Ye Hua
Ye Hua awoke to the sound of mortal sparrows chirping with all the decorum of palace gossips after a scandalous imperial feast. The creatures clearly had no reverence for divine suffering—especially the suffering of the Crown Prince of the Celestial Realm.
Sunlight ambushed the room through paper screens like an assassin with poor timing, illuminating dust motes that pirouetted with far more dignity than he could muster. His head felt like a cosmic joke—technically still attached to his divine shoulders, but pounding as if Grandfather Skylord’s entire percussion section had used his skull for rehearsal space without booking ahead.
His tongue resembled a neglected inkstone that even the most desperate calligraphy student would reject, and tasted suspiciously like he’d licked the bottom of Mo Yuan’s boots after a millennium of leading troops through the Great Eastern Desert—the driest, most unforgiving wasteland in all eight realms and four seas.
“Aya…” he groaned, rolling over—and froze mid-motion like a celestial portrait suddenly startled into animation.
This wasn’t his jade-scented sleeping chamber in the Nine Heavens. This was a mortal room.
Modest wooden beams. A faint aroma of jasmine tea and yesterday’s rain. A woven mat that had definitely never felt cloud-essence stuffing. And his head…was resting on something soft, warm, and smelling faintly of peaches.
His eyes fluttered open to find a sleeve of pale green silk, embroidered with floating plum blossoms. Slender fingers—pretty, elegant, and absolutely capable of snapping his immortal neck if provoked. A stray lock of midnight hair brushed porcelain skin smooth enough to make master potters renounce their craft in despair.
For a disoriented heartbeat, he wondered who could possibly — And then he saw her. Bai. Qian.
Of course it was her. Those fox-eyes that seemed to hoard every humiliating moment of his existence. She had witnessed his shame in the pond. She had endured his drunken speeches. She might have even seen him attempt to duel a street lamp.
He prayed to the Heavenly Father she had not.
The Nine-Tailed Fox Princess sat cross-legged at his side, a simple teacup balanced daintily in her hands. She had the serene posture of a scholar at an imperial examination—one who knew every answer and silently judged everyone else’s failure.
Her rosebud lips curved upward in the sort of smile a fox wears after stealing chickens from a proud rooster’s yard.
“Good morning, Your Most Celestial and Currently Disheveled Highness,” she chirped, bright as a thousand festival lanterns. She took a sip of tea with maddening dignity—like a person who distinctly remembered every absurd thing he had done last night because she hadn’t been the one drunk.
Ye Hua blinked. Even blinking hurt. His eye twitched—his divine brain scrambling like a terrified kitchen apprentice holding the emperor’s favorite dish after tripping on the stairs.
Wine.
Her bell-bright laughter.
Had he… accused her of enchanting him?
Did he… call himself devastatingly handsome?
Did he say his virtue was dense?
He winced. His soul winced.
“…Did I,” he croaked, “say anything that might require me to exile myself to a remote cave and meditate for the next eight millennia?”
Bai Qian tilted her head at a slow, elegant angle—her skin catching the lantern light, eyes gleaming with the unholy delight of a fox who had cornered a very embarrassed rabbit.
“Oh, nothing scandalous,” she mused sweetly. “Unless you count accusing me of luring you to a full-moon nude ceremony beneath silvered skies… and announcing that I emanate a glow.”
Ye Hua’s soul left his body, deciding reincarnation might be easier.
She put down her teacup, leaned in just enough for her perfume to torment him, and added softly. “And then you compared your… celestial endowments… to a divine dumpling.”
The Crown Prince of the Heavens died a silent, internal death. He jolted upright on the cushioned divan as if the sunlight itself had pricked him with a celestial needle, pressing trembling fingers to his temples. “I—what?”
Her lips arched into a cunning smile—sharp, knowing, vulpine. “Moreover, you proclaimed yourself a creature forged entirely of virtue, so weighty you could no longer float.”
“Please… no.” He buried his burning face in his palms. His ears—usually dignified—turned pink. “Please tell me I did not actually—”
“And,” she continued delicately, “you were kind enough to note my hair’s ‘impenetrable blackness,’ my laughter ‘a melody to the ears,’ and to declare—quite solemnly, I might add—that while my charms were ‘astonishingly potent,’ you remained impervious.” She paused, tilting her head thoughtfully. “Which was ironic, given you could barely sit upright.”
Ye Hua’s head dropped further into his hands and whimpered. “Lord Pu Hua, strike me down.”
“Shall I summon a thunderbolt?” she offered sweetly, blinking like an innocent lotus blossom.
Through the gaps between his fingers, both of his eyes flared in wounded protest. “This taunting is hardly befitting a princess. It is absolutely unkind—considering I am your boyfriend.”
Her teacup paused midway to her lips. One brow lifted with lazy delight. “Oh, it that so? Is this a formal declaration?”
His soul left his body a second time.
She let him suffer for precisely the length of three heartbeats before smiling again—slow, wicked. “Come. Let us go find the man with the mole shaped like Kunlun Mountain. Perhaps he has begun charging admission to behold his… rather… alpine landmark. I’d never tire of watching your impeccable composure unravel.”
He inhaled sharply through his nose and pinched it. “I am not unraveling.”
“Oh, but you nearly did last night.” Her voice dipped seductively low. “You insisted I was radiating light.”
“I was… inebriated.” He rubbed his forehead, groaning. “The mortal wine was clearly laced with sorcery.”
Then, narrowing his eyes—which immediately hurt, prompting a pathetic whimper—he asked, “Qian Qian… did you put a spell on the wine?”
She froze, lashes lowering in slow amusement. “Did you call me, Qian Qian?”
He swallowed. That alone was incriminating enough.
“Certainly,” she said airily, “perhaps a mischievous fox spirit with a phosphorescent glow was at work.”
His cheeks flamed crimson, dignity folding and losing shape like a paper fan caught in rain. “I would deeply appreciate your confidentiality on all matters discussed.”
“Rest assured.” she said, placing her fingers lightly on the teacup’s rim, “I will never reveal that the Celestial Crown Prince can’t hold his liquor.”
His eyes narrowed in outrage—and reluctant humor. “You’re savoring this far too much.”
“Only in measure,” she replied with a smile sharp enough to cut silk. “After all, it’s not every night I escort a tipsy dragon who lectures me on propriety.”
Ye Hua smoothed the folds of his robe with exaggerated dignity, as if re-aligning the silk might also restore his shattered composure. “This will not occur again.”
“Of course,” she murmured, unbothered as drifting petals. “Next time, we shall begin with stronger wine.”
His hand froze mid-motion, and his voice went up three octaves. “Next… time?”
She sipped calmly. “Mmm.”
Ye Hua’s shoulders slumped in surrender. He braced his elbows against his knees, palms pressing into his temples. His midnight hair, usually bound with regal precision, hung loose around his face like a silken curtain—still damp from his earlier attempt to cleanse himself with the water in the basin. He looked like an overworked scholar, one ink stroke away from madness.
“I’m… sorry about last night,” he finally managed, voice hoarse as wind scraping temple stone. “And the time before. I revealed more of myself than I should have.”
Bai Qian nursed her tea like a serene immortal who had never once lost control of her faculties. Morning light illuminated the jade hairpin nestled in her dark tresses, casting dancing reflections across the table. “That’s one way to describe it.”
He dragged a hand down his face. “My Third Uncle Lian Song… he told me everyone in Qingqiu swims nude.” A pained silence. “Along with other nonsense.”
“Oh?” she said, fluttering her lashes innocently.
“He also said”—Ye Hua grimaced, waving his hand as though banishing the words from existence—“that fox women do not wear undergarments beneath their silk robes. So on windy days, you must be careful of your dress. Isn’t that the most idiotic thing you’ve ever heard?”
Bai Qian blinked at him once. Twice. Then, in the serenest voice ever uttered by someone moments from committing emotional homicide, she said: “Well, that’s true. I don’t wear any undergarments under my peach blossom dress or any dresses. So on windy days, I do have to be careful.”
Time stopped.
Birdsong halted.
Wind paused.
Heaven froze.
Ye Hua’s pulse visibly jumped in his throat. His face drained to pure alabaster before flushing the deep, helpless red of a sunrise bleeding into snow.
“WHAT?” he breathed, horrified. “Oh no… no, that’s just… wonderful. Something else that will be branded into my brain forever.”
Bai Qian sipped her tea, lips curving into a bright smile. “Branded, you say?”
He lifted a shaking hand toward his teacup and missed it by a full inch, tapping the table like a blind man feeling for lost chopsticks. “I suddenly wish I had more wine. Perhaps an entire cask. Or ten.”
Her laughter—light and melodic—bloomed across the quiet room. It wasn’t merely sound; it sparkled. It danced in the air like silver chimes stirred by temple wind, each note bright enough to chase away shadows. And she was glowing again. Not metaphorically—literally. A soft halo of light shimmered around her, pale as moonlit mist and just as impossible to ignore. The morning sun filtering through the paper screens suddenly seemed dull and offended, robbed of its rightful grandeur by a single laughing princess.
Ye Hua stared at her, stricken. For the first time in his immortal life…he regretted being sober. He would rather have been unconscious—preferably for the remainder of eternity.
By the time they left the inn and began the walk back toward Qingqiu, Ye Hua’s headache had finally descended from “imminent death” to “regrettable, but survivable.”
The world outside was devastatingly picturesque, as though Qingqiu were determined to taunt him with beauty while his dignity lay in ruins. Ancient pines arched over a winding stone path, their branches whispering secrets in the breeze. Peach blossoms drifted from every direction—white and pale pink petals falling like gentle snow, landing on their hair, their robes, the earth itself. Sunlight fractured across koi ponds, turning the water into rivers of gold and glass. The air smelled faintly of mountain bamboo and early-spring rain.
Bai Qian walked ahead of him, each step light as though the earth itself welcomed her. She hummed—a cheerful, careless melody—and the sash of her sea-foam green dress trailed behind her like a silken fox-tail. Her hair, unbound save for a single pearl pin, flowed down her back in a dark, glossy ribbon that brushed the curve of her waist.
Ye Hua trudged behind her like a condemned celestial prisoner.
He should have been admiring the scenery. The mortal realm poets would have written entire epics to capture this spring morning—and Bai Qian looked as though she had stepped out of one. But all Ye Hua could do was walk carefully, silently, and pray to every star in the Nine Heavens that she never again mentioned: glowing, virtue density, divine dumplings, or guāngshēn.
He clenched his jaw, forced himself to inhale the clean mountain air, and tried to convince his damaged pride that dignity could be restored.
It couldn’t.
Not when she turned back over her shoulder, eyes bright, smile wicked, and said — “Come along, Crown Prince. The day is too lovely for shame.”
Ye Hua swallowed his remaining pride, straightened his collar, and followed her beneath the archway of peach blossoms…completely unaware that the wind was waiting.
Ye Hua tried to ignore the breeze. He really did. But every time the wind fluttered her skirts, he flinched like a startled cat. And every time the hem swayed a little too high, his soul attempted to evacuate his body. And that was when the cursed memory surfaced.
Lian Song, fanning himself and swirling wine in his jeweled cup, grinning with the cocky wisdom of a man who had never in his life suffered consequences: “Oh, little Ye Hua — in Qingqiu, women do not wear undergarments. Ever. With all that fox magic, what’s the point? On a windy day, one must guard one’s hems carefully, or a light breeze might reveal… well… a great deal.”
At the time, Ye Hua had assumed Lian Song was spouting his usual decadent nonsense — like the claim that celestial peaches fermented faster if you whispered flattery at them. But then Bai Qian casually confirmed it with calm, ladylike horror: “I don’t wear any undergarments under my dress, so yes — on windy days, I have to be careful.”
And now, as a crisp Qingqiu breeze rustled through the peach trees, Ye Hua swallowed hard. Do not look. Do not think. Do not remember. He lasted three seconds. The breeze returned, playful fingers plucking at her silk hem like a mischievous child.
Ye Hua’s pulse quickened. He cast a sidelong glance, then with the subtlest flick of his finger, whispered a wind spell into existence. Just a test, he reasoned—to settle once and for all whether the Fox Princess had been truthful or merely toying with him. His magic began as nothing more than a whisper around her ankles. Then it grew bolder, the invisible current pressing the delicate fabric against the contours of her hips.
Bai Qian’s hand darted downward, clutching at billowing silk. Her golden-flecked eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. Ye Hua suddenly found the clouds utterly fascinating. “That’s your doing,” she snapped, voice sharp as a drawn blade.
“I assure you, it is not.” “The wind shifted completely.” “As winds are known to do.” He replied straight faced.
“Ye Hua!” His name tore from her throat, echoing through the stillness. She seized her rebellious skirts with both hands, spinning toward him with the fierce grace of a dancer. “End this magic immediately!”
He raised his brows in mock surprise, hands folded behind his back. “The weather here is… capricious, Your Highness.”
“Capricious?” She glared at the clear, cloudless sky, her eyes narrowing dangerously. “It’s perfectly fine out. There isn’t even a hint of a breeze yet my dress!”
He tilted his head, sounding almost scholarly. “Ah, but the elements heed no calendar.” The wind swelled again, stronger this time, and Bai Qian’s silk rippled to her knees. Strands of her dark hair lifted in glossy ribbons around her face.
“There!” she declared, hands on hips, chest heaving. Her deep brown gaze swept over him suspiciously. “Ye Hua, are you using magic?”
His reply came swiftly. “A prince does not lie.”
She barked, “So yes.”
“No,” Ye Hua replied firmly while the wind grew stronger.
Her skirt snapped like a flag in battle, and she slapped both hands down over the fabric, squeaking in outrage, “Ye Hua, stop it!”
He remained perfectly expressionless. “It’s a natural phenomenon.”
She let out a low, growling sound — a sound that promised divine consequences — then gathered the back of her skirt and yanked the fabric forward, bunching it between her legs like chaotic puffy pants. Her bare ankles and calves flashed scandalously. Ye Hua stared, indignation and reluctant amusement warring in his chest.
“Princess Bai Qian, such attire is entirely… improper for public decorum! only your husband should see such intimate sides of you.”
“Oh, decorum?” Her voice was sharp as a fox’s laugh, her brown eyes flashing with indignation. “You magically engineered a wind tunnel around my hips, and now you lecture me on propriety?”
“I did no such thing. Stop blaming an innocent person!” he protested, though the corner of his mouth twitched in denial. She arched one delicate eyebrow. “The gentleman doth deny with suspicious enthusiasm.” Her eyes narrowed, more flame than moonlight, and with a flick of her tail—fox or princess, he couldn’t tell.
Bai Qian lunged.
Ye Hua’s laughter burst out—light, surprised, almost boyish—before he could throttle it back into dignity. He pivoted sharply and sprinted up the stone path, sleeves and dark robes streaming behind him like storm clouds fleeing the sun.
“Try to catch me if you dare!” he called over his shoulder, the very picture of smug celestial triumph.
The chase would have been majestic and dignified—if Bai Qian hadn’t hiked her skirt like a traveling peddler escaping tax collectors.
She charged after him, her makeshift “puffy pants” flapping wildly, little fox snarls erupting with every step. Her hair whipped like black silk ribbons behind her. Her bare ankles flashed. Every inch of her posture screamed: Murder the dragon.
Yet the path favored him; his stride was effortlessly long, immortal muscles moving like liquid steel. Each time he looked back, she was still there—determined, furious, fast—her expression promising that if she caught him, even Heaven couldn’t save him.
“Well,” Ye Hua panted, impressed despite himself, “you run surprisingly fast for someone with… tiny legs.”
“WHAT was that!?” she barked, voice echoing through bamboo and stone.
Ye Hua grinned, all teeth, all wickedness. “Just an observation!”
She hurled a pebble at him. It missed by divine inches. He was still laughing when—
“Ouch!” Her voice cut through the air—sharp, pained, real.
Ye Hua slowed, panic tightening in his chest. His heart lurched, every instinct snapping to alertness. He spun around, eyes wide. “Qian Qian?” He stepped closer, worry overtaking pride. “Did you hurt—”
Before he finished, something small and fierce rocketed into him like a shard of lightning. They tumbled together down the slope in a whirl of silk and grass, petals drifting in a soft cloud around their twined forms. The world spun once… twice… then stilled, leaving only the ragged symphony of their breaths and drifting osmanthus snow.
Bai Qian lay splayed across Ye Hua’s hard chest, her ebony tresses unpinned and fanning out around them like spilled ink across a scroll of crimson silk. Each strand caught the dappled sunlight filtering through the bamboo canopy, glinting with a midnight lustre.
The Crown Prince of the Nine Heavens—always so poised that his very posture seemed carved from jade—now looked unmistakably, helplessly mortal: his perfect topknot unravelled, locks tumbling into his storm-dark eyes; his dark robes rumpled and askew, one sleeve half shredded; his mouth parted in helpless shock.
Time suspended between one breath and the next as their gazes locked. The russet fire in her fox-bright eyes danced with both shock and mischief, while his normally guarded expression had shattered into wide-eyed vulnerability.
Their bodies formed a scandalous tableau—fox princess sprawled atop celestial dragon, limbs entangled in rumpled silk, her midnight hair spilling across his chest like ink bleeding into parchment—a scene that would make even the most daring immortal painter avert their eyes.
Then Ye Hua’s awareness lurched forward with the subtlety of a drunken immortal at a formal banquet. His hands—his royal, dignified, never-before-dishonored hands—were currently splayed across the smooth curve of her very naked hips, the skin beneath his fingertips warm as sun-kissed peach blossoms and soft as the finest imperial silk. His brain short-circuited like a lightning strike hitting a rain puddle, sparks of panic dancing behind his eyelids.
Bai Qian’s rose-petal lips quirked into that insufferable dimple-revealing smirk, the tiny crescent indentation deepening at the corner of her mouth like a secret valley. “I did warn you,” she sing-songed, delicate eyebrows dancing with unholy glee above amber-flecked eyes. “No undergarments, remember?”
Ye Hua made a sound like a dying cricket caught beneath a celestial boot. His limbs turned to stone, heavy as ancient mountain jade; his lungs forgot their one job, seizing mid-breath; and his immortal soul began frantically searching for the nearest exit like a startled fox seeking its burrow. Their eyes locked in mutual panic—hers widening with the dawning realization that she was, in fact, straddling the Crown Prince of the Celestial Heavens, her thighs bracketing his narrow hips.
She planted her slender palms against his chest, presumably to push herself off—but somehow leaned forward instead, the silken curtain of her midnight hair cascading around them like a private pavilion. Their bodies pressed closer with an audible “oof,” the heat between them intensifying like summer air before a thunderstorm. A mutual gasp ricocheted between them like a startled bird in a small room, their breaths mingling in the scant space between their parted lips.
Something distinctly un-princely and alarmingly warm nudged against her abdomen, pressing insistently against the thin barrier of his silken robes. Bai Qian froze, then poked at it through the embroidered fabric, her curious finger tracing its unmistakable outline. “Is that your… jade flute?” she whispered.
Ye Hua made a noise like someone had stepped on a cat’s tail—high-pitched and strangled. “It’s—it’s a ceremonial… scepter!” he choked out, sweat beading along his perfect jade-like brow. “Very sacred! Don’t touch it!” His words tumbled out in a desperate cascade.
Her finely arched eyebrow shot up toward her hairline like a startled swallow. “Ceremonial scepters don’t usually twitch—” she observed, her fingertip still hovering dangerously close.
“STOP TALKING!” he yelped, his face now approximately the color of an overripe tomato, crimson flooding from his collar to the very tips of his ears. “And don’t move,” He hissed through clenched teeth, every muscle in his body taut as a drawn bowstring.
The grove fell strangely silent—panic practically hummed in the air—until a lazy, teasing voice drifted through the bamboo: “Ye Hua? Xiao Wu?”
Ye Hua’s heart did cartwheels in his chest. In a single mortifying panic-moment, he hurled a tornado of wind magic so fierce it roared through the glade. Bai Qian let out a yelp like a startled cat, half‐twirled, half‐skated, and landed smack into the arms of the ever‐imperturbable Fourth Brother.
Bai Zhen held her effortlessly, robes and hair not a strand out of place, like he’d just strolled off a heavenly runway. Bai Qian tumbled against his chest, her sleeves all akimbo, one hand desperately clutching Ye Hua’s now‐tattered sash.
Meanwhile, Ye Hua was flat on his face amid crunchy leaves—robes in shreds, hair frizzing in the breeze he’d unleashed. The bamboo rustled around him as if giggling at his epic fail.
Bai Zhen blinked down at the scene: the rosy-cheeked baby sister in his arms, the sprawled Crown Prince on the floor—then his lips curved into a slow, knowing smile. “Well,” he drawled, “your little adventure seems to have been… rather spirited.”
Ye Hua scrambled upright, face fifty shades of red, yanking his robes into some semblance of order. “This isn’t what it looks like!” he squeaked, voice pitched somewhere between mortification and sheer panic.
Bai Zhen arched a single, perfect brow. “It always is,” he said, amusement twinkling in his eyes. With that, he lifted his jade flute to his lips and unleashed a bubbly, teasing melody—like a jingling bridal procession leading the groom to fetch his bride. The air itself seemed to shimmer with mockery.
Ye Hua stiffened. “That sounds like—”
“Oh?” Bai Zhen interrupted, tone smooth as polished jade. “Just a tune I adore. So festive, don’t you think?”
Bai Qian pressed her face into her hands. “Fourth Brother, if you play another note, I’ll die of shame and take you with me.”
But Bai Zhen only smiled wider, twin flames in his eyes flicking in perfect time with the lilting melody.
Ye Hua muttered under his breath, “I am never… ever… using wind magic again.”
Bai Qian’s ears perked up; she shot him a triumphant look. “A-ha! Liar! I knew you used magic!”
Ye Hua straightened, dignity (mostly) intact. “A prince,” he declared with regal hauteur, “does not lie.”
“Oh, really?” she shot back, nostrils flaring.
“Yes,” he said smoothly, “he merely… omits inconvenient, unnecessary truths.”
Her eyes sparkled like a hungry bear about to pounce. “Unnecessary—!?” Before anyone could blink, she lunged.
Ye Hua pivoted on one heel and bolted down the winding path, long sleeves flapping behind him like white flags of surrender. Bai Qian gave chase, half‐laughing, half‐fuming, her makeshift skirt‐pants fluttering like tiny battalions in pursuit.
Behind them, Bai Zhen’s rich laughter rang out, clear as temple bells. His voice trailed on the mountain wind: “Ah, sweet, sweet first love!” The bamboo shivered in delight, and even the clouds seemed to curl into mischievous smiles overhead.
Later — in Zhe Yan’s Peach Orchard
The late afternoon sun poured through the gnarled branches like molten honey, gilding the blush of ripened peaches and setting every fold of immortal silk aglow. A soft breeze carried the sweet perfume of fruit and dew-laden grass. Somewhere beyond the orchard’s edge, bees droned in lazy harmony, their low hum entwining with a distant flute’s mournful trill.
Bai Zhen reclined beneath a heavy-limbed tree, one knee drawn up, the other leg stretched out on mossy earth. In his hand he held a plump peach, its velvety skin giving way under his teeth. Golden juice dribbled down his wrist, catching the light like liquid amber.
Beside him, Zhe Yan sat upright on a lacquered wooden stool, his aquiline profile gilded by dappled sunlight. His fan—painted with curling clouds and soaring cranes—rested half-open at his side. A length of fine-grained parchment lay across his lap, and his brush moved in deliberate strokes, black ink pooling into elegant characters. His brows were drawn together in a furrow deep as a mountain ravine, nostrils slightly flared, eyes alight with dramatic intensity beneath half-lowered lashes.
“Well?” Bai Zhen drawled, swiping peach juice from his wrist with a fingernail, one eyebrow arched in lazy curiosity. “How fares your next masterpiece of immortal literature?”
Zhe Yan did not look up. His lips pressed into a thin line of concentration as he dipped his brush into the inkstone; the bristles sighing against stone, then resumed painting with a flourish of his slender wrist. “It unfolds splendidly,” he intoned, voice rich as aged peach wine, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. “I call it—” he paused, creating a hush between them, eyes widening for dramatic effect—”The Fox and the Falling Prince.”
A sly grin curved Bai Zhen’s lips, dimpling one cheek while his eyes glittered like polished jade beneath hooded lids. “Tragic?” he asked, tilting his head so that a lock of hair slid across his temple.
“Comedic,” Zhe Yan corrected with a solemn nod, though mirth danced in the crinkles around his eyes. “Like love itself—bittersweet, capricious.”
He cleared his throat and sat straighter, chest puffing slightly as he read aloud, each word dripping with ornate flair, his eyebrows performing an elaborate dance of expression:
“Upon the winds of Qingqiu, beneath heavens wide and fair, A prince did tumble, quite undone—his dignity laid bare.
The fox did pounce, her laughter bright, their fates in chaos spun; Oh, pity ye who fall from grace when love’s mischief has begun…”
Bai Zhen nearly choked on his peach at the off-rhyme, eyes bulging comically as juice dribbled down his chin. “You rhymed ‘bare’ with ‘begun,'” he sputtered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He shook his head, amusement dancing in his gaze.
Zhe Yan tapped his chin with one long finger, ink flecking the sleeve of his azure robe. His face arranged itself into a mask of scholarly dignity. “I am immortal,” he said coolly, nose lifted slightly, “not bound by mortal rhyme schemes.” He leaned forward, eyes narrowing to gleaming slits. “Think ‘stiff jade stalk’ too obvious for the younger gods, or shall I savor its scandal?”
Bai Zhen chuckled, the sound rippling through the orchard like wind through reeds, his shoulders shaking as his face split into a fox-like grin. “Keep it. A little scandal lends spice.”
They fell into companionable silence: Zhe Yan’s brush whispering over parchment, Bai Zhen’s occasional snort punctuating the stillness, and overhead the sun drifting toward dusk, burning the sky in apricot and rose.
At last, Zhe Yan set aside his brush with a satisfied sigh. “I once found the Celestials dull,” he mused, tilting his head. “But this Crown Prince—ever since he became entangled with Xiao Wu, chaos seems to follow him. He has been a boon, my new muse, provocateur to my creativity.”
Bai Zhen raised his jade-enamel cup in salute, voice smooth as silk. “To chaos,” he declared, “and to inconvenient foxes.”
Zhe Yan clinked his cup against Bai Zhen’s. “And to drunk princes who make my poetry immortal.”
High above, a messenger crane winged past towards Kunlun Mountain, carrying a lacquered scroll sealed with Zhe Yan’s emblem. In the slanting sunlight, the title gleamed in molten gold: 《The Fox and the Falling Prince subtitled: “The Crown He Lost Was His Dignity.》 A Ballad by High God Zhe Yan.