The Last Night of Freedom

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.”