In the twelfth lunar month of winter, the wind leaked from the cold kiln outside Yanmen Pass. Snow particles were blown into the worn window lattice like knives, and fell on Wang Baochuan's skinny hands. Those hands were once the hands of the prime minister's daughter, who had played music, chess, calligraphy and painting, and were decorated with pearls and brocades. But now they were covered with chilblains and cracks, and there was dirt embedded in the nails that couldn't be washed away. He even trembled when he picked up a bowl of cold porridge.
The laughter between Xue Pinggui and Princess Daizhan came from inside the tent. Silver charcoal was burning in the cold kiln, and the aroma floated in through the cracks in the door. It was intertwined with the smell of mold, medicine, and snow water in the cold kiln, making her heart ache. She heard Dai Zhan ask coquettishly: "Your Majesty, that Wang Baochuan is still in the cold kiln. Keeping her will be a disaster after all, why not..."
Xue Pinggui's voice was filled with a hint of impatience, but it also contained a bit of hypocritical compassion: "That's all, she has guarded me for eighteen years. If I kill her, I might be wronged. Keep her to show my nostalgia and kindness. When she is exhausted, I will give her a false title."
Eighteen years.
Intention: When the kiln is ashes in the cold, the snow comes to light; when the family and country are there, the original intention remains.