Chapter One — The Night of Departure

In the heart of Jincheng, where golden eaves caught the last light of the setting sun, the imperial palace stood in serene majesty. Pavilions cast long shadows over lotus ponds; the faint fragrance of sandalwood drifted from the Hall of Radiance. To the world, it was a realm of order and beauty — but within Princess Li Xinyue’s chambers, the air was thick with the weight of an unwanted decree.

Earlier that day, her father, His Majesty Emperor Li Yuan, had summoned her to the Jade Throne Hall. Surrounded by ministers and court ladies, the decree was read aloud by the Grand Eunuch:

“By the will of Heaven, our cherished daughter, Princess of Jincheng, shall be wed to the Second Prince of the Tuokhani Clan of Xinbei, in the month of first frost, to strengthen the bonds between the Empire and the northern steppe.”

Xinyue had knelt, her forehead pressing to the cold jade tiles, her voice steady as she answered, “I obey.” Yet behind lowered lashes, her heart churned. She had never laid eyes upon this Second Prince, only heard of his victories on the battlefield and the wolf banners of his people. Marriage to a stranger from the nomadic north was a fate she could not — would not — accept.

For two nights she slept little, staring at the lattice windows where moonlight fell in pale squares, listening to the rustle of wind through the pines. And on the eve of the third night, she made her decision.

The plan was simple, though the risk was great. Two days before she was to leave for the Imperial Palace of Xinbei — Tengri Fortress, as the nomads called it — she would vanish from the capital. Disappear into the north, to the safety of her mother’s younger brother, General Shen Shucheng, commander of the Northern Border Garrison.

It was Xiaohua, her loyal maid since childhood, who first whispered the possibility.

“Your Highness,” she murmured as she brushed out Xinyue’s hair by candlelight, “if we leave tonight, under the cover of the guard’s shift change, we might reach the city gates before dawn. Once outside the capital, no one will dare stop us on the main trade road.”

Xinyue’s gaze flickered to the bronze mirror. In it, she saw not a princess, but a girl cornered by fate.

“And when the gate guards ask for our pass?” she asked quietly.

“I have thought of that.” Xiaohua glanced toward a bundle hidden beneath her bed. “You will not be the Princess of Jincheng tonight. You will be Lady Wen Rou of the Wen Household in the West Quarter — a noblewoman gravely ill, sent to the countryside to ‘recuperate.’ The guards will not question the word of a respected family.”

Xinyue considered it. The disguise was not perfect, but desperation left no room for perfection.

By the time the palace lanterns were dimmed and the night watch beat their drums twice, the two were ready. Xinyue had shed her silks for a plain indigo cloak, her hair bound in a modest knot beneath a woolen hood. A touch of rice powder paled her cheeks, and a careful smear of grey ink beneath her eyes gave the illusion of long illness. Xiaohua carried their bundle: a change of clothes, a few pieces of silver, and a sealed letter for General Shen.

The corridor beyond her quarters was empty, the guards at the corner changing shift — one yawning, the other adjusting his halberd. They slipped into the shadow of the covered walkway, their footsteps muffled on the wooden planks.

Every heartbeat felt louder than the night wind.

They reached the lesser gate of the palace compound, where the wall met the servants’ quarters. A sleepy guard squinted at them through the gloom.

“Your pass?”

Xiaohua stepped forward, lowering her head respectfully. “This is Lady Wen Rou of the West Quarter. Her health worsened these past nights, and the imperial physicians advised rest beyond the city’s damp air. We beg your leniency, Officer.”

The guard hesitated, his eyes moving to Xinyue. Beneath her hood, she let out a shallow cough, her shoulders trembling. The guard frowned, perhaps uneasy at the thought of standing too close to sickness.

He took the folded pass Xiaohua presented — a borrowed token from a sympathetic palace steward — and, after a cursory glance, waved them through. “Go on. May the Heavens grant you swift recovery, my lady.”

The capital gates loomed ahead, their massive bronze hinges glinting under the watchtowers’ torchlight. At night, they opened only for special permission, and always under guard. Here was the final barrier.

They approached slowly, the chill of the midnight air sharp against their faces. Two soldiers stood at attention, halberds crossed.

“State your name and business,” one barked.

Xiaohua bowed again, repeating the story. The soldier examined their pass under the flickering torch. “Lady Wen Rou…” he muttered, “I’ve heard the Wen family’s daughter has been ailing for years.”

Xinyue gave another cough, weaker this time, her breath coming in short gasps. Her eyes glistened faintly in the torchlight — not from acting, but from the cold biting into her lungs.

The soldier exchanged a glance with his comrade, then lifted the halberd. “Very well. The night road is dangerous. Stay close to the patrol if you can.”

The gates creaked open, revealing the dark expanse of the northern road, the stars spilling like frost over the endless plain.

Xinyue tightened her cloak, one hand resting against her heart. Beyond those gates lay uncertainty, danger — and freedom.

Without looking back, she stepped into the night.

Far from the Capital, in the humble farming village of Shuixi, Lin Qiaoyun gripped the edge of the wooden window frame, listening to the drunken laughter outside. The flickering lamplight from the main hall cast her stepmother’s shadow across the courtyard, tall and predatory.

Her father had been dead for years, leaving her in the care of a woman whose greed was matched only by her cruelty. Tonight, the stepmother celebrated the bargain she had struck: selling Qiaoyun as the tenth concubine of an aging county official — a man infamous for wine, gambling, and the ruin of young women.

Qiaoyun’s protests had been met with a locked door and threats. The wedding robe — red silk embroidered with gold — lay folded on the table like a shroud.

Her heart pounded. She had heard tales of the North since childhood — lands of open skies, markets filled with foreign spices, and fierce horsemen. She had promised herself, one day, she would see it.

That day had to be tonight.

When the guards her stepmother had hired dozed off in the courtyard, Qiaoyun tied her meager belongings in a bundle and slipped out through the goat pen. She barely reached the outskirts when a sharp whistle split the night — the alarm was raised.

Men with clubs and torches surged after her, shouting orders to capture her alive. She fled into the dark fields, the soil still damp from the day’s rain, the tall reeds slicing at her arms.

A hand caught her sleeve; she wrenched free, tearing the cloth. One man lunged, but she flung a fistful of dirt into his eyes and darted toward the forest. The shouts grew fainter as she plunged deeper, her breath ragged, until only the wind and the creak of branches remained.

By dawn, she was on the northern road — bruised, scratched, but free.

Two women, unknown to each other, now traveled toward the same horizon.

One in a hired carriage with a guarded heart, fleeing duty.

One on foot with a torn sleeve, fleeing ruin.

Neither knew that their paths would soon cross — and that the North would change both their lives forever.

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