The drums rolled like thunder across the courtyard.
I sat stiff-backed beneath the silk canopy of the bridal palanquin, my hands folded tightly in my lap, the embroidered sleeves of my red wedding robe spilling over my fingers like flames. The perfume of incense clung to my hair, heavy and sweet, but beneath it I smelled the faint tang of lacquered wood and the sweat of the bearers outside. The palanquin swayed with every step, the golden bells tied to its frame chiming with a music that was not my own.
Today, I was no longer simply Chyou, daughter of Chengguang Māo. Today, I became Princess Consort to the Third Prince of the Empire.
The villagers had always called my father the Lucky Commoner. They said Heaven had poured its fortune into his hands, that the gods favored him above men of noble blood. From ships that crossed oceans to caravans that crossed deserts, his wealth knew no borders. His gold weighed heavily enough to rival dukes. His influence was so vast that even the Emperor could not dismiss him.
And yet, as the palanquin carried me through the gates of the Imperial Palace, luck felt like a distant thing.
Through the painted slats, I caught glimpses of the world outside. Crimson banners flapped in the wind, embroidered with golden dragons. Rows of guards in scaled armor stood like statues, halberds gleaming in the light. Courtiers watched from shaded pavilions, their silken sleeves whispering as they leaned close to one another, murmuring words they thought I could not hear.
"She is but a merchant's daughter."
"The Third Prince deserves better."
"Still, her father's silver oils the wheels of peace. Even kings bow to trade."
My face remained composed, but my heart twisted. I knew well what they saw when they looked at me: not a bride, not a woman of flesh and blood, but a bargaining piece, an offering from the House of Chengguang Māo to the throne.
Yet my father had set his terms.
When the marriage was arranged, many had urged him to offer me as concubine. A concubine's station would have been easier, less offensive to the proud nobility. But my father had refused. His voice had echoed in the Hall of Ministers:
"My daughter is no concubine. If she marries into the palace, she marries as wife."
He would accept nothing less. And though whispers branded him arrogant, no one dared push further. For all their scorn, the empire needed merchants as much as it needed soldiers. Caravans kept kingdoms fed, ships kept silk flowing, and gold kept wars from breaking.
Thus, I entered the palace as Princess Consort.
The palanquin came to a halt. A sharp knock sounded against the lacquered wood.
"Princess Consort," came the voice of an attendant. "It is time."
The door slid open. Light flooded in, dazzling after the dim interior. I lowered my gaze as protocol demanded, though in the corner of my vision I glimpsed the vast courtyard. Towering vermilion gates rose before me, guarded by stone lions whose jaws bared in eternal snarl. Beyond stretched endless rows of officials, nobles, and servants, all waiting to see the merchant's daughter take her first steps into the Dragon Palace.
A slender hand helped me down. The ground was hard beneath the thin soles of my wedding slippers. The red veil fell over my face, blurring the world into a haze of crimson.
The ceremony passed like a dream. Bowing to the heavens, bowing to the ancestors, bowing to one another. The Third Prince stood across from me, tall and straight-backed, his presence cold as mountain steel. Through the veil, his face was a blur, but I did not need clarity to feel the distance in him. He moved as though the rites were chains, his words clipped, his touch perfunctory.
The nobles applauded with measured courtesy. The drums pounded. The incense burned. And I, Chyou, daughter of Chengguang Māo, became bound to a man who had not once looked me in the eyes.