The Imperial Gardens.
The garden was loud with children's voices, and Wenxu already wanted to leave.
He stood near the edge of the path, hands neatly folded behind him, eyes fixed on a koi pond. The spring festival had drawn out nearly every noble family to the palace, and with the Emperor honoring the Zhao clan that year, the chaos had tripled.
Wenxu, ten at the time, wore silence like armor. Still, unmoving, always watching.
He didn't look up when footsteps approached. He recognized the pattern — not rushed, but light and bouncing. She never walked anywhere. Always skipped, always talked.
"Ling Wenxu," came the bright voice, cutting through birdsong and courtly chatter. "Why are you hiding here?"
"I'm not hiding," he replied flatly. "I'm standing."
"Same thing," she said cheerfully, then crouched beside the edge of the path, examining the small clusters of fallen blossoms that had drifted onto the stones. "Everyone's eating candied plums in the pavilion. You don't like sweets?"
"I don't like noise," he said.
"Too bad," she chirped. "Because you're standing in a festival. In a palace. With people. Who are loud."
He sighed through his nose. She was only seven or eight then, younger, smaller, absolutely relentless.
She looked around, then brightened as she spotted something — a small branch of plum blossoms that had fallen intact from the tree above. She picked it up and turned to him with both hands. "Here. For you."
He frowned. "It's wilting."
"Then keep it before it fades," she said, as though the logic was perfectly sound. Her eyes were stubborn, her grin wide and certain.
"I don't want it," he said.
She held it out higher. "My father says you're brilliant. I think so too. So I'm giving this to you as thanks."
He didn't reach for it.
"I want to be brilliant someday," she continued, not discouraged. "So maybe when I grow up, we can be friends. You look like you don't have any."
He turned his head, deadpan. "That's because I don't need any."
"People who don't need friends are just bad at making them."
Before he could say anything else, she suddenly stepped forward, quick and fearless, and tucked the branch behind his ear.
"There." She giggled. "Now you're part of spring too."
He blinked, stunned, caught off guard not just by the action, but by the absurdity of the moment. Before he could react, she had spun around and bolted down the path, her laugh trailing behind her like the wind.
He pulled the branch away from his ear, holding it between his fingers. Small blossoms, pale and light. The petals trembled with the breeze.
He glanced back in the direction she had run, then looked down again.
He didn't throw the blossom.
When he returned to the Chancellor's residence that evening, he placed it on his desk, off to the side, away from the scrolls. He didn't stare at it, not really.
But long after the lanterns had been blown out, he turned once, just once, to check if the petals were still there.
They were.
And for some reason, that mattered.
The palace gardens had been carefully arranged — stone lanterns placed at regular intervals, silk banners swaying lightly under the trees. Plum blossoms bloomed again, just as they had years ago, but this time under a different kind of spring.
Nobles gathered in small groups across the garden, sipping from delicate porcelain cups, their conversations low and careful. Attendants moved between them, refilling drinks, offering small plates of seasonal delicacies. At the head of the gathering sat the Emperor, shaded under an ivory canopy, speaking softly with a few favored ministers.
Wenxu stood slightly apart, as always — not by distance, but by presence. He held his wine with the same composure he used in court: fingers steady, face unreadable. Ministers occasionally approached him to exchange a few polite words, most of which he answered with short nods.
He was not paying attention when Zhao Xueying approached.
"You haven't had this wine," she said lightly, holding out a fresh cup. "It's sweeter than what they're pouring for the others. I thought you might like it."
She stood with that same casual ease she always carried — chin tilted, eyes bright, unbothered by the stares she drew. Her tone wasn't flirtatious. It was too blunt, too knowing. She wasn't trying to win his attention. She was testing it.
"I'm content with mine," Wenxu said, not looking at her directly.
"Content is different from enjoying," she replied.
The space around them grew quieter. A few nearby ministers paused mid-sentence, their eyes flicking over. A few others whispered to their companions.
"Young Lady Zhao," said Minister Han, raising a brow, "are you offering wine to a man in public now?"
"Would it be better if I poured it behind the bushes?" Xueying answered without skipping a beat. "I find this spot quite comfortable."
A few soft chuckles escaped from younger officials. One tried to hide it behind his sleeve.
Wenxu did not smile. His grip on his cup tightened ever so slightly. He still hadn't accepted hers.
"You used to chase me around the garden with plum branches," he said quietly, almost more to himself than to her. "Now you've upgraded to wine."
"You noticed?" Her grin widened. "You used to ignore everything."
"I still do," he replied flatly.
She didn't seem offended. "No," she said. "You don't. Not really."
He said nothing.
Seated nearby, Prince Jian lifted his gaze from his plate and glanced between them. His smile was polite, faint. It stayed perfectly in place. But his gaze lingered too long.
One of the older ministers leaned toward the Grand Chancellor and muttered, "Bold, isn't she?"
Grand Chancellor Ling didn't respond. He watched the exchange, eyes cold, unmoved. Then he turned to the Emperor with a neutral expression. "The Zhao daughter speaks as though she were raised outside the capital."
The Emperor hummed as if distracted. "Ten years far from the city changes people."
"She seems to think she knows my son well," Ling said.
"She may," the Emperor replied. "Children remember strange things."
Back near the plum tree, Xueying tilted her head. "So?" she asked. "Will you take the cup or let me stand here all day?"
Wenxu looked at her. There was no expression in his eyes, but he took her in carefully, as if measuring more than her words. Then, slowly, he placed his cup on the stone table beside him and accepted the one from her hand.
He didn't drink.
She didn't press.
Instead, she stepped back with a small nod and moved toward a group of noblewomen across the garden.
Wenxu watched her go, then finally looked at the cup she'd given him.
Jian leaned in slightly from his seat. "So you do remember her," he said.
"I remember everything," Wenxu replied.
Jian didn't answer. He simply poured himself another cup of wine, but the pour was slower this time. Precise.
And tight.
The path from the palace to the Zhao manor stretched long and quiet, with lanterns swaying in the breeze above their heads. Xueying walked beside her brother, arms relaxed behind her back, the scent of osmanthus still clinging faintly to her sleeves.
"I forgot how many courtyards the palace had," she said, eyes tracing the curve of rooftops in the distance. "It's like stepping into one of those old scrolls Father keeps. Half of me thought I'd get lost and end up in the wrong dynasty."
Yuren gave a soft laugh. "Knowing you? You'd take over the dynasty before anyone could ask questions."
She grinned. "Now that's an idea."
"But really," he added, glancing sideways, "you were drawing a bit too much attention today."
Xueying blinked. "From what? The shrubs?"
"From Ling Wenxu," he said. "And the way you kept exchanging looks like you were trying to solve each other."
She rolled her eyes, but her pace slowed slightly. "He's just... quiet."
Yuren gave a thoughtful hum. "Quiet, but not unreadable. There's always something ticking behind those eyes. You noticed that too, didn't you?"
She didn't answer at first. "He's not like the stories made him sound," she said finally. "He's sharper. Sadder."
"Maybe he is," Yuren said. "But he's still a Ling. They're not the type to wear their hearts where arrows can reach them."
"I'm not chasing anyone," she said.
"No," he agreed. "But you've always had a soft spot for puzzles you shouldn't touch."
That made her smile, faint and short-lived.
"You think he's dangerous?" she asked.
Yuren hesitated. "Not the way his father is. But men like Wenxu… they've learned to survive by choosing silence over loyalty. If it ever comes to that, you might not like which side he picks."
Xueying lowered her gaze. "It won't come to that."
"Maybe. Just don't walk in expecting to be the exception. I know you, Xueying. You don't chase—but you hope."
She didn't deny it.
The Zhao gates came into view ahead, the guards already stepping aside to let them through. The night air had grown colder, but neither of them said anything more.
Sometimes, silence said just enough.
The Ling Manor.
The hall was quiet, its stillness sharpened by the late hour. No servants lingered. No idle steps echoed. Only the faint crackle of oil lamps marked time, burning low in their sconces.
Grand Chancellor Ling Wuzhen stood near the window, arms clasped behind his back, looking out over the courtyard. His robes were still formal from the banquet, though the air around him felt colder now that the pleasantries had ended.
Behind him, Wenxu waited. Silent. Upright. The lines of his posture straight, but not rigid. Not defiant. Not relaxed either.
"You interacted with her again today," Wuzhen said without turning around.
Wenxu didn't respond.
"She's changed," the chancellor continued. "Less obedient. Less naive."
A pause.
"Do not mistake that for weakness."
Still, Wenxu said nothing.
Wuzhen turned, finally facing his son. The light caught the angles of his face—sharp, stern, worn from years of calculation. His eyes narrowed slightly.
"She is not the same girl from before," he said. "Whatever attachment you think you had to her, put it away."
"I've made no move," Wenxu said evenly.
"No," Wuzhen replied. "But you're thinking. I know that look in your eyes. You wear it too easily."
Wenxu held his gaze, unreadable.
Wuzhen stepped closer, his voice quieter but heavier. "You forget who she belongs to. The Zhao family may have returned with their heads high, but the mud from the border still clings to their boots. Their hands are bloodied from the emperor's wars, not polished from the court's games."
"They fought for the empire," Wenxu said.
Wuzhen tilted his head slightly. "And that makes them loyal? Or just useful?"
The question hung in the air.
"General Zhao is no fool," he continued. "His daughter even less so. She is walking back into the capital with the scent of war on her, and she's not here to curtsy. She's here to reclaim something."
Wenxu's expression didn't change. But something in his stillness deepened.
"You admire her," Wuzhen said.
A statement, not a question.
Wenxu didn't deny it.
"She could be dangerous," his father added. "Not because of what she is now. But because of what she might become."
Wuzhen stepped past him, slow, deliberate.
"If you let her turn your head, she'll drag you into the storm she doesn't even see coming. And when the time comes to choose, she will not be on our side. She cannot be."
Wenxu's jaw tightened, just slightly.
"You told me once to observe before I act," he said quietly. "I'm still observing."
Wuzhen paused by the door. "Don't take too long."
He left without waiting for acknowledgment. The door closed behind him with a solid, final thud.
Wenxu remained where he was, eyes fixed on the space his father had just occupied. The air felt heavier in his absence, though it had never been warm to begin with.
He didn't move. Didn't sigh. Didn't speak.
Just stood in silence, in a house full of walls and shadows, with loyalty pressed against his ribs like a knife.
Wuzhen didn't return to his study.
Instead, he crossed the eastern corridor of the Ling estate, each step measured, soundless. The late-night servants avoided his gaze, well-trained not to linger when he walked the halls at this hour.
He reached the old family shrine, tucked behind a narrow hallway framed by red-lacquered beams. Most thought he came here to light incense for the ancestors. In truth, he came when he needed silence—or secrecy.
The shrine was already unlocked.
Wuzhen stepped inside and closed the door behind him. The faint scent of sandalwood lingered in the air. Someone had arrived before him.
"You took your time," said a voice, low and refined.
Wuzhen bowed his head slightly, just enough to show respect without groveling. "There were eyes on me after the banquet. I had to be careful."
From the shadows near the altar, a figure stepped forward. Cloaked, but not cheaply dressed. The embroidery on his cuffs glinted when he moved. He didn't bother hiding his presence.
"Was it her?" the hooded man asked. "Zhao Xueying?"
Wuzhen's gaze shifted. "She caught his attention. As expected."
A pause.
The figure said nothing, but the room felt colder now.
"She's grown into something sharp," Wuzhen added. "Unbent, like her father. But more... palatable. The court will like her. The emperor already does."
"You think she's a threat."
"I think she will be. She doesn't even know it yet."
Silence again.
Wuzhen took a breath. "My son is watching her too closely. I warned him."
"And what did he say?" the figure asked, voice softer now.
"Nothing useful. He's too cautious. Always is."
The hooded man stepped toward the shrine, fingers brushing the edge of the cold stone altar.
"She was never meant for him," he said quietly. "Not then. Not now."
Wuzhen frowned. "You say that as if—"
"I don't need your interpretation, Chancellor," the man cut in, smooth but firm. "Your job is to keep your son in line."
Wuzhen held his tongue. A lesser man would have snapped back. But not to him.
"I'm keeping her in sight," Wuzhen said instead. "But if she chooses a side that isn't yours—"
"She hasn't chosen yet," the man interrupted. "But when she does... she won't choose blindly."
The words held weight, but not warning. There was something else beneath them. Something... personal.
Wuzhen straightened. "She could undo everything if we're not careful."
"She could change everything," the man corrected, almost wistfully.
And for a moment, Wuzhen saw it—the quiet gleam in the man's voice. The emotion carefully tucked between his sentences.
Ah.
So that's why he cared.
Wuzhen's mouth tightened. "Then I hope you remember what's at stake when the time comes."
The hooded figure turned away, expression unreadable beneath the cloak.
"She's not what you think she is," he said quietly. "But then again... neither is your son."
He walked past Wuzhen, cloak trailing behind him like shadow.
The door creaked open. A flicker of lamplight. Then silence.
Wuzhen remained still, alone in the shrine. His gaze lingered on the altar.
Two names. Two loyalties. And a thread pulling them both in opposite directions.
He muttered, "Let's see who she chooses... before it's too late."