The Imperial Palace.
The courtyard near the peach trees was quiet, tucked between corridors where no one cared to linger. Xueying walked at a steady pace, her fingers brushing against the silk of her sleeve. She'd memorized this path as a child, but ten years had passed. Even silence felt different now.
Footsteps sounded behind her.
Light, measured-then deliberately louder. She didn't need to turn.
"Third Prince Jian," she said and gave salutations.
A low chuckle. "You always did notice too quickly."
He fell into step beside her, his presence easy, too familiar. But the way he looked at her wasn't. Not anymore.
"You've grown taller," he said, not even pretending to hide the smile in his voice. "But still shorter than me."
"I suppose I should be embarrassed."
"You should," he teased, before adding, "but you won't be."
She gave him a side glance. "You've gotten more talkative."
"And you've gotten better at dodging questions."
They rounded a corner, walking beneath the edge of peach blossoms that hadn't bloomed yet. The scent of old wood and fresh grass mixed in the air, reminding her of simpler days-days that felt too far away now.
"You left without saying goodbye," he said.
"It was urgent."
"But you could've written. Even just once."
She looked ahead. "I didn't think I needed to."
"That hurt more than I thought it would," he admitted, quieter now. "You've always meant more than you realized."
They passed beneath a peach branch just beginning to bud. The quiet hung between them like smoke.
"You always talk about duty," he said, "but I wonder if you ever think of yourself outside of it."
"Of course I do. But I always come back to the same place."
"The Zhao name."
"My family."
"The capital?"
She hesitated. "That too."
Jian's gaze lingered. "You're looking in the same direction. Hoping to see something different."
She stopped walking.
He didn't say Wenxu. He didn't have to.
She turned to him slowly. "What are you trying to say?"
"I'm saying," he said, gently, "why not look somewhere new, Xueying? Someone who already sees you. Someone not as complicated?"
The question sat in the air between them. The smile on his lips was calm, but his eyes had stopped playing.
She held his gaze. Her jaw tightened, just slightly. "You're a friend."
His nod came with no protest, no sigh. Just a pause.
"That's what you've always said."
She looked away first.
They continued walking, but something had shifted. Jian no longer filled the silence with teasing. And Xueying, for once, didn't try to break it.
They had slowed again, this time near the edge of the courtyard where the stone path met a carved wooden arch. The wind picked up, brushing strands of hair across her cheek. She didn't bother to fix them.
Jian broke the quiet, voice softer now.
"It's easy to forget what being chosen feels like... when you spend so long waiting for someone to turn around."
She didn't respond.
He took one step closer-not enough to crowd her, but just enough to make her notice.
"But if you stopped waiting," he said, watching her face, "what would you see right in front of you?"
His words weren't teasing anymore. His gaze didn't waver.
Xueying didn't meet his eyes.
Instead, she turned slightly, just enough to look out at the barren peach trees.
"I'm not ready to look," she said.
The air between them held still.
Jian didn't push. He nodded once, barely visible. Then, with a faint exhale, he stepped back.
They walked in silence toward the far hall, their shadows stretching side by side on the ground.
She thought the conversation was over. But just as they reached the arch, Jian spoke again, his voice low and steady.
"I will be here.." he said. "Long enough for you to finally look at me."
She didn't stop walking, didn't look at him. But her pace slowed for a second-barely noticeable.
He didn't say more. Just kept beside her, quiet and calm, as if the words hadn't meant anything.
They passed through the corridor without speaking. On the surface, it looked like two old friends sharing a peaceful walk.
But something unspoken had shifted.
The courtyard had emptied. The last of the sunlight fell across the stone, fading into the lines of the wall.
From behind one of the larger pillars near the east side of the garden, a figure stepped out. His boots were silent against the stone.
The second prince, Li Yuan stood still, gaze fixed on the path where the two had gone.
There was no change in his expression. Not even a flicker.
But his hand closed slowly at his side, thumb pressing into his palm.
He had been there long enough.
Long enough to hear what wasn't meant for him.
The moon had risen high above the capital, spilling silver across the palace roofs. Lanterns flickered along the stone corridors, casting long shadows that bent around every corner.
Prince Jian walked with measured steps through the quiet halls of the inner palace. His usual grin was gone, replaced by something quieter, less rehearsed.
He stopped in front of the imperial study.
The eunuch stationed outside startled slightly but said nothing. Jian didn't need an introduction here.
He tilted his head, voice soft. "Is His Majesty awake?"
The eunuch bowed. "The Emperor has not retired yet, Your Highness."
"Good," Jian replied. "Tell him I seek a private audience. Tonight."
The eunuch hesitated only a breath before slipping inside.
Jian stood alone in the corridor, hands clasped behind his back, eyes fixed on the carved doors.
He waited-not as a son, not even as a prince-but as someone with something to offer.
And something to ask.
The carved doors shut behind him with a soft thud, muffling the sounds of the wind outside.
Prince Zhenyu stepped into the vast, incense-filled quiet of the Emperor's private study. Candles flickered against lacquered walls, casting long shadows across scrolls, open ledgers, and folded reports waiting for signature. His father, draped in formal night robes of black and gold, didn't look up from his desk.
"You requested an audience," the Emperor said, not looking up. "It must be urgent."
Zhenyu bowed. "It is."
He waited. Only when the Emperor nodded did he straighten.
"I wish to formally request a marriage bestowment," Zhenyu said. "For myself... and Lady Zhao Xueying."
The brush in his father's hand halted mid-stroke.
Still, the Emperor did not raise his head. "You've chosen an inconvenient hour, Zhenyu."
"I would have waited," Zhenyu said carefully, "but I know how quickly arrangements are made without the knowledge of those involved."
At that, the Emperor finally looked up. His expression was unreadable. "You are implying something."
"I'm only asking, Father," Zhenyu said, "before someone else does."
The Emperor set his brush down.
"You haven't spoken to her about this."
"No. I wouldn't overstep."
"Then this is not a mutual petition."
"No," Zhenyu admitted. "But I know her well. And I believe in time, her answer would not dishonor your decree."
The Emperor stood slowly, walking to the window overlooking the garden courtyard. His hands clasped behind his back. "Ten years gone, and you presume her unchanged."
"She hasn't," Zhenyu said. "She's grown. Wiser. Stronger. But not unreachable."
"You admire her," the Emperor said flatly.
"I do."
"And because of that," the Emperor turned, "you want the court to give her to you?"
Zhenyu held his ground. "I am not asking the court. I am asking you."
"You are asking for power," the Emperor replied. "Even if you pretend you're not."
Zhenyu stiffened. "That is not my intent."
"But it is the result," the Emperor said. "Do you think this palace runs on intentions?"
Zhenyu bowed his head briefly. "I understand the implications."
"Do you?" The Emperor stepped forward, voice low. "The daughter of the Border General. A war hero's only daughter. Do you think I do not see what that would mean? You may not seek control, but it will come to you. Through public sympathy. Through military support. Through the ministers who already favor the Zhao name."
Zhenyu said nothing.
The Emperor's tone sharpened. "I will not place that kind of influence in your hands. Not now. Not when you've never held a single court post. Not when you've never been tested with command or judgment."
Zhenyu's jaw tensed. "If you believe I am unfit, then prepare me."
"I am not here to prepare you," the Emperor snapped. "I am here to protect the balance of my court."
"So you would rather I have nothing at all."
"You already have more than most," the Emperor replied. "You are a prince. That is not nothing."
Zhenyu drew in a breath. "Then this is your final answer?"
"I do not need to repeat myself."
Zhenyu's gaze lowered. He stepped back, posture crisp.
"...Then I accept your judgment."
The Emperor eyed him carefully. "Even if you disagree?"
Zhenyu bowed deeply.
"I am your son. I will never stop respecting that." He straightened. "But I am also a man. And I won't pretend this hasn't changed something."
"You will adapt," the Emperor said. "Or you will break. Either way, the court will remain intact."
Zhenyu's mouth barely moved. "Yes, Your Majesty."
He turned, took a step, then hesitated.
"She is not a move on a board," he said without turning back. "And neither am I."
Then he walked out of the chamber-still upright, still composed, but with the slow, heavy step of someone leaving something behind.
The Emperor didn't call him back.
The candles flickered. The ink dried.
And nothing more was said.
The night pressed down like a whisper.
Zhao Xueying's breath slowed as sleep claimed her, the stillness of her room folding into something quieter. The world dissolved - and in its place, the dream rose.
She found herself standing on marble that shimmered like water. The sky above was cloudless and pale, the light too soft to be sun, too silver to be moon. A courtyard opened before her, foreign yet deeply familiar, as though she had walked there long ago.
The wind stirred, light and cold. Her robes were not her own. Silk, ivory-white, patterned with golden edges. They fit like memory.
Then, she saw him.
A man in white stood at the far edge of the courtyard, turned away from her. His long robes moved with the breeze, hair half-tied, posture tall and composed. The outline of a sword rested at his side, untouched. The air around him shimmered faintly, as if the dream struggled to hold him in place.
She took a step forward. He didn't move.
Another step. Still, he didn't turn.
"Wait-" she tried, but her voice barely broke the silence.
He remained still. Not frozen, not fleeing. Just... unaware. As if she didn't exist.
Her hands trembled. She reached out, heart tightening. Her fingertips almost brushed his shoulder-
-but the moment dissolved like smoke.
The marble cracked beneath her feet, light bleeding through like broken glass. The sound of battle roared in the distance - screams, a name she didn't recognize, and the sharp, sudden snap of something tearing.
She jolted awake.
Her chest heaved, damp with sweat. For a moment, her hands were still outstretched, reaching for something no longer there.
The room was quiet. Her bed, her blankets, the faint scent of ink and peach blossoms.
But the silence now felt too empty.
Her gaze dropped to her wrist. No thread. No blood. Just skin - warm, alive.
Still, she could feel it. That aching space where something had once been tied to her.
Someone.