Tragedy on the innocent

Step. Step. Step.

My slippers struck the stone path like quiet thunder, echoing against vermilion pillars carved with dragons. The crowd parted in slow waves, silk sleeves brushing against one another, jeweled hairpins trembling as whispers leapt from mouth to mouth.

Lantern light flickered across painted faces, yet none dared hold my gaze for long. Their murmurs clung to me like invisible threads, tightening with every step.

"I never thought I would stand in such a place," I breathed inwardly, heart pounding like a war drum beneath my silk robes. The air was thick with incense and destiny, as though even the heavens were watching.

The world tilted upward — past banners embroidered with golden phoenixes, past the looming eaves of the Forbidden Hall, until the stars themselves seemed to draw closer.

And then, in the silence between one heartbeat and the next, the truth whispered through my mind like a forbidden spell:

“A mistress of the Crown Prince.”

The words were mine, yet they felt as though they had been etched into me long before I was born.

The Grand Hall shimmered beneath a thousand lanterns, each flame trapped in carved crystal like captive stars. Golden dragons coiled along the pillars, their jeweled eyes glittering with silent menace. At the center, upon a dais of black jade, sat the imperial family — but the air itself bent around one figure.

The Crown Prince.

Though still only a prince, he bore the weight of an emperor. His robes were darker than midnight, threads of silver lightning stitched across them as though the heavens themselves dared not strike him. His eyes were sharp obsidian, unreadable, yet heavy enough to make even generals bow their heads in silence.

Every gaze in the hall — ministers, nobles, concubines, even the emperor himself — strayed toward him. Not because they wished to, but because they could not resist.

A single word from his lips was said to sway the fate of nations.

Cold. Untouchable. Terrifying.

And yet, behind that stillness, a storm waited — one that could shatter the world.

How could a man so handsome, so untouchable, be the very embodiment of every woman’s dream?

His jaw was carved like jade, his gaze sharper than any blade, his presence commanding as if the heavens themselves bent their will to him. Ministers trembled before him, warriors feared him, and yet women whispered of him in their silken chambers, longing for a glance that might never come.

But he was cold.

Cold as the winter that steals breath from the lungs. Dark as the midnight sea, where no light dares to linger. His silence was heavier than any threat, his words sharper than punishment.

And yet… of all men, it was he who bore a secret, hidden like a shadow beneath his crown.

The Crown Prince — the most powerful man in the world — had taken what none would have dared to imagine.

A mistress.

In the open fields beyond the village, where wildflowers swayed like waves of color, a child’s laughter rang out.

A little girl — no more than five — ran barefoot through the tall grass, her silk-red hair streaming behind her like a ribbon. The sunlight kissed her skin, soft as jade, and in that moment she seemed less like a child and more like a goddess who had descended to earth.

The wind bent to her joy, blossoms turned in her wake, and even the sparrows circled above as though drawn to her light.

So young, so pure… yet her presence carried something more. Something fated.

Her laughter faded into a curious hush.

Among the swaying grass, half-buried in the soil, something shimmered — faint at first, like a dying ember, then stronger, pulsing with an otherworldly glow.

The little girl’s eyes widened. She bent down, her tiny hands brushing the dirt away, and lifted it.

A stone — smooth, warm, and alive with light, as though a star had fallen into her grasp. Its glow painted her face in gold, making her look all the more unearthly, like a child touched by heaven itself.

The wind stilled. Even the sparrows above went silent.

As she cradled the stone against her chest, its light sank into her skin, vanishing as though it had chosen her.

She did not yet know what she held.

Clutching the glowing stone to her chest, the little girl laughed, her voice as bright as the morning bells. She darted through the fields, past the bamboo groves, her tiny feet barely touching the earth.

“Mother! Mother!” she called, her voice bubbling with excitement. “Look what I found!”

Her mother turned from the hearth, wiping flour from her hands, a tender smile already forming at the sight of her radiant child.

The little girl held up the stone, still faintly pulsing in her palms.

Joy burned in her eyes. Pride burned in her mother’s.

But neither saw the shadow that flickered across the threshold. Neither heard the silence that fell outside, too sudden, too sharp.

She thought it was only a stone.

She thought it was only a treasure to keep.

But that single moment, that innocent offering to her mother — was a mistake she would never forget.

At first, her mother only smiled. But as her gaze fell upon the stone, the warmth in her eyes froze into something sharper.

The glow of the rock pulsed faintly in her daughter’s small hands — a sacred light, rare beyond measure, said to carry the power of heavens themselves. Such stones could command armies. Such stones could buy the rise of dynasties, or the ruin of entire villages.

Her breath caught.

Her hands trembled.

Her smile… changed.

For in that instant, she no longer saw her little girl — laughing, barefoot, innocent.

She saw fortune. She saw power. She saw the key to a life beyond fields and hunger.

The light that had sunk into her daughter’s skin was priceless, untouchable, dangerous. And it did not fill her heart with pride, but with a hunger that burned like wildfire.

From that moment, the mother was no longer the same.

The gentle woman who once hummed lullabies by the hearth was gone, replaced by someone blinded — no, devoured — by greed.

And the little girl, though too young to understand it, would carry the weight of that change for the rest of her life.

It was on an ordinary afternoon, in what should have been a faithful game.

The girl, still bright with laughter, skipped home, clutching wildflowers in her little hands. But as she pushed open the wooden door, her steps faltered.

Three men stood in the room — broad, scarred barbarians with blades at their sides and hunger in their eyes. Their presence swallowed the small house whole, making the hearth feel like a cage.

She blinked, confused. “Mama…?”

Her gaze found her mother.

But instead of open arms and a warm smile, she was met with eyes colder than winter steel. Her mother’s face turned away, refusing her daughter’s searching gaze.

“Mum?… Mummy?” the child whispered, her voice trembling, desperate for the softness she once knew.

Silence.

Only silence.

Then, from the shadows, a dark, calloused hand reached out — massive, unrelenting.

Before she could cry out, it wrapped around her, lifting her from the earth.

Her flowers fell, scattered across the floor like broken stars, and darkness closed in around her.

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