…”

“In seven days, I will be waiting for his bridal carriage.”

Julia went ahead to deliver the message, leaving Layla to walk alone to the main hall of Kingsport Temple. She looked up at the rows of statues, their compassionate gazes resting upon her.

Kneeling, she pressed her forehead to the cold stone floor and did not rise for a long time.

"Layla."

Bradley hurried over to help her up.

The hem of his crumpled monk’s robe was stained with an unspeakable, milky residue.

Disgust choked Layla’s throat. She took a silent step back, gave a slight nod, and said nothing.

Bradley awkwardly withdrew his hand, left hanging in the air. Seeing the wall of rejection in her every line, he asked, confused, "What’s wrong, Layla? Are you tired?"

She lifted her eyes to his face—to the concern etched there so convincingly. Something inside her chest seemed to shatter. This was the very skill, this practiced sincerity, that had fooled her for three whole years.

Frowning, she took two more steps back.

Bradley stiffened. This was the first time he had faced a Layla so distant. "You’ve suffered these three years," he said. "Don’t worry, I’ll return to the manor tomorrow."

Layla shook her head gently. Years of upbringing kept her composure intact, a final bastion of calm.

Steadying herself, she replied, "Fine. Tomorrow. I’ll wait for you in the study. We need to talk."

Without waiting for his reply, she turned and walked away.

The snow fell heavier now. Layla paused beside the temple steps. On every one of these stones was imprinted the devotion of her last three years.

A pilgrim passed by, boots leaving dark prints on the snowy stone. Each print looked like a blade, stabbing into Layla’s eyes.

One footprint overlapped another, the snow churned with mud into a filthy mess.

She laughed suddenly—a short, sharp sound. These stones were trodden by thousands every day, yet she had pressed her forehead to them daily, worshipping them as a sacred ladder to happiness.

The gods had been reminding her every single day. Only today had she finally understood.

Footsteps sounded behind her. Layla turned and met Eva’s eyes.

Eva sneered. "Did you enjoy your little eavesdropping session today, *Sister* Layla?"

Though inexperienced, Layla had been married for three years. Before her wedding, the Governess had taught her a thing or two about the ways of the bedchamber.

She smiled. "You’re standing here already, full of vigor. I imagine it wasn’t that enjoyable for you either."

Covering her mouth, she let a ghost of a smile touch her lips, her eyes filled with disdain.

Eva seemed taken aback that a virgin could say such a thing. Anger flashed across her face. "What would you know? The Young Master wants to be with me every day. That’s proof enough of his satisfaction."

"He only married you because the Dowager was determined he marry within their circle. A mere convenience. Even when he returns tomorrow, he won’t touch you. He’s promised I’ll have the same status as you!"

"That’s between you and him," Layla said. "It has nothing to do with me."

Eva’s eyes grew languid, her voice dripping with honey as she leaned close to Layla’s ear. "If you refuse to leave, then prepare for a lifetime of loneliness. I’ll bear his son soon enough. I will be the mistress of Bradley’s Manor."

Layla took a small step back, putting distance between them. Then she brought her hand up and slapped Eva hard across the face.

"What happens later, I don’t care. For now, I am still your mistress!"

A vivid red handprint bloomed on Eva’s cheek. She clutched her face, about to strike back, when a cool, familiar voice spoke from behind them.

"Layla. Were you waiting for me?"

Bradley hadn’t noticed Eva standing with her back to him. His attention was fixed entirely on the rare, simmering anger on Layla’s usually composed and aloof face.

He had just changed out of his monk’s robes. Now, the bamboo-green brocade he wore accentuated his tall, elegant frame. His shaved head—a remnant of his monastic life—was well-shaped but conspicuously bare.

Seeing Bradley, Eva threw herself at his feet. Her protector had arrived. She flung the handkerchief to the ground, knelt, and let tears well in her eyes. “Master,” she whimpered, “Lady Layla accused me of stealing her handkerchief. She struck me and is forcing me to kneel here until tomorrow…”

Only then did Layla get a clear look. The handkerchief was the one she had stayed up late embroidering for Bradley just days before.

The anger on her face drained away. Of course. Without his tacit permission, without his indulgence, how would a mere concubine-maid dare to act so arrogantly in front of the mistress of the manor?

It was simply that the favored one could afford to be brazen.

Bradley strode over quickly. Recognizing the woman with her back to him as Eva, a flicker of surprise passed through his eyes.

“Layla, why trouble a servant?” he said. “I gave her that handkerchief. She is, after all, my person. Don’t be difficult at a time like this.”

Layla’s expression turned to ice. “Bradley,” she replied, her voice cold. “You saved my life once. I married you, endured three years of a loveless marriage, and spent three more on my knees copying sacred texts and praying for your spiritual well-being. We are square. Today, by what right do you accuse me?”

Bradley was bewildered. Just yesterday, she had called him ‘husband’ at every turn. Why use his name so insistently now?

“I am your husband,” he retorted. “You ask me by what right?”

“That life-debt is in the past,” Layla stated flatly. “Let’s not bring it up again.”

“My destined calamity has been averted,” Bradley went on, as if not hearing her. “And I now understand your true feelings. Tomorrow, I will return to the manor to consummate our marriage. Don’t be difficult now.”

Layla shook her head. Her gaze fell on the handkerchief lying on the ground—soaked and stained black. A profound weariness washed over her.

She stepped on it, a bitter smile twisting her lips. “Consummate our marriage? If I had ever cared for such a thing, you wouldn’t have enjoyed such a carefree life these past three years.”

With that, she turned to leave. “Tomorrow. I’ll be waiting for you in the study.”

But Eva quickly grabbed the hem of Layla’s skirt. On her knees, she shuffled forward and began pressing her forehead to the ground in supplication. “Lady Layla, the master and you share mutual affection. These past three years, this humble servant has seen it with her own eyes…”

Layla stared at Bradley’s expression, which was gradually turning icy. Slowly, she closed her eyes. “Enough,” she said, her voice weary. “Let’s end this farce here. Bradley, whom you wish to elevate to share my title is your prerogative. But my stance remains: my husband can have only me.”

She turned her gaze to the tear-streaked Eva. “And you—you spoke to me with your nose in the air just moments ago. Why play the victim now? You’ve mastered the tricks of the inner chambers quite expertly for a lowly concubine-maid.”

Layla’s words were brutally direct. Eva’s face drained of color. She looked to Bradley in desperation. “Master, I didn’t…”

Bradley’s heart ached for her. He reached out to help Eva up. But she squeezed her eyes shut, then suddenly lost her footing, teetering on the edge of the stone steps.

Her hands flailed wildly. In her panic, she grabbed Layla’s arm. Both women lurched forward, losing their balance.

Behind them lay the deep, seemingly endless staircase. Eva shrieked, “Bradley, save me!”

Pulled by Eva’s grip, with the icy ground already treacherously slick, Layla couldn’t control her own body as it pitched backward.

Instinctively, she reached out a hand, a plea escaping her lips. “Husband!”

But in Bradley’s eyes, there was only a fleeting moment of conflict before he swiftly, decisively, caught Eva.

Just before being pulled to safety, Eva’s voice—faint yet crystal clear—reached Layla’s ears.

“Still untouched after all this time—you must be aching for it. Let me give you a little taste.”

Under the cover of their billowing robes, she planted a foot against Layla’s chest, using the force to propel herself securely into Bradley’s embrace.

Layla had no time to process the words. The cold, hard edges of the stone steps slammed violently into her back, her chest, her temple.

She couldn’t stop herself from tumbling down. The onlookers along the walkway dared not intervene.

On a heavy snowy day like this, with the steps frozen over, one had to tread carefully even when walking. How could they possibly withstand the force of a full-grown person rolling down?

Layla fought desperately, trying to grab onto any branch or protruding stone to slow her fall.

But her nails splintered, her fingertips scraped raw, leaving a trail of bloody smears. She couldn’t grasp anything that could save her.

“Bradley! Save me!”

She screamed for him with all her might. But Bradley seemed not to hear. He was solely focused on comforting the frightened Eva, holding her close as he turned and led her back toward his monastic quarters.