Chapter 11
Third Grand Prince Hongshi~
Dove trees, heavy with heart-shaped leaves and clusters of red blossoms, surrounded the gazebo at the heart of the imperial garden. Blooming wisteria draped the covered walkways, its lilac flowers hanging in fragrant cascades. “Hong’er,” my mother teased in a laugh like tinkling silver bells that hasn’t changed since I was a child, “of all things to do on your birthday, you choose to fly kites with your mother. Even now, you’re nothing but a child at heart.”
Her tone was light and playful as she smiled at me and the kite. Against the clear blue sky, the bright paper carp danced on the wind, its tail streaming behind like a living dragon. It climbed higher and higher, floating above the palace grounds, its shadow drifting over the green lawns and many golden rooftops. The kite tugged at the string in my hands, pulling away from me in defiance. I tightened my grip as it soared above the red palace walls that should have been mine.
The day I was born, there was an auspicious sign that foretold of my greatness. I might have been regarded as the most remarkable ruler this empire had ever seen, eclipsing all my predecessors—a formidable golden dragon akin to the one rumored to dwell in the Immortal Kunlun mountains. Invincible, yet I remained unnoticed because of three words: Don’t stand out.
I’ve heard those three words from my mother a thousand, countless times, enough to be etched in my mind like a mantra. As the third son of the emperor, born to his fifth wife, blending in shouldn’t have been an issue. It should have been easy for me, quieter and less noticeable than the Crown Prince and Prince Zhiming, both legitimate sons of the late empress but surpassing both of my older brothers became second nature, and keeping a low profile became impossible, like asking a bird not to fly or the sun not to rise.
I differed significantly from my siblings from a young age. I immersed myself entirely in the classics, committing every word to memory, learning them so well that the very ink seemed to flow in my veins and define my spirit. I became proficient in the elaborate style of poetry, penning poems that spoke to the union of earth and sky, and writing analects that conveyed wisdom, filial piety, unity, and purpose. I studied our rich history with great diligence, absorbing the lessons of those who came before as if my forefathers had directly whispered them into my ears. I mastered the art of calligraphy and painting, each stroke as precise as the schemes of the imperial court and full of the same subtlety and grace.
My brothers, in contrast, would often doze off or whisper to each other about this courtesan or that maid, pretending to pay attention during lessons with a feigned interest that fooled no one. They snickered as they mocked me, jeering that I was destined for a life of books and scrolls, claiming I was fated to be a feeble scholarly type who would have many broken bones from falling off my horse.
Unbeknownst to them, when not hunched over my desk, I trained in secret and excelled in the mastery of horseback riding and martial arts. I practiced the skill of archery until the bow felt like an extension of my body. Each of these athletic pursuits came naturally to me, and I outshone my boorish, often uncultured older brothers like a comet blazing in the sky. With every competition we entered, my aptitude would have overshadowed my brothers’ talents, which would have fizzled like fireworks extinguished underwater. Still, I downplayed my accomplishments, keeping them hidden like jewels buried in the ground so as not to stand out.
During the annual spring and fall hunts, when the court watched eagerly to see its princes display their skill, I would deliberately concede and allow my older brothers to hit the targets, watching them bumble with their bows so that they could claim the momentary glory for themselves.
While others saw this as my shortcoming, I was unbothered by giving up the attention. Despite their many imperfections—and perhaps precisely because of them—I loved my brothers, even if I often appeared only in the shadows of their accomplishments. I let them be the first to run to our father’s favors with their tales of triumphs, praises tumbling from their lips like water from a pot with too many holes to contain it all, even as they left me with only scraps. I let them have the place by his side that they so obviously needed.
Perhaps this was why my mother and I never had backing because the others in the court mistook my avoidance of the spotlight for weakness and submission. Still, I didn’t stand out to protect my mother and myself from the harem intrigue by not threatening any of my other brothers. Even when I chose the woman I wanted to marry, I intentionally took someone without power, family, or wealth, but I cherished her with all my heart.
Feng Bingqing, the youngest daughter of a minor clerk, was dismissed in the initial round of harem selection. While my brothers were unaware of her, she meant the world to me, like sunlight to a sapling that had long been cast in shadow. Aware of the risks of revealing my feelings to my family, I secretly wed her. We consummated our marriage without seeking my royal father’s approval, hoping he would understand and grant my sole request. However, I was mistaken. As a punishment for my defiance, my father gave her to my eldest brother, who claimed her on their first night together, despite her carrying my child. She, eight and a half months later, bore a living prince after the Empress’s three stillborn sons and was elevated to the position of my brother’s Noble Consort Feng.
Fourteen years have passed since then. I’ve since married the Minister of Households’ daughter, and we have three children—two daughters and a son. But the anguish of watching my spouse, the only woman I’ve ever loved, serve my brother, the brother who’s raising my son, Fifth Prince, Chén Xīng, as his own, burns within me. Only my son’s ascension to the Dragon Throne will extinguish it.
A birdcall snaps me back to the present. I slip my ring’s edge around the kite string and let it drift away. “Aya, the wind has shifted. Mother, I’ll return shortly.” Ignoring her suggestion for a servant to fetch the kite, I leave the gardens for the palace grounds.
Along the path, a procession of harem ladies approaches. The Empress wears a red silk dress embroidered with gold dragons; the Noble Consort Feng follows in pink brocade adorned with silver lotus patterns; the lower ranks trail in blues and greens.
“Third Prince greets the Empress and Noble Consort,” I intone. “I flew a kite with the Dowager Empress, but today’s wind proved a thief.” Just as I say this, nature becomes my collaborator when a powerful gust of wind blows through the pathway, showering petals from the nearby garden.
The Empress raises her handkerchief to her face, eyebrows knit in disapproval, as if the spiraling winds were an affront to her dignity and had shown great impudence by disturbing her peaceful excursion across the garden path. She looks at the sky with disdain, vexation causing her eyes to roll high into her head.
“Perhaps we have walked enough and should join the Empress Dowager, so she’s not alone. Happy Birthday, Grand Prince.” Her tone drips with resentment—she still deems me unworthy despite my rank. The group passes me, save for Noble Consort Feng, who pauses and lets an earring slip to the ground. After a cursory glance, she hurries after the others.
I wait just enough to make it seem natural, then call out, “Please wait. Has someone lost an earring?” All the women pat their ears and then laugh at flustered Noble Consort Feng. They make light of her negligence and chide her for being so careless. I can only imagine how resourceful they would think her if they knew the earring was left not by accident, but as a means necessary for us to talk without raising suspicions.
Noble Consort Feng blushes deeply, her fair skin turning so vivid and crimson that it rivals the hues of a summer peach ripening in the sun. She hesitates for a moment, seemingly unsure of her next move, then makes her way back to me, taking careful, delicate steps as she moves gracefully across the stone path, as if treading on thin ice. The other women look on, their eyes gleaming like hawks, eager for any sign of weakness or anything at all, relishing the opportunity to witness an awkward exchange that would be gossip-worthy.
I hold out her earring, its beauty a silent bond between us, then let it fall and crush it beneath my feet. Feng gasps; I feign surprise. “What a pity—broken,” I announce distinctly. Kneeling, I examine the fragments without meeting her eyes and murmur, “Emperor brother hides a son in Tiger Mountain’s temple. Through Marquis Sui, he’s funded it for years. Zhiming protects the child. Princess Xingyu of the former dynasty was there too; I doubt she recognized him.”
Loud enough for the others to hear, Noble Consort Feng frets over the ruined gift, but I whisper back, “Don’t worry. Prince Chén Xīng’s claim to the throne will not be challenged.”
We exchange a charged glance. Countless emotions flow between us before I step away. “Excuse me—my kite awaits.” As I walk off, I add softly, “All will die, and the temple will burn. Princess Xingyu will be blamed for vengeance on her fallen house when the Emperor learns of its destruction.”
Ruilin~
“Let’s go back! It’s starting to rain.” The patter of early drops nearly swallows my voice. The sky overhead is no longer soft dawn blue, but a bruised canvas of swirling slate clouds roiling with unspent fury. As larger plumper beads of rain plunge earthward, a sudden flurry of motion erupts along the riverbank.
Ya Qi springs into action. Her skirts billow as she darts forward. Whisking both washed and unwashed garments into an expansive, wobbling bamboo basket strapped unevenly to her hip. The greenish-brown bamboo creaks under the weight. Around her, other temple novices—slender girls in pale robes—scurry like startled birds. Their laughter and shrieks of alarm tangle with the drumroll of distant thunder as they sprint for the temple.
“Don’t stay out here!” Ya Qi shouts, rain plastering her ebony hair to her forehead. Her dark eyes flash with concern. “You’re not well yet! You’ll catch your death of a cold.” She gestures sharply, urging me to follow—the urgency in her voice as biting as the wind-driven droplets.
But my gaze is fixed on Yi Nuo. There she crouches at the water’s edge, shoulders hunched, unperturbed by the downpour. The river’s current glows murky gray in the low light; pearls of rain disturb its surface in concentric rings. Yi Nuo’s sleeves are soaked through, heavy fabric clinging to her arms. She works methodically: dipping a filthy garment into the swirling water, rubbing and kneading the cloth with fierce concentration, then flipping it over with steady hands in an unbroken rhythm. Not a muscle in her slender frame loosens, as if she fears pausing would undo every stroke.
“We can’t leave her!” I call, my voice thin against the patter of rain.
Ya Qi throws her hands skyward, droplets cascading from her fingertips. “She won’t stop,” she mutters, half exasperated, half resigned. “Yi Nuo is obsessive. If you wait, you’ll be drenched through and through. Come on—please, don’t risk yourself.”
My heart tightens. Something in Yi Nuo’s single-minded devotion tugs at me. Raindrops kiss her pale cheeks, her dark lashes dripping water onto her still-firm jaw. I know she won’t budge. Swallowing my reluctance, I call back, “Go on ahead. We’ll catch you up!”
I force a shrug. I scratch at the nape of my neck, where a faint fever still lingers. Then I turn and sprint back to the riverbank. Each step sloshes through shallow puddles, sending spray onto stone slabs. “Yi Nuo, come on! It’s pointless to wash in the rain. The temple’s overhang is just up the path—you can finish later.”
The downpour intensifies—a silver curtain shredding the world into blurry shapes. Lightning forks through the sky, white-hot and jagged, followed by a roar of thunder that rattles my ribs. Rain streaks down Yi Nuo’s face, her hair plastered in damp black ribbons. Her white dress clings to her form, translucent with water, weight pulling her toward the ground. Still, she does not pause. Her slender hands plunge into the mixture of ash and crushed seashells, creating soapy suds that scrub with unwavering focus, as though the surrounding tempest is nothing more than background noise.
“Why are you so stubborn?!” I scream, crouching beside her to shield her with the woolen blanket. She grips it in one hand and yanks, nearly dragging me forward. The slick stones betray her footing—her foot slides, and she pitches backward—instinct flares. I channel my Phoenix magic, a quick pulse of warm energy that cushions her fall. Wet fabric fades to blackness in her wide, startled eyes.
Something flashes behind her suspicion, but quickly she steels herself and turns a glare on me. I force a smile through the rain mist. “Remarkable coordination,” I pant. “I would’ve tumbled like a clumsy calf, but you are impressive. I guess all that stone chasing with Master Zhiming works.”
A thrill shivers through me: my magic has returned at last. Home beckons. I have folded paper swans with Princess Changying’s messages waiting for me. If I slip away now—vanish from under the temple eaves—I can avoid the fuss, the anxious fussing of everyone who’s nursed me back from weakness, keeping me from leaving, and my heart thuds with the promise of freedom.
“Fine, if you insist,” I call to her, more overland than out loud. “I’m going on ahead. You take your time.”
But she calls after me, voice clear despite the storm’s fury: “You’re going the wrong way! And if you run off, I’ll be punished. They won’t let me speak again until I’m forty!”
There’s not much I’m weak to other than seeing girls cry and guilt. Guilt will stay with me for decades and haunt me, and I do owe Yi Nuo a life debt.
Even as guilt prickles at my spine, I pause until two simple sentences reveal a window into her soul. She replies, “This is the only time I get to leave and be outside the temple walls.”
She values these stolen moments by the river more than anything. Her narrow world is bound by temple walls—this muddy bank, the rushing water—nowhere else. I cannot rob her of this solace.
I lower the blanket over her shoulders, using my body as a tent. We remain crouched in the rain for another two hours until her last piece of laundry is as clean as it can ever be in a storm. The slate clouds finally break; rain tapers to a soft mist. Our clothes are soaked, sticking to us like leeches, dripping rivulets onto the stone path. We follow back to the temple where a dozen massive horses stand in the courtyard, their silken coats dark and gleaming like wet ink. Their pinprick nostrils flare, catching the scent of fear, blood, and sweat. I freeze—no parade of gilded carriages like the one used by Ya Qi’s father—only these battle-trained mounts, restless and imposing as war machines. The air is heavy with metallic tang and the dank odor of horses heated from hard labor.
Master Zhiming lies on the flagstones, wrists bound by once-pure cloth now dark with dried blood. A gash on his temple seeps red crescents that drip onto his tattered robe. A tall warrior with cold, iron-gray eyes presses the flat of his sword at Zhiming’s throat, breathing hard. “Where is he? Where is the emperor’s son?” he demands, voice low and dangerous.
Zhiming lifts his head, face smudged with grime and sweat. He spits a defiant curse. “Brother, do you not fear the heavens? The only blood you’ll find is that of the nuns your soldiers butchered. This sacred temple holds no prince.”
There is a charged silence. Then the torturer’s fist arcs through the air, crushing Zhiming’s nose with a sickening crack. He falls backward in a sprawl, gurgling. Blood bubbles from broken nostrils, painting the stone a devilish red.
The sword-holding man moves forward. A predatory smile curls at the edges of his lips. The blade tilts downward, slicing just beneath Zhiming’s Adam’s apple. A thin ribbon of blood seeps, glistening like tiny rubies. His rasping whisper carries across the courtyard: “One more time, brother—tell me, or this ends now.”
Master Zhiming’s voice, a low, gravelly rasp, compels the man to lean closer, his breath hot on Zhiming’s face, only to receive a sudden, stinging spray of spittle. Fury ignites in the man’s gaze; with a brutal lunge of his knuckle, he stabs a finger into Zhiming’s right eye socket, tearing flesh and bone with a wet, macabre rip. Zhiming’s scream, raw and anguished, splits my chest in two.
When Yi Nuo, who is beside me, lets out a piercing wail, dropping her basket, all the soldiers turn our way. “No, Yi Nuo, run! Run!” Master Zhiming’s voice, raw with terror, cracked like thunder across the silent courtyard. The chilling rasp of his breath preceded the sudden, brutal lunge; a blind, desperate attack on his brother that catches him by the side of his neck. Screams fill the air. Warm blood spurted, a crimson fountain against the pale stone, as teeth sank into flesh. The sickening *rip* of a tearing artery makes my legs weak.
Chaos bursts. Both men fall. Blood sprays, drenching pale stone in crimsons. Her body trembles like a fragile bird caught in a storm, her eyes wide with terror. I fling myself toward Yi Nuo, but panic tethers her to the spot. Her small body goes slack; she collapses to her knees, her body curling up in shock, rendering her immobile.
I grit my teeth and kneel, pressing both hands to her shoulders. “ No matter what you see, you must trust me!” I urge, voice muffled by urgency. “Pretty Boy will protect you. Hold on to me tight and don’t let go!” In one swift motion, I lift her onto my back. Her slender arms lock around my neck, and though her breaths come fast and shallow, she does not slip.
My magic flares along my arms, bright as phosphorescent embers, warming me from the inside out. Feathers of living flame erupt around me, and with a crackle of power, I shift—bones and sinew reshaping, luminous plumage unfurling. Soaring through embers and song, I carry Yi Nuo above the courtyard, strewn with the fallen nuns. Below, the soldiers cower as we soar past, piercing the veil between worlds, escaping to the Phoenix realm’s safety.
Ye Hua~
“I saw Seventeen. Maybe you should keep Bai Lianhua on a shorter leash—she’s ruthless whenever another woman from your past comes up. It is unfair treatment to someone who’s also the mother of your children.”
Hearing Mo Yuan’s voice again—after all these years in seclusion—should have stirred relief. Instead, my chest tightened. He’d come all this way to mention her name first, as if Qian Qian were the axis around which his world still turned.
I struggle to recall ever hearing him say her name like that. My brother calls her Shíqī, Seventeen, but this—this felt sly, almost sly enough to be deliberate. Did he slip and say shì qī—wife—by accident? The idea stung me with a jealous ache and a prickling shame: did I imagine it, or did I hear him call her his wife? My heart grows hot with questions I dare not ask.
“Qian… Bai… Qian.” I force the name out, bitter on my tongue like spoiled wine. Better to call her Bai Qian if it chafes her, yet it is unfamiliar and does not flow from my lips. “Qian Qian served me divorce papers at the Assembly.”
I taste the insult all over again: After not seeing her for fifty thousand years, that day at the Assembly, she had shone brighter than the sun, every pair of eyes on her, but the only thing I could see was the roll of parchment in Yingpei’s hand. I remember the silence that followed her words to me, the soft rustle of the delicate paper in my hand, the shock that hit me like a punch to the gut. I wonder if she saw how blindsided I looked, how terribly humbled I felt. I wonder if she cared. This is when I remind myself not to think about how she thinks, as this is no longer my role in her life.
Mo Yuan’s voice is steady: “It was for the children’s sake. Had the legitimacy of the older ones not been questioned, she wouldn’t have resorted to that.” His certainty gnaws at me—how easy it is for him to side with her, to analyze her actions as if he’s still safe from any of this fallout, and in truth, he is.
“Don’t take it personally, Ye Hua,” he says, as though my humiliation did not differ from a passing inconvenience.
I laugh—bitter and raw—because it’s effortless for him. He wasn’t the one who was served divorce papers in front of every realm. I want to shout at him, but I don’t. It’s simple for him to say that when he’s still married to her, according to Qingqui’s marital laws, something Yingpei was quick to bring up the other day. These days, I feel Yingpei is not on my side.
“Did you realize Qingqui, though a monogamous realm by law, allows a ruler, regardless of gender, to take multiple spouses purely to continue the White Nine-Tailed Fox line? Yingpei is the first male since his uncle, Bai Zhen, and Qian Qian is the last female born.” He nods, as if this justifies her actions. I was one of her husbands in her harem. Me in her harem feels sharp and wrong. My indignation clashes with a more profound, unsettling jealousy that is like a bitter pill to swallow.
“Bai Lianhua’s birthday is next week,” he says casually. “I’ll attend and stay the night.” I want to hate him for that, but also a part of me aches at the thought of him near her again. He came out of seclusion for her, but I can’t fault or resent him for this. I have remarried and moved on, while he has not.
“And did you hear she’s involved with Ghost Lord Li Peng? She requested that their quarters be adjacent for convenience. For convenience? Exactly what kind of convenience does she need?” My voice shakes, half in anger, half in disbelief.
Mo Yuan shakes his head and smiles that faint, knowing curve of his lips. “Not true, Ye Hua. How could you be so easily fooled? Li Peng isn’t good enough for her. Being close to him means he’ll get and keep her drunk.”
I force a laugh because I don’t know whether to be relieved or crushed. How can he still see through her—see something I can’t? And why does that hurt me more than anything?
Bai Qian~
“Xiao Wu, I may be a Phoenix, but I don’t appreciate being treated like a carrier pigeon or some errand boy for Mo Yuan! You know I’m not one to waste my energy,” he pouts with exaggerated flourishes of his sleeve. Zhe Yan tosses himself into a chair with great fanfare, dramatically throws his arm over the armrest with an air of grandiosity, and sighs as if the very breath is being sucked from his lungs.
He waves his other arm wildly as if fanning himself from the heat of a grueling endeavor, but it’s not exertion he speaks of next as he accuses, “Did you complain to Mo Yuan about Ye Hua giving his wife a zither on your date? Is that why I’m running around all the realms for him?”
“What?! No!” I laugh but feel guilt sneaking up to settle in my cheeks. They flush with the color of my secret, and I fan myself in a similar, playful fashion.
“It wasn’t a date, and I didn’t complain. I mean, not really. I may have mentioned in passing how generous Ye Hua is. That the beautiful zither was such an unusual gift, especially since Bai Lianhua doesn’t play.” Zhe Yan gives me a sideways glance that says he doesn’t trust either my words or my blush. I continue, “But I only mentioned it once. Really. Why?”
“Dense. Mo Yuan is beyond dense!” Zhe Yan rolls his eyes. He throws his hands skyward as if beseeching the heavens to grant the God of War some common sense, and he cries out, “That block of stone lacks any originality! I should knock some sense into him, and I will!”
His silky pink robe billows as he gracefully leaps to his feet, and with a wave of his hand, a glossy black instrument appears before me.
“If Ye Hua gifted his wife a zither,” Zhe Yan fumes, “then Mo Yuan should have given you a lute or a flute or anything rather than copying his younger brother. He’s blunt as a hammer and unimaginative as a blank canvas.” He crosses his arms over his chest, shakes his head, and presses his lips into a stubborn line. “What was I thinking, allowing him to do what he wants? He needs my gifting expertise!” He nods, satisfied with his conclusion. “I’ll take it back when I see him next. I’ll ram it up that thick dragon skull of his, and I’ll teach him how to one-up his younger brother!”
Despite myself, a smile unfurls across my lips like a curling vine. “He’s already one-upped Ye Hua,” I say softly, stepping closer to the instrument. The lacquered surface gleams with an otherworldly polish, every curve flawless. I pluck a single string; its note rings pure and crystalline. “This isn’t just any zither—it’s Shifu’s personal zither, one of his most treasured possessions.”
There’s a flicker to his gaze, and then a flicker to his mouth. It almost forms a smile, but he holds the expression back until I say, “Other than the children, the best two gifts I’ve ever received have been from Mo Yuan.” I trace a fingertip along the ebony body, savoring its smooth, cool feel. In a breath so soft I almost miss it, I murmur, “The Jade Purity fan… and now this. Has Mo Yuan always been this smooth?”
Zhe Yan throws his head back with a booming laugh, his eyes gleaming with mischief and challenge. “Oh Xiao Wu! You don’t have the faintest idea, little girl,” he declares with a sharp edge in his voice. “You can’t begin to fathom how many goddesses have been ensnared by Mo Yuan’s allure. Even if you think you know, you’re not even scratching the surface of the truth. If he decides to pursue you, struggle all you want, but you will be powerless to resist his allure, and he has loved you longer than you can imagine. Isn’t it time you see him as a man?”