‎Early spring in the capital city of the Eastern Wei Dynasty was quiet and cold. The imperial gardens had not yet thawed from winter’s breath, and the plum blossoms—resilient and pale—bloomed defiantly against the grey sky.

‎

‎Lady Xu Qingyan, daughter of Minister Xu, stepped out from the path of her attendants and into the winding plum grove. She wasn’t supposed to be here. After offering her seasonal respects to the Empress Dowager, she should have returned to her carriage, like any obedient daughter of the court. But the suffocating scent of incense and flattery had driven her elsewhere.

‎

‎She wandered deeper, her silk cloak trailing lightly across the stone path. The grove was nearly silent, save for the wind threading through the branches—and the distant sound of a blade slicing air.

‎

‎She paused. There, beneath an ancient plum tree, stood a young man in dark robes, a sword in his hand. He moved with elegant precision—each motion sharp, measured, as if every strike had a purpose. No wasted flourish. No vanity.

‎

‎He didn’t notice her at first. Or perhaps he did, but simply didn’t care.

‎

‎Only when he finished his final stroke and resheathed the blade did he turn his head, the silver edge of his gaze brushing her like cold steel.

‎

‎“You shouldn’t be here,” he said.

‎

‎His voice was low, quiet. Not threatening, but not inviting either.

‎

‎“I could say the same of you,” Qingyan replied calmly, lifting her chin. “This grove is closed to the guards.”

‎

‎“I’m not a guard,” he said.

‎

‎He stepped fully into view then. His face was pale, angular—beautiful, but distant. A scar, faint and clean, crossed the left side of his jaw, and his eyes were like still water under ice: reflective, unreadable.

‎

‎Qingyan frowned slightly. She’d seen many sons of noble families, but none who dressed like this—plain robes, travel-worn boots, and no crest upon his chest. And yet… something about him felt powerful. Dangerous, even.

‎

‎“Then who are you?”

‎

‎He didn’t answer immediately. For a moment, she thought he wouldn’t. But then he said, without expression, “Jin Zhenyu.”

‎

‎The name struck a chord. Jin—like Prime Minister Jin, the Iron Serpent of the court. But that man had only one son: the brilliant, cruel young master Jin Yuanzhao.

‎

‎She studied him. “You’re his son?”

‎

‎A pause. “Not the one people speak of.”

‎

‎Ah. An illegitimate son.

‎

‎It explained the absence of a crest. The lack of ceremony. The scar. Yet even without the protection of a name, he carried himself like someone no one dared touch.

‎

‎“You fight well,” she said.

‎

‎He turned his back to her. “I fight because I have to.”

‎

‎That made her smile—small, intrigued. “A lonely answer.”

‎

‎“I don’t need company,” he said without turning.

‎

‎“And yet, fate brings us both here,” Qingyan mused. “Beneath the plum trees, no less. Perhaps the blossoms have a different plan.”

‎

‎He looked over his shoulder at her. This time, something flickered in his gaze—just for a second. Recognition, perhaps. Or interest.

‎

‎“Then the blossoms are mistaken,” he said.

‎

‎A faint call echoed through the trees—her maidservant, calling anxiously.

‎

‎Qingyan gave him one last look, then turned away. “We’ll see.”

‎

‎As she disappeared down the path, Jin Zhenyu stood beneath the tree, the scent of plum blossoms lingering on the cold air.

‎

‎He did not believe in fate.

‎

‎But something about the girl in white silk unsettled him—like a thread had just been pulled in a tapestry he thought was finished.

‎

‎

‎---

‎

‎End of Chapter One

‎The lanterns of the Grand Banquet Hall glowed like amber stars, suspended from lacquered beams carved with phoenixes and dragons. The Spring Rite Gathering, held in honor of the Emperor’s birthday, was a theater of silken smiles and sharpened words. Nobles, officials, scholars, and their offspring all gathered to display elegance, loyalty—and ambition.

‎

‎Xu Qingyan stood near the edge of the hall, dressed in soft blue silk embroidered with silver cranes. Her posture was graceful, her hair adorned with jade and pearls, but her mind was elsewhere. She watched the glittering crowd with the quiet gaze of someone who had already seen through most of it.

‎

‎“Do you see Minister Wang’s daughter?” whispered a noblewoman nearby. “Already positioning herself near Lord Jin.”

‎

‎“And Xu Qingyan?” another voice murmured. “So poised. A beauty, yes—but too clever, I’ve heard. Perhaps not a wife men can control.”

‎

‎Qingyan smiled faintly to herself. Their whispers barely stirred her. She had learned long ago that in a room like this, to be underestimated was often more useful than being admired.

‎

‎Then the chamber shifted—just subtly. A murmur passed through the crowd.

‎

‎She followed the glances and saw him.

‎

‎Jin Zhenyu.

‎

‎He entered alone, dressed in deep charcoal robes with no family crest, no entourage. There was nothing overtly noble in his appearance, yet nobles and military men alike stepped aside as he passed. They didn’t greet him. They didn’t mock him either.

‎

‎They weren’t sure how to treat him.

‎

‎“He’s the Prime Minister’s bastard, isn’t he?” someone whispered near Qingyan. “They say he served on the northern border for six years… barely sixteen when he was sent out.”

‎

‎“And they say he killed a rebel commander with a single strike.”

‎

‎“He shouldn’t even be here,” someone scoffed.

‎

‎And yet he was.

‎

‎Qingyan watched him take a place near the lower seats—not with the heirs of noble houses, nor with the guards. Somewhere in between.

‎

‎She took her cup of plum wine and crossed the floor.

‎

‎He saw her coming but said nothing. Only his eyes shifted, watching.

‎

‎“Didn’t expect to see you here,” she said, standing beside him without asking permission.

‎

‎“I could say the same.”

‎

‎“You belong here more than most of them,” she said lightly, sipping her wine. “At least you’ve done something.”

‎

‎He glanced at her, one brow raised. “Flattery? I thought you above that.”

‎

‎“I don’t flatter,” she replied. “I observe.”

‎

‎Their gazes held for a beat too long.

‎

‎From across the hall, Jin Yuanzhao, the Prime Minister’s legitimate son, watched them with narrowed eyes. Regal in golden robes, he laughed with his companions, but his smile was forced. He raised his cup, loudly.

‎

‎“To the Emperor’s loyal sons! And to those… who remember their place.”

‎

‎Some laughed. Others looked away.

‎

‎Jin Zhenyu said nothing.

‎

‎Xu Qingyan placed her cup down and leaned in slightly. “It seems your brother doesn’t like competition.”

‎

‎Zhenyu’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “He doesn’t like shadows that move.”

‎

‎“And yet, shadows are the only things that survive when light fades.”

‎

‎He looked at her then—really looked. There was something in her expression: cleverness, courage, maybe even… defiance.

‎

‎“You should leave me alone,” he said. “There’s nothing to gain from standing too close to a stain.”

‎

‎She tilted her head. “And yet here I am.”

‎

‎Before he could reply, the court musicians began their next piece, and the Emperor’s inner court arrived, drawing all attention toward the raised dais. Qingyan stepped back, her presence like the brush of silk on his sleeve—brief, but lingering.

‎

‎As she rejoined her father’s side, Jin Zhenyu returned to his seat, silent and still.

‎

‎But something had changed.

‎

‎For the second time, she had spoken to him without fear.

‎

‎And for the first time in years, he realized that someone wasn’t trying to use his name for humiliation… but see past it.

‎

‎

‎---

‎

‎End of Chapter Two

‎

‎The final performance had just ended—dancers in peony robes retreating like petals in the wind—when the tension in the room shifted once again.

‎

‎Jin Yuanzhao stood with a cup of wine in hand, golden robes gleaming in the lanternlight. His smile was sharp, his eyes colder than the early spring wind.

‎

‎“My lords,” he began, raising his voice just enough to draw the attention of nearby guests. “It seems this year’s gathering is truly generous in spirit. Even those who were once exiled to the border are now welcomed among nobles and scholars. How… inclusive of His Majesty’s court.”

‎

‎Laughter rippled through the nearby guests—polished, empty, nervous.

‎

‎Jin Zhenyu, seated off to the side, remained motionless, head lowered slightly, as if the insult had passed through him without touching bone.

‎

‎But Qingyan saw it—the stillness that came not from weakness, but restraint. A blade held back, just barely.

‎

‎Yuanzhao stepped closer. “Tell me, brother—what title should we greet you with this year? 'Son of a maid'? 'Minister’s mistake'? Or simply ‘the forgotten shadow’?”

‎

‎The room grew quieter. Whispers buzzed like insects. No one moved.

‎

‎Zhenyu finally stood.

‎

‎He met Yuanzhao’s gaze calmly, his tone flat. “You speak a great deal for someone so frightened of silence.”

‎

‎Yuanzhao’s smile froze.

‎

‎Qingyan took a step forward before she realized it. Her voice rang out clearly, slicing through the tension like silk over steel.

‎

‎“Young Master Jin,” she said, addressing Yuanzhao with formal precision. “It surprises me that someone raised in the capital lacks the grace to behave properly in front of the Emperor’s table.”

‎

‎Yuanzhao turned sharply. “Lady Xu, this matter does not concern—”

‎

‎“But it does,” she said, stepping between the brothers. “You insult a guest at a formal court banquet. You disrupt an imperial gathering with personal grievances. If you were anyone but the Prime Minister’s son, you would have been escorted out already.”

‎

‎Gasps spread through the hall. Eyes turned. Some in awe. Others in disbelief.

‎

‎Yuanzhao’s face darkened. “You dare speak to me like this?”

‎

‎“I do,” Qingyan replied evenly. “Because someone must.”

‎

‎For a long moment, no one spoke. Zhenyu stood silent behind her, unreadable.

‎

‎Then, from the dais, a low voice echoed:

‎

‎“That is enough.”

‎

‎It was the Emperor’s Chief Eunuch, speaking on behalf of the aging ruler. His voice held the quiet weight of finality.

‎

‎“This is a gathering of harmony. Those who forget themselves may take their quarrels outside the palace gates.”

‎

‎Yuanzhao bowed stiffly and retreated a step, fury hidden behind a thin smile. “As His Majesty commands.”

‎

‎The tension loosened—but not completely.

‎

‎Qingyan turned slightly, her voice dropping low enough only Zhenyu could hear.

‎

‎“You could have humiliated him yourself. Why didn’t you?”

‎

‎He looked at her for a long moment, then replied:

‎

‎“Because I’ve already seen how petty power ruins men. I don’t care to become one.”

‎

‎She met his gaze.

‎

‎“Then let others speak when you choose silence.”

‎

‎He didn’t thank her. He didn’t bow. But his eyes, cold and distant before, now held something else.

‎

‎Recognition. Respect. And perhaps… the beginning of something deeper.

‎

‎As the musicians resumed, and laughter returned to the room, a quiet understanding passed between them.

‎

‎In this world of names and shadows, alliances were rarely forged in declarations.

‎

‎Sometimes, they began with silence—and a single voice willing to break it.

‎

‎

‎---

‎

‎End of Chapter Three