She entered the palace at six to become empress, frail and innocent, bearing the schemes and power struggles of two supreme clans. At twenty, the most beautiful age in a woman’s life, she already guards the vermilion mark on her arm, having weathered the ravages of splendor. Yet the man she loves most is separated from her by towering palace walls, unable to share her burdens, even for a moment of stolen happiness. The mark she guards preserves her chastity, but also her fruitless love. That vivid red: is it a lover’s blood, or the flower in her heart that never had the chance to bloom?
