"From the clouds we rose, as mortal stars fell."
"Where men ruled with fire, women mended with wind."
"Thus bloomed the Yun — a dynasty not of conquest, but of breath, bloom, and binding fate."
They say the old world ended not with thunder, but with silence.
When the last great kings grew fat on war and pride, the land beneath their feet began to crumble. Rivers forgot their names. Forests turned brittle. The wind no longer sang. Kingdoms, once gilded in glory, devoured themselves from within. And still, the men in their thrones called it order.
No one remembers how long the sky stayed grey.
But one night, when the world was nearly ash, five lights appeared — not from the stars above, but from the sleeping breath of the earth below.
They were not born of gods.
They were goddesses — ancient, eternal, and full of silence.The Goddess of Wood came first, her hair twined with branches and the scent of rain. She gave the world breath again.
The Goddess of Fire followed, her eyes like embers. She burned away fear, leaving courage in its place.Then came the Goddess of Earth, who pressed her palms to the fractured ground and shaped it anew.The Goddess of Air arrived with no sound at all, her will unbending, her voice cold as truth, And finally, the Goddess of Water wept — and from her weeping, mercy returned to the world.
The goddesses searched for one to carry their legacy.
Not a warrior.
Not a queen.
But a girl.
She had no sword, no lineage, no jewels upon her brow. Only a quiet strength — the kind that survives when there is nothing left to hold. She stood barefoot in the ruins of the world and did not flinch.She was veiled not in silk, but in honesty.She did not kneel. She did not ask, She simply waited.
And so, they gave her a flame.
Not in her hands, but in her chest.
A flame that would never consume — only guide.
A burden. A blessing. A beginning.
She became the first Empress.
Her daughters would follow.
Each one born not to conquer, but to carry.
Their power would lie not in loudness, but in what they chose to withhold.
And so rose Yún Cháo — the Dynasty of Clouds.
A kingdom not founded by sword, but by silence.
Not ruled by men, but by women whose hearts were taught to hold fire without letting it burn.
They say the line of Empresses will never be broken.
Not by war.
Not by time.
Not even by grief.
So long as they remember:
Silence can protect.
Silence can destroy.
And love, when sealed behind the veil, is never truly lost.
There was a peculiar tradition in the divine empire of Yún Cháo—one that no outsider could easily comprehend.
All reigning empresses were required to veil their faces.
The origin of this custom lay buried in legend. It is said that when the First Empress was blessed by the Elemental Goddesses, her eyes turned an ethereal shade of blue—eyes that shimmered like celestial flame. But these were no ordinary eyes. One glimpse into them, and destiny itself could bend. Some called it a miracle, others a curse.
In the early days, there were whispers among the suffering—hopes that a glance into those eyes might rewrite their fates. A dying child might live. A fallen house might rise. A lost lover might return. And sometimes… It worked. But fate is not a gentle thing to be toyed with. For every soul uplifted, a dozen more were shattered. Destinies twisted into ruin. Madness. Betrayal. Death.
The Empress was blamed. But she did not bow to fear or rage, nor become a puppet to the court. Calm as the moon, she simply veiled her face—and from that day onward, so did every empress after her. Thus was born the Veil Mandate, passed from crown to crown like sacred law.
Only those born with golden cores—rare souls of immense spiritual cultivation, found only within the imperial bloodline—could withstand the Empress's gaze unscathed. To all others, her face remained forbidden. Only her destined consort, chosen by the divine threads of fate, had the right to look upon her unveiled. All others who dared break this law were met with swift and merciless punishment.
The empire of Yún Cháo, hidden among the clouds and blessed by five elemental deities, was not a place one stumbled upon. Entry required divine invitation or imperial decree. Though famed across the lands for its serene gardens, graceful rites, and elegant cultivation arts, the inner workings of the dynasty were anything but lenient.
Indeed, the Empress's mother—the late sovereign whose presence still lingered in the palace halls like incense—had ruled with unwavering steel. In her time, governance grew ever more severe, layer upon layer of restrictions wrapping the court like silken cords pulled taut. Since her reign, the weight of law and tradition had only tightened.
Seven generations had passed—and now, beneath layers of ceremony, veils, and unspoken power, the empire moved like a great dragon dreaming in silence. Destiny awaited all within its coils.
And no one—not even the Empress—knew what it would awaken next.
Yún Cháo was one of the five sacred lands blessed by the elemental deities. It wasn't the oldest among them, but it was unlike any of the others.
While the rest had seen power pass between emperors and empresses over the centuries, Yún Cháo had always been ruled by women. From the very beginning, the divine signs had pointed to daughters, not sons. And so it remained—generation after generation.
Another thing that made Yún Cháo different: the Empress would only ever take one partner in her lifetime. Never a man. No harems. No rows of consorts. Just one heart, bound to another—and that was that.
Of course, men were still born into the royal family. If an Empress gave birth to twins and one was a boy, he'd be raised just like his sister. He'd learn strategy, law, history, the flow of qi in battle formations—everything. But no matter how clever or strong he became, he would never rule. At best, he'd serve the throne his sister sat upon.
That's exactly what happened with the last Empress. She had two children: a boy and a girl. And the girl—Lǐ Huìzhēn—grew up to become the Empress the entire realm now bows to.
She's known across the kingdom for her quiet strength. Dignified. Distant. Always calm, never shaken. Her court runs like clockwork. Her word is law. No one dares question her. But even so… people talk.
Because Empress Huìzhēn, despite all expectations, has never taken a partner. She's long past the age when most rulers choose someone to stand beside them. And still—nothing.
And when silence lasts too long, rumors bloom like weeds.
"She's cursed," some say. "Any partner she takes will die."
"No," others whisper, "it's not that she can't marry. It's that she can't love."
And then, the boldest of all:
" She desires women."
No one knows the truth. The Empress has never addressed it. She simply continues her reign, distant and untouchable.
But politics won't wait for love, and alliances must be kept.
So if the Empress won't marry… her brother must.
Prince Hé Jūn, quiet and dutiful, has been chosen to wed the daughter of one of the most powerful clans in the empire—the Iron Lily Clan, the House of Wéi.
Her name is Wéi Zhūliàn.
And whether she knows it or not, her life is about to change forever.
Despite all the proposals, the empress herself chose this one. It is said to be a political marriage, not of love but of power.
Why this all of sudden?
However, real power is also influenced by noble clans with ancient ties to the Five Elemental Goddesses
These clans do not challenge the matriarchy, but control temples, military wings, and spiritual bureaucracies
To maintain legitimacy, the Empress must balance alliances among them — especially if she does not yet have a consort or child
Her unwillingness to marry politically makes conservative clans fear the next Empress might not be blessed — or worse, that the current Empress might lean toward dangerous spiritual independence (i.e., elevating personal emotion over divine duty).
They begin to pressure her to forge bonds through marriage, even if not her own.
With this, on the night of full moon, under the blessing of moon goddess Prince Li He Jun was wed to the Princess of Iron Lily clan.
Despite the stream of proposals brought to her feet over the years—from noble daughters and foreign dignitaries alike—the Empress chose this match herself.
It was not for love.
It was never meant to be.
They said it was a political marriage, a move played with cold precision rather than warmth of heart. And perhaps, on the surface, that's all it was. A gesture. A symbol.
But why now?
Why, after years of silence, did the Empress act?
Behind the ivory pillars of the Cloud Court and beneath the quiet ripple of silken sleeves, real power in Yún Cháo has always run deeper than blood. Beyond the throne sat the great noble clans—each one tied to one of the Five Elemental Goddesses who blessed this land at its founding.
These ancient clans do not challenge the Empress's rule. They do not need to. Their power lies elsewhere—in the temples that shape public devotion, in the military orders that guard the sacred borders, in the vast bureaucracies that interpret divine law. If the Empress is the head of the empire, these clans are its lungs and spine.
To rule well is not just to command—it is to balance. And an Empress who does not take a consort or bear a child... risks that balance. Whispers began to stir: What if her line ends with her? What if the next Empress isn't blessed? What if—worse still—Huìzhēn herself is drifting from the divine, letting human emotion cloud her spiritual clarity?
She had refused match after match. Too quiet. Too stubborn. Too unmoved.
The more she resisted, the louder the doubts grew.
And so, the pressure rose—not upon her, but around her. Subtle. Strategic. The clans demanded connection, if not through her, then through her blood.
And she, watching all with veiled eyes, gave them what they asked for.
On the night of the full moon, beneath a sky heavy with starlight and the blessing of the Moon Goddess herself, Prince Lǐ Hé Jūn was wed to the daughter of the Iron Lily Clan—one of the most influential bloodlines in the empire.
Her name was Wéi Zhūliàn.