The morning sun spilled over the palace rooftops, dyeing the sky in hues of rose and gold. Birds chirped in the garden beyond the palace gates, yet their freedom mocked the girl sitting cross-legged atop the silk-cushioned balcony.

Princess Lian yawned.

“Your Highness,” came a voice from below, “Your embroidery tutor awaits in the east pavilion.”

She rolled over onto her side, eyes half-lidded, and said flatly, “Tell her I’ve been kidnapped. By pirates.”

There was a groan, and the sound of hurried footsteps. A moment later, a young man climbed up the side wall with the familiarity of someone who had done this a hundred times before. He reached the edge of the balcony, panting.

“Lian,” he said, exasperated. “You can’t keep skipping your lessons. The Emperor will have my head.”

“Did you wear the dress again, Jun?” she asked sweetly, chin propped on her hands.

Jun scowled. “Only because you threatened to release snakes in my bed again.”

“And you looked quite elegant last time. I daresay you could pass for me even better now if we added a bit of rouge.”

“I will throw myself from this balcony.”

She giggled and rolled over again, her long jet-black hair falling in waves across her shoulder. “You wouldn’t. You love me too much.”

“I serve you, not love—”

“I heard the hesitation, Jun.”

He sighed. “You’re impossible.”

And she was. From the moment she could walk, Lian had run through the palace like a spring breeze, dodging etiquette, curtsying only when she felt like it, and charming even the sternest generals with her wide smile and mischievous eyes.

No one ever truly stopped her. Not the Emperor—her older brother—who ruled with iron in war and honey in her presence. Not the tutors who came and went, red in the face. Not even Jun, who had been assigned as her bodyguard when they were both still children, and who still hadn’t figured out how to say no to her.

Today, though, the breeze in the palace felt different.

“Jun,” she said after a pause, her voice quieter. “Have you heard the rumors?”

His jaw tensed. “What rumors?”

She turned to look at him, squinting into the sunlight. “That Brother is arranging my marriage. That he’s bringing someone to the capital.”

There was a beat of silence. Jun didn’t answer.

“That means it’s true,” she said softly.

Jun crouched beside her. “I don’t know the details. Only that the man is from the North. A king.”

“A king.” Her lips twisted. “Sounds old and boring already.”

“They say he’s young. And… that he’s strong. A warrior.”

“Is that all?” she muttered. “No terrible flaw? No disfigured face or monstrous past?”

Jun hesitated.

Lian turned sharply. “Jun.”

“They say,” he began carefully, “that he fought in a dozen wars before he turned twenty. That he’s feared even by his own court. And… that he killed his entire family to take the throne.”

A strange silence followed.

Lian blinked. “Ah. So. A monster, then.”

“No one knows for sure. They’re rumors.”

“But rumors always have seeds,” she murmured, standing slowly.

The wind played with her sleeves. From her high balcony, she could see the imperial flags fluttering. She thought of her brother—so steady, so protective—and wondered how he could agree to something like this.

“I won’t marry a monster,” she said.

Jun didn’t speak. He knew that tone. The tone that came before another wild idea. And sure enough—

“I’ll just have to stop the marriage myself,” Lian said cheerfully, brushing past him. “Time for a little mischief.”

Jun groaned, rubbing his face. “Not again.”

Far to the north, where the mountains wore crowns of snow and the wind howled like wolves at dusk, a kingdom stood carved in stone and shadow.

At its center, a great fortress loomed. Black-tiled roofs. Iron gates. Torches lit even in daylight, for the sky here never quite brightened the same way it did in the southern lands.

And in the war hall, beneath the heavy banners and cold silence, stood King Zhao Rui .

“Prepare the envoy,” he said, voice quiet and final.

The councilmen at the table bowed, hesitating only a second too long. Even now, years into his rule, some of them still flinched when he spoke.

The king turned his face toward them—a face partly obscured by a smooth, black mask covering the right side of his jaw, his cheek, up to just beneath his eye. The exposed half showed a strong brow, pale skin, and a mouth set in a permanent frown.

One of the older ministers cleared his throat. “Your Majesty, if I may ask… are you truly certain about this union? A marriage with the Southern Kingdom—especially with the Emperor’s sister—might be seen as an... unusual choice.”

Zhao Rui’s gaze slid to him.

Unblinking. Icy.

The man swallowed and bowed again, deeper this time. “Of course, Your Majesty’s wisdom is beyond question.”

Zhao Rui didn’t answer. Instead, he stepped away from the table, his heavy boots echoing against stone.

In his chambers, alone, he reached for a small, carefully wrapped box inside a locked chest.

Inside lay a faded peach blossom—preserved in resin, still delicate, still pink.

He remembered the day as if it had been burned into his soul.

He had been a child then. Ten, maybe eleven. Covered in bruises. His half-brothers had locked him in a dog’s cage behind the stables. His throat had ached from thirst, his stomach empty for days.

And then— she appeared.

She had stumbled through the gardens of the Northern Palace, laughing, chasing a butterfly she had no business catching. A girl in royal silks, with wide brown eyes that sparkled like sunlit tea.

She had found him in that cage. Unafraid. Unbothered by his ragged appearance.

“You look angry,” she’d said.

He hadn’t replied.

“Want a peach?” she asked. “I stole two.”

She offered one through the bars, then knelt beside him as if he weren’t something broken. She didn't ask his name. Didn't flinch when he growled.

And before she left, she’d whispered with the soft confidence only a child could have:

> “Don’t die. Monsters don’t get to win. Heroes do.”

He had held onto that single sentence through every lash, every betrayal, every war that followed.

The peach had rotted. The blossom she left in his hair hadn’t.

She was gone before he could ask her name.

But years later, when he saw the Emperor’s sister briefly mentioned in a peace negotiation, her name struck like thunder.

Lian.

He had found her again. He had watched from afar.

And now… he would bring her here.

Not as a savior.

Not as a symbol.

But as his queen.

Lian darted through the crowded night market like a spark set loose from a lantern. Robed in plain cotton and her hair tucked beneath a traveler’s wrap, she was just another face among the crowd.

Which was precisely the point.

She inhaled deeply—sweet bean cakes, charred scallions, incense smoke—and grinned like a child on festival day.

“One last night,” she whispered, clutching the tiny coin pouch hidden in her sash. “Before I’m caged.”

She turned a corner into a quieter alley, chasing the scent of grilled dumplings, and stumbled—quite literally—into a man.

“Ah! I’m sorry—” she started, stepping back in alarm.

A strong hand steadied her gently. He said nothing.

He towered over her, dressed in dark robes—simple but too fine to be common. His face was sharp, quiet. Not handsome in the golden-paint kind of way, but in the way that made poets revise their verses three times before giving up.

Lian blinked. No mask. No twisted scars. Certainly not a monster.

“You should be more careful,” he said, voice low but not unkind.

She tilted her head, scrutinizing him. “You’re not from here.”

A pause. “No.”

Her eyes lit up. “Perfect! Then you won’t know the royal gossip.”

He said nothing, but her excitement was already bubbling over.

“I need your help,” she declared.

His brow lifted slightly. “With?”

“I’m being forced into marriage,” she began, tone tragically dramatic. “To some… terrible man. Everyone says he’s cruel and cold and wears a mask. Probably has three eyes or a forked tongue or something.” She leaned in conspiratorially. “My brother, mind you—thinks it’s a brilliant idea. I think he’s lost his mind.”

He stared at her, silent. Beneath that calm expression, his thoughts churned like a river after thaw.

She had no idea who she was speaking to. And yet she stood there, fearless, calling him a monster to his face.

She continued, oblivious to his quiet tension. “If I can make a scene tonight, cause a scandal or something big enough, maybe my brother will call it off.”

His voice was neutral, but sharp. “So you’d risk your freedom and name by shaming a man you’ve never even met?”

She raised her chin. “Better that than living like a bird in a golden cage.”

A pause stretched between them.

Then—so faintly she nearly missed it—the corner of his mouth twitched.

“And what,” he asked, “would you have me do?”

She grinned, mischief glowing in her eyes. “Pretend to be my secret lover. Or kidnap me. Something very dramatic.”

He let out a sound—something between a chuckle and a breath he hadn’t let himself take in years. It was the first time in ages he’d laughed, and it caught him off guard.

“You’re strange,” he said.

“So I’ve been told.” She held out her hand like a knight offering a pact. “Will you help me?”

He looked at her, truly looked. Her face was flushed with cold and excitement, eyes too bright, too familiar. That same glint from years ago, when she handed him a stolen peach through iron bars.

His voice was soft. “I’ll do anything you ask.”

She blinked, thrown off for a moment. His voice had grown quieter. Sadder.

Why did it sound like goodbye?

---

Later: The Goodbye

They wandered the alleys together, ducking past stalls and laughing over fried lotus chips. She made him barter for candied plums. He carried her paper lantern like a reluctant servant.

“You still haven’t told me your name,” she said.

He only smiled faintly. “Names are dangerous.”

“Fine. I’ll name you. You look like a Lantern.”

“A Lantern?”

“Because you don’t shine much, but I feel less lost when you’re around.”

He didn’t answer.

Midnight bells rang through the capital. The lanterns began to dim.

Lian sighed. “I wish I met you sooner.”

He looked away, the shadow of memory passing over his features. “You did.”

She laughed. “What?”

But he only turned slightly, bowing his head.

“Good night, Princess.”

She froze.

Her heart skipped.

She hadn’t told him she was a princess.

Before she could ask—before she could turn her thoughts into words—he was gone, vanished into the mist and crowd like a phantom.

And the next day, when the envoy arrived in black and red banners, and the masked King Zhao Rui stepped into the throne hall…

She would see those eyes again.

And realize who she had already given her last night of freedom to.

- - -