The Music Began Before the Moon Rose.
The first note was barely a sound.
Just a breath against the silence, shaky and slow. Not confident. Not clean. Like it didn't mean to be heard.
The zither's strings trembled under his fingers. The sound slowly drifted through open screens, under old beams, brushing past half-lit lanterns swaying in the early autumn air.
Somewhere outside, the wind stirred the cedar trees. Then paused. As if listening.
He sat alone in the Moon Pavilion.He was Li Shen, the third-rank court musician. The kind people noticed only when he played.
He was cross-legged, too still, back too straight like he'd been holding it for hours. His eyes were lost in shadow. The silver threads on his dark robe caught the lanternlight just enough to shimmer, like frost on night silk.
He played like the music wasn't new. Like it had been waiting for him, and he was just trying to remember it.
They said he loved no one. Said he cared for nothing but the music.
But if you were really quiet enough and listened if you sat still long enough, you might catch something behind the notes.
Not quite a cry. Not quite a prayer.
Something that hurt, but didn't want to explain itself.
She came on the fifth night of the Harvest Moon.
No drums. No guards. Not even a sound before her steps.
Her robe was the color of dusk. Or maybe like the old petals of tea roses left too long in the sun. It wasn't pressed neat. A little wrinkled, a little wet at the hem. A few pins had slipped loose from her hair, dark strands lifting like they weren't ready to stay down.
She walked into the courtyard like she'd been here before. Or dreamed it. Osmanthus petals fell as she passed. Too soft to feel real. Too perfect to be planned.
She didn't knock.
She didn't speak.
Just stood outside the pavilion. Watching.
And Li Shen didn't stop playing.
Their eyes met.
No thunder. No spark.
Just that quiet drop in the chest when you know someone, somehow, before you even ask their name.
The song ended. Not with a flourish it just faded into the dark, like warm breath on glass.
Then she spoke. Her voice cracked a little, dry from silence.
"You're still playing," she said.
His hand rested on the strings, but didn't press.
"And you're still listening."
She came again the next night.
Then the next.
No fanfare. No reason.
Only the rustle of cloth. And that strange stillness between them.
Sometimes she sat by the incense table, knees tucked under her, hands resting like she didn't know what to do with them.
Other times she lingered by the pillar close enough to hear, far enough not to intrude.
She never stayed past the last note.
She never said goodbye.
He played differently when she was near.
The music lost its polish. Got raw around the edges. Notes stumbled sometimes, circled back on themselves like he was chasing something he couldn't catch.
One night, she tilted her head and asked, "What does that chord mean? The broken one."
He didn't answer right away.
His hand hovered over the strings. Then he said quiet rueful half to himself:
"It means... I miss something I don't know how to name."
She didn't ask again.
By the seventh night, they stopped pretending they were strangers.
She leaned against the frame of the door, robe slipping off one shoulder not obviously, just enough to notice. Her eyes didn't meet his right away. But when they did, they held.
"I dreamed of this," she said. "The pavilion. The music. You watching."
His hands slowed. He looked up at her.
"And in the dream... did I touch you?"
Her breath caught. Barely.
"No," she said. "But I wanted you to."
He didn't blink. Didn't look away.
The palace whispered.
It always did.
Han Yelin the daughter of a general who picked the wrong side of a war. A cavalry commander once, now just another pretty prisoner in silk.
But she walked like she remembered saddles and swords. Not fans and tea. Like something still burned under her skin.
And Li Shen who had never flinched, never faltered was starting to play songs that made people uneasy. Songs that tasted like memory. And ended like regret.
The next night was warmer. Sticky, almost. Jasmine thick in the air. Lanterns hung heavy, swaying like they were drunk.
She came again. Barefoot this time.
He was tuning the zither when she said, behind him,
"You never look at me long enough."
He paused. One string gave a dull hum, then silence.
"If I do," he said, "I'll forget all about the music I am playing."
She moved closer. Close enough that he could smell the night in her hair. She didn't touch him. Not yet.
Her sleeve slipped down her arm. Light caught the curve of her shoulder.
When she leaned in, her voice was different, it was no longer careful.
"Then forget the music," she said.
"Just feel."
He waited a second.
Then gave in.
Her hand brushed his. Fingers unsure at first, then bold. Her other hand moved under the edge of his robe, rested flat over his heart.
He didn't pull back.
The kiss wasn't perfect. It was uncertain, awkward even. Like two people learning a language they used to speak fluently, but forgot somewhere along the way.
She stood, untied her sash. Let the fabric fall. No drama. Just a soft sound. A soft breath.
She stood bare in front of him.
Not hiding. Not asking.
He stood. Walked to her.
Secret Chapter: The Night Behind the Silk
The bed was nothing special. Low. Old. The silk canopy frayed at the corners.
She lay back without pretense. Not posing. Just there.
Her hair spilled around her. Her hands didn't tremble, but her chest rose too quickly, like her breath was catching up to her heart.
He undressed quietly. Like he didn't want to wake a dream.
When he lay beside her, it wasn't fire. It was heat.
Slow. Building. Careful.
His lips found her shoulder first. Her collarbone next.
Her fingers slid into his hair.
When she arched toward him, it wasn't a show.
It was want. Plain and raw.
There were no loud moans. No perfect lines.
Only touch.
And the occasional sharp inhale.
And fingers tracing unfamiliar skin like they were trying to memorize it.
When he pushed into her, her eyes fluttered shut.
A breath hitched.
Not from pain. But from something she'd been waiting to feel again.
They didn't speak.
They just moved.
Not perfectly. Not in sync. But with intention. Like they were learning each other's rhythms from scratch.
At one point, she whispered his name. Barely. Like a prayer she wasn't sure she had permission to say.
He kissed her in response.
Not to quiet her. But to hold it in his mouth.
They didn't sleep right away.
They lay tangled in each other, sweaty, sticky, quiet and a happy mess. Her fingers traced shapes on his chest. His hand stayed at the small of her back, just enough pressure to feel her there.
She kissed his shoulder, soft.
"If you play that song again in the morning," she said, "I'll stay until the last note."
He smiled without showing teeth.
Outside, the wind picked up again. Brushed past the old pavilion.
Inside, a silver hairpin lay across the zither.
It trembled once.
And stilled.