Zhao Xueying stepped onto the stone-lined training grounds as the morning mist clung low to the earth. The palace guards were already assembled, forming a half-circle around the open courtyard. She didn't wait for pleasantries. Her coat came off in one swift motion, revealing the dark red tunic of her family's crest, sleeves rolled, hair pinned tightly back. Her stance was steady, chin lifted, eyes clear.
She didn't speak. She just nodded at the captain.
The first opponent came forward. A well-trained guard, taller, broader. He raised his sword with a measured grip. She met it with a short nod before stepping in.
The clash was fast. Not violent, but sharp - each movement measured, calculated. She didn't overpower; she outmaneuvered. Feints, pivots, fast footwork that left no wasted energy. She watched her opponent's center of gravity, adjusted her angles, and struck where weight shifted.
The crowd around the court started to gather. Court officials on their way to morning duties slowed their steps. Servants paused in their tracks. Even distant scribes on balconies above had their heads turned slightly toward the sparring grounds.
A second guard stepped in. Then a third.
Each round ended the same: Xueying standing still, barely winded, while the guard acknowledged her with a respectful bow.
She didn't smile. She didn't preen.
She just reset her stance.
Her style wasn't showy. It was efficient. Not the kind that earned applause, but the kind that ended battles.
There was no rage behind her strikes. No need to prove anything. Only clarity, as if her mind had narrowed into the rhythm of blades and weight and balance.
Someone whispered near the stone archway:
"General Zhao's daughter truly didn't waste her years at the border."
But she didn't flinch at the comment. She heard it - tucked it away. Her focus didn't waver.
The fourth match ended with a clean disarm. Her opponent's blade hit the ground with a sharp clang, echoing into the open space.
The captain called a pause. Xueying stepped back, wiped her palm with a cloth tucked at her waist, and breathed through her nose.
She was calm, but not detached.
She was trying to shake off something that clung to her bones - the remnants of the dream.
A field of fog. A man in white robes standing too far.
No face.
No voice.
Not even his gaze turned her way.
She couldn't explain why that dream left her chest feeling tight this morning. She thought sparring would burn it off. But now, even as her muscles moved through discipline, her thoughts drifted somewhere else.
The crowd started to thin, whispers dying down as the court moved along. But someone still watched from the far end of the veranda, just outside the guards' sight.
Ling Wenxu stood under the shade of the pavilion, hands clasped loosely behind his back. The crisp wind tugged faintly at his sleeves, but he didn't move. His gaze stayed fixed on the figure moving across the sparring court.
He had arrived quietly, after a servant mentioned she had gone to the training grounds at first light. He didn't expect to linger, only to glance and leave. Yet he stayed.
At first, it was curiosity. That was what he told himself.
But now, as he watched Zhao Xueying twist past the blade of a trained palace guard, her stance steady, her footwork sharp, the feeling settling in his chest had shifted.
She wasn't the girl he remembered from distant childhood - the one who smiled too quickly, who chased fireflies in the capital's southern gardens, who had once dared to poke him with a chopstick during a feast and didn't flinch when scolded. That girl had been quick-witted, annoying, and hard to forget. But she had never been dangerous.
This woman before him wasn't reckless. She was calculating. Clean. Exact.
She didn't fight like someone playing at war. She fought like someone who had learned to measure survival in fractions of seconds. The way her shoulders angled before a strike, the way she didn't waste movement - it was something he recognized. Not from books or court, but from his own training under his father's eye. It was the kind of control and discipline he'd only seen in seasoned martial instructors, not nobles raised in silk.
Xueying was a soldier's daughter, but she carried herself like someone who had been on the battlefield, not just born from it.
Wenxu's brows lowered slightly as she shifted into another stance, disarmed her opponent, then stepped back with complete control. No gloating. No smile.
He had heard rumors. That the Zhao children had been hardened by years away from the capital. That General Zhao trained them like his soldiers, not his heirs. But Wenxu hadn't believed it fully. Not until now.
Now, there was no room for doubt.
Her face didn't show exhaustion. But it wasn't blank either. It held something colder. Detached. Like she had shut a part of herself away to stay composed. And it unsettled him more than he expected.
This wasn't what he had prepared for when the Emperor announced her return.
He had expected challenges. Expected clever words. Maybe even petty rivalry. But not this version of her. Not this quiet storm.
Something caught in his chest as she adjusted her grip on the wooden blade. It wasn't fear. Not exactly. But something that made him aware of the space between them.
Admiration came first. That was simple enough to name.
But beneath it, there was an edge of discomfort. A twist in his gut that said he had underestimated her. That whatever idea he had formed of Zhao Xueying before today was no longer useful.
And still beneath that - another feeling, quieter. One that had less to do with the court or politics or family reputations. He didn't want to name it yet.
But he couldn't look away.
She wasn't just impressive. She was a reminder.
A reminder that he was no longer the only one in the capital hiding the weight of expectations behind still eyes.
A reminder that she had changed, and maybe he had too, and they were both too far from what they once were to pretend otherwise.
She paused after the final round. Took a breath. Her shoulders relaxed by a fraction. Her hand reached for the cloth tucked at her side.
For a second, she looked almost unguarded.
Wenxu turned away before she could spot him watching.
He wasn't sure if he did it out of respect. Or self-preservation.
The match ends. The final clash of wooden blades leaves the air sharp with motion, then stillness. The guards offer short bows, respectful, and begin to disperse. Xueying steps aside from the center, breathing evenly, her hair damp against her temple.
She wipes her brow with the back of her hand. A thin line of red stretches across her palm - shallow, but fresh. She doesn't flinch. She barely registers it.
From the corner of her eye, she sees someone approach. Quiet steps, measured and familiar.
Ling Wenxu.
He doesn't call out. He doesn't hesitate. He stops in front of her, eyes dropping to her hand.
"That looks like it needs attention," he says, not unkind, but direct.
"It's nothing," she replies, tucking her hand behind her back.
He reaches forward anyway, gently taking her wrist before she can turn away. His fingers are cool. Careful.
"You don't have to ignore every mark you earn," he says, almost to himself.
From his sleeve, he draws out a handkerchief. Simple white linen. Crisp folds. He wraps it around her palm with clean, efficient movements. Not rushed. Not overly gentle either - just steady.
She watches him. Not stopping him. Not encouraging him. Just watching.
"You should be more careful," he says, voice low.
"I am," she answers, just above a whisper.
He pauses, then ties the final knot. His fingers linger a second longer than needed.
Her eyes lift to meet his. He's already looking at her.
The space between them tightens.
No words.
No movement.
Only the quiet tension that hums when something once distant shifts into reach.
She could step back. He could let go.
But neither of them do.
Not yet.
The light catches on the edge of her bandaged hand. A breeze passes through the court, brushing her sleeve, stirring his hair slightly.
Wenxu lets go of her hand.
The contact breaks without a word. He steps back, his posture straightening, expression sliding into something calmer. Measured. Almost cold.
His gaze lingers on her for a second longer.
"You're not what I expected," he says, voice quiet but certain.
It isn't a compliment. It isn't criticism either. Just a statement, bare and unpolished.
Xueying blinks, surprised by the shift. "What do you-"
But he's already turning. His footsteps are firm, even as he walks away across the court, not looking back.
She doesn't call after him. Just stands still in the quiet space he left behind.
The linen still rests in her hand. She hadn't noticed she'd started to grip it.
The softness of the fabric presses into her palm where the cut had been. It isn't pain she feels now. Just a faint weight. Like something unfinished.
She watches his back disappear behind a column. For a moment, the air seems thinner.
Then it returns.
Not the court. Not the sparring ground. But the dream.
Flashes in the corner of her memory. A white robe. Long, trailing sleeves. A figure she chased but never reached. He never turned to face her. Never spoke her name.
Just like now.
The vision fades as quickly as it came, and she's left staring at the place where Wenxu had stood.
The cloth shifts in her fingers. Clean. Folded. Real.
But the silence he left behind cuts deeper than the scratch on her palm.
Ling Wenxu didn't go far.
He'd meant to walk off the edge of his thoughts, but the corridors felt too narrow, the shadows too loud. So he stopped under the eaves of the eastern colonnade, where the stone cooled the heat from the court.
A moment passed before he heard the footsteps behind him.
"Should've known you'd run off like that," a familiar voice said. "You never did enjoy being looked at."
Wenxu didn't turn. "I wasn't aware I was being watched."
Li Yuan stepped beside him anyway, casual in his pace, hands clasped neatly behind his back. He didn't wear armor or formal robes, just a light blue tunic, tailored but easy. He looked like he'd just come from a stroll, not a palace chamber full of advisors.
"Not by everyone," the second prince said, tone light. "Just me. And about five guards who couldn't decide whether to be impressed or terrified by your expression."
Wenxu glanced at him briefly. "I wasn't aware my face made that much of an impact."
Li Yuan grinned. "It does when you stare at a girl like that after bandaging her hand."
There was silence.
The prince gave him a sideways look, reading him too easily.
"No witty retort?" he said. "You're losing your edge, Wenxu. I expected at least a half-hearted denial."
"She's not-"
"I didn't say she was anything," Li Yuan interrupted smoothly. "You're the one jumping to conclusions."
Wenxu sighed and shifted his weight slightly. "It was just a scratch."
"Of course. Just a scratch," Li Yuan echoed. "Just a bit of blood. Just her hand in yours. Just a very long look that had at least two guards clearing their throats and walking away like they'd seen something private."
Wenxu didn't respond.
Li Yuan tilted his head, pretending to study the curve of a nearby column. "She's not like how you imagined, is she?"
Wenxu hesitated. "No. She's not."
"Better or worse?"
"Neither," he said, but his voice was quieter now. "Just... different."
Li Yuan hummed thoughtfully, then stepped in front of him, studying him more directly now.
"You know, it's funny," he said. "The other day I happened to pass a conversation I wasn't meant to hear. One of those garden rendezvous. A bit too close, quiet voices."
Wenxu looked up sharply.
Li Yuan smiled, though the smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "I won't say who was speaking, of course. That wouldn't be very princely of me."
"What did you hear?" Wenxu asked, the tension in his voice subtle but real.
"Nothing that concerns me," Li Yuan replied. "But maybe something that should concern you. Or her."
Wenxu's jaw tightened.
The prince leaned a shoulder against the pillar, letting his voice drop slightly.
"I'm only saying this because I know you. And because you never notice when things move under your feet."
"I'm not-"
"You're not stupid," Li Yuan said gently. "But you don't play this game like the rest of us. You never liked the scheming. You think if you just stay out of the fire, it won't burn you."
Wenxu was silent.
Li Yuan straightened and smiled again, lighter this time. "Anyway. I only came to tease you. Consider that part done."
He gave a brief, mocking bow. "Ling daren, I'll leave you to your brooding."
Wenxu watched him walk away. But something in his chest had already shifted.
And whatever it was, it wasn't going back to how it was before.
Xueying walks out of the training grounds after training, still carrying Wenxu's folded cloth. Yuren leans against one of the red pillars, arms crossed.
He doesn't say anything at first. Just watches her cross the threshold.
When she notices him, she halts.
"You followed me?" she asks.
Yuren tilts his head, eyes narrowing. "Not hard to follow someone who's walking around with the Grand Chancellor's son wrapping up their hand like a gift."
She sighs, starts walking again. "It wasn't like that."
He pushes off the pillar and walks beside her. "Oh, so you let any passing noblemen bandage your wounds now?"
She doesn't answer.
He keeps pace. "Xueying, you're not some merchant girl walking through plum blossom fairs. You're Zhao Yuren's sister. Daughter of a general. Of the Zhao clan. You don't get to have accidents like that without consequences."
She slows down, face tightening. "It was a scratch."
"And he touched you," Yuren says, voice firm now. "In front of half the guards. In the palace court."
"He didn't mean anything by it."
He stops walking. "You think that matters?"
She turns to face him. "What do you want me to say?"
"I want you to act like you understand what you represent," he snaps. "You don't get to play innocent with a Ling."
Her voice cools. "He wasn't being improper."
Yuren shakes his head, jaw tense. "It's not about impropriety. It's about lines. About alliances. Appearances. Politics. Or did you think this was just about your hand?"
She says nothing. The silence stretches.
He lowers his voice. "Xueying, we are barely holding our place in court right now. One wrong move, one wrong look - and the Emperor starts asking questions."
"He won't," she says quietly.
"You don't know that."
"I know Wenxu," she says.
Yuren's expression flickers.
"No, you don't," he says flatly. "You knew of him. Just like he knew of you. But the boy you used to imagine and the man standing on that sparring ground - they're not the same."
She looks down at the cloth still in her hand. Her fingers clench around it.
"I don't trust him," Yuren continues. "And I don't care how quiet his voice was or how soft his eyes looked. You don't lower your guard around a Ling. Especially not the son."
She lifts her head. "So I should just ignore him? Pretend it never happened?"
"I'm telling you to remember who you are," he replies, voice steady now. "And who he is."
She nods once, slowly.
Then, almost bitterly: "You sound just like Father."
Yuren looks at her for a long moment, then sighs. The sharpness fades a little from his voice.
"I'm not trying to chain you, Xueying," he says. "I'm trying to protect you."
She doesn't respond.
After a beat, he adds, "The court's not a battlefield, but the wounds cut deeper. Don't hand anyone the blade."
Then he walks past her, leaving her standing in the quiet corridor with the cloth still clutched in her hand.
Evening, Night Market.
The night market buzzed with quiet laughter and soft chatter, its lantern-lit stalls lining the narrow street like floating stars. Strings of paper lanterns swayed gently overhead, their warm glow casting soft light on silk, spices, and laughter. The crowd moved in ripples, never still, yet not hurried. It was the kind of evening that seemed suspended - between breath and silence, between what could be said and what shouldn't.
Xueying kept close to her mother and Yuren, though her eyes strayed. They were shopping discreetly, avoiding attention, her mother veiled in soft layers, Yuren keeping a protective distance. They didn't wear their names tonight, only the muted dignity of a family walking through a city that both remembered them and didn't.
She paused by a stall tucked under the corner of a red awning. Paper charms fluttered in the breeze - red, gold, some bearing inked blessings and others still blank. One caught her eye, its edges folded like petals. She reached for it, fingers brushing the rough paper, but didn't take it.
Something shifted in the crowd.
She turned slightly.
And saw him.
Wenxu stood across the street, his profile lit by the amber lanterns above. He wasn't in court robes. No guards. No father looming behind him. Just a man standing alone, one hand behind his back, the other loosely curled around a small satchel. He looked out of place but not uncomfortable, like someone used to being where he didn't belong.
Their eyes met.
Neither of them moved at first. The crowd swelled between them - couples drifting past, children chasing after skewered sweets, old men haggling over dried herbs - but they stayed locked in that glance.
There was no greeting. No reason to cross the space between them.
And yet, the moment stretched.
Here, without titles or expectations, the distance between them felt more fragile. There were no guards to pretend for, no generals watching from balconies, no princes smirking from shadows. Just Ling Wenxu, with the weight of a lineage behind his name, and Zhao Xueying, holding a paper charm she hadn't bought.
A flicker of something passed over his face. Surprise, maybe. Or recognition, not of her face - he'd seen that before - but of something else. Something unguarded. He wasn't supposed to see her here. And maybe that's why it lingered.
She didn't smile. He didn't nod.
But neither looked away.
She felt her brother step closer behind her, his voice low.
"Don't."
She blinked. Looked down at the paper charm in her hand.
When she glanced back up, Wenxu was already walking away, turning into a smaller path lined with silk banners and glowing lotuses.
She let the charm go, letting it flutter back onto the wooden tray.
Her mother called her name gently from the next stall. She answered without turning her head.
And still, somewhere beneath the calm, something stirred. A thread stretched tighter, not yet breaking. Not yet knotted.
Just drawn - silently, inevitably - across a crowded street of light.
Wenxu hadn't planned to walk through the western district that evening. He rarely did, not without an escort, not this deep into the common quarters. But a request from the Ministry had delayed his return home, and rather than ride back directly, he had told his attendant to wait by the main gate. He wanted to move without noise. For once.
The scent of roasted chestnuts drifted past as he walked, blending with the sharper tang of ink and burning wax. Lanterns hung above the streets, red and gold, their paper skins glowing warm against the deepening dusk. The market had a rhythm - a tempo slower than the palace, softer than the court. It was easy to get swallowed in the crowd here, easier still to forget which family name he carried.
He stopped near a stall selling woodwork and lantern frames, letting his gaze drift. Then something drew it across the street.
Xueying.
At first, he thought it a mistake. A passing resemblance, a trick of light.
But she turned slightly, and he knew.
Her hair was pinned simply tonight, her clothes modest. Not plain, but not intended to be recognized. She stood beside a tray of paper charms, her fingers resting near one that fluttered in the wind. No guards. No bannered retinue. Just her, Yuren beside her, and an older woman who could only be their mother.
She looked... different. Less guarded. More real.
His eyes narrowed slightly, not in suspicion, but in attention. He hadn't expected to see her here - hadn't expected the sight of her to make him pause.
For a moment, neither of them moved. Her eyes found his through the crowd. She didn't look away.
He didn't either.
Something shifted in his chest. A quiet awareness that didn't ask for permission.
He hadn't thought much of her outside their formal interactions. Sharp-tongued. Too perceptive. Graceful but always carrying weight in her shoulders. She smiled often but never quite fully. He assumed she was comfortable in court games, used to the presence of powerful men, including him.
But seeing her now - in the middle of a crowd that didn't care about names or allegiances - that image cracked. She wasn't performing. She wasn't trying to win anything. She was just present.
And still, even here, she stood like a soldier waiting for a signal.
His eyes dropped briefly to the paper charm near her fingers, then returned to her face.
That thread again. That same quiet thread he'd felt earlier at the training grounds.
He knew what it meant to feel a connection. He also knew what it meant to sever one.
But this... this wasn't a clean thread. It hadn't been tied by reason or politics. It wasn't convenient. It wasn't supposed to exist at all.
He stepped back before anyone could notice him lingering.
Not because he didn't want to stay - but because he couldn't afford to.
Zhenyu had seen enough from a distance. Enough to know he wasn't the only one watching tonight. Ling Wenxu had left, but not without leaving a shadow in his wake.
Zhenyu approached only when he saw her turn away from the last direction Wenxu had gone, called back by her brother's voice. Yuren and their mother had returned to her side, baskets now in hand, eyes scanning the lanterns - and, instinctively, the people nearby.
As Zhenyu stepped closer, Madam Zhao straightened slightly, a polite shift in posture. Yuren met his gaze with a flicker of recognition, then lowered his eyes in measured deference. Their reactions were precise, practiced. Enough for respect, but not enough to attract suspicion.
Zhenyu inclined his head faintly, addressing them with a casual smile. "Evening strolls are rare luxuries these days. You chose well. The lanterns here are finer than the ones sold near the east gate."
Madam Zhao offered a small nod. "The western district is less crowded," she said softly. "Easier to breathe."
Yuren followed up with a short, neutral reply. "Your words honor the vendor more than the lanterns, Your Highness."
Zhenyu chuckled, never one to miss the weight behind pleasantries. "I hope they don't overhear. It might go to their heads."
Then his attention returned to Xueying.
She had been quiet, watching him with the same wariness she used on every stranger - only this time, it was layered with something else. The awareness that what they were doing was not exactly proper. That there were rules even in the dark.
He reached toward the stall and took a red paper charm from one of the strings. It fluttered slightly in the breeze, the gold ink barely catching the light.
"Red suits you," he said, extending it.
Madam Zhao shifted her weight subtly, but said nothing.
Yuren's eyes flicked to the charm, then away.
Xueying glanced at the offering, then at Zhenyu. "And what does this one mean?"
"Depends who gives it," he said. "And what they hope it's taken for."
A long pause. Then she took it, brief touch, fingers grazing.
"Thank you," she said, voice flat but not dismissive.
Zhenyu smiled at that. He stepped back, folding his hands behind him, still the picture of calm. But his next words were quieter.
"My father would rather I stay away," he said. "But I never had much talent for obedience."
With another faint nod to Madam Zhao and Yuren, he turned and walked into the crowd.
Zhenyu disappeared into the crowd, the red lanterns swallowing his figure until only the sway of silk and the echo of boots on stone remained.
Xueying stood still, the charm still in her hand.
Yuren didn't speak. He didn't have to. He turned to walk, giving her the first cue to follow. His back was straight, movements tight. Measured. Like someone trying not to let something slip.
Madam Zhao gave one final look toward the path Zhenyu had taken before following.
When Xueying finally stepped beside them, neither of them acknowledged the charm she still held. But she felt the change in air - subtle, cooler.
Her brother said nothing. Just kept walking. But the quiet was pointed. And her mother, who had been light in tone earlier, now seemed distant. She didn't touch her shoulder like she usually did. Didn't comment on the next stall. Only walked ahead with a softness too controlled.
They didn't scold her.
They didn't need to.
That silence was the kind that didn't punish - it warned.
She slipped the charm into her sleeve.
And they walked on, the lanterns above glowing brighter than they should've, considering how suddenly everything felt dim.
Zhao Xueying sat by the low mirror stand, her hairbrush slow in her hand. The room was quiet, except for the muffled sounds of the city beyond the window - the lingering chatter of late market goers, the occasional creak of wheels, a soft bell somewhere far.
The glow of the oil lamp flickered across the surface of the mirror.
The red charm Zhenyu had given her was set aside, untouched on the table. Folded neatly, deliberately. She hadn't looked at it since returning.
She stared at her own reflection. Not vainly. Not even curiously. Just... looking.
Her hand paused in the middle of brushing.
Wenxu's face came to mind. That moment across the lantern-strewn street. No one else had noticed it, but she remembered the way his gaze held. Quiet, steady. It hadn't felt formal. It hadn't even felt cautious. It was something else. Something... almost human, stripped of all the usual weight that surrounded him.
It unsettled her. Because for once, he didn't feel like a rival. He didn't feel like the son of the chancellor whose shadow loomed behind every meeting. He didn't feel like someone bound to her by politics and forced civility.
He had looked like a man trying not to look too long. But failing.
And she had looked back.
She set the brush down.
The dream tugged at the back of her thoughts again - the same one that had haunted her these past weeks. A figure in white, always distant. His face never clear.
This time, in her mind, he was walking toward her.
Not running. Not speaking.
Just walking. Closer.
But he still didn't see her.
She lowered her gaze to the floor, the flicker of the lamp catching the edge of the red charm again.
Her voice was a whisper, barely enough to disturb the quiet.
"Why do you feel so... familiar?"