Chapter 7

Chapter 7

That night, I stole a blue-tipped match.

It had been hidden at the very bottom of Yan Zhichuan’s wooden box. Its head was darker than the others, a deep, ghostly blue that resembled seawater. I tucked it into my sleeve and waited until the middle of the night before I dared to light it in my own room.

The moment the flame flared, the room grew warm.

It wasn’t the choking heat of charcoal, but a soft, ancient warmth, as if someone had draped a freshly washed and sun-dried quilt over me. In the next instant, the bridge tunnel vanished, the side hall disappeared, and the four walls dissolved. I was sitting in a low-roofed old house. Cabbage soup was simmering on the stove, a string of dried orange peels hung by the window, and my grandmother was crouching on a small stool, mending my socks.

She looked up and smiled at me. “Why are you back so late?”

My nose stung instantly.

“Grandma…”

I tried to throw myself toward her, but I passed right through her shoulder. The vision shuddered, as if torn down the middle. The soup pot on the stove was gone, replaced by a black iron cauldron. Inside, white wax and an unknown oil were boiling, with tiny fragments of bone floating on the surface.

Grandmother was still sitting there, but her needle and thread had turned into a small knife.

She kept her head down, whittling matchsticks with steady, rapid movements, humming a lullaby I had heard as a child.

“Your mother didn’t die of illness,” she said suddenly. “She was pushed into the fire.”

I felt a chill run through my entire body. “Why?”

“Because she discovered that winter in this city wasn’t supposed to be this long.” Grandmother didn’t look up, but her blade cut deeper with every stroke. “This so-called Dream Fire doesn’t suppress the curse; it feeds it. The Snow Queen isn’t dead at all. She’s sleeping within the Furnace Core at the very bottom of Glimmersnow Palace, sustaining her life with the dreams of the poor. The brighter the fire burns, the longer she lives, and the longer the winter lasts.”

My throat tightened. “Then Yan Zhichuan…”

“He is the lock.” Grandmother finally looked at me, her gaze piercing straight through the flames. “Royal Blood is the lock, and Dream Fire is the key. The colder the lock, the more the key is used. That boy isn’t a good person, but he isn’t the worst, either. He’s simply afraid to smash the door open.”

“My mother wanted to smash it?”

“She did.” Grandmother sighed. “And she gave birth to you.”

The flame crackled, and the room grew brighter. I saw another woman step out from the corner-young, with features that somewhat resembled mine. She wore an old cotton dress, and a section of a knuckle was missing from her left hand, a common injury among those who sold matches.

She looked at me, and the mixture of pity and ruthlessness in her eyes made my breath tremble.

“Jiangxue,” she called my name, her voice very soft. “Don’t light the last one for yourself.”

My tears finally fell.

“Then who should I light it for?”

“Light it for the one who deserves to burn.” She reached out, her palm open to reveal a blackened matchbox. “Find the box with Ming Yinxing’s name on it. There is a key at the bottom. Go to the Furnace Core and return the fire to the dead.”

I wanted to ask more, but the match had already burned to its end.

The moment the vision shattered, I heard the cries of countless children surging from behind the walls, crashing against my eardrums like a tide.

One voice was clearer than the rest.

“Sister Jiangxue.”

It was Ming Yinxing.

“I’m cold.”