Bǎihé sat up in bed, heart pounding.
What just happened? Was it... just another dream?
She threw off her blanket and rushed to the door, sliding it open with trembling hands. The warm morning breeze greeted her, along with the quiet hum of palace life. Her balcony overlooked her elegant courtyard, where sunlight glinted off the koi pond and caught the edges of the silk curtains swaying gently in the breeze.
Servants moved about gracefully: some sweeping the stone path, others trimming the flower bushes or dusting the ceramic jasmine pots. Everything looked normal—peaceful.
She exhaled slowly in relief. "Hépíng!" she called out, spotting her personal maid walking by with a basket of laundry.
Startled, Hépíng turned. Before she could respond, Bǎihé grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her into her room. The basket hit the floor with a soft thud, scattering silk robes across the polished wood.
"Gōngzhǔ Fāng, are you alright?" Hépíng asked, eyes wide. She studied Bǎihé's pale face, noticing the sweat beading on her brow and the nervous tremble in her eyes.
"A dream?" Hépíng guessed softly, leading her mistress to sit on a stool near the window.
Bǎihé nodded, her breath unsteady.
"This time... I remember it vividly."
Hépíng knelt beside her, pouring a small cup of tea from a carved jade kettle.
"Here, Gōngzhǔ. Drink. It will calm your spirit."
Bǎihé took the cup but paused. "Límíng... we were at war. There was blood, grass fields, shadows... so much death."
She turned to Hépíng, her voice low.
"And we were losing."
"Impossible!" Hépíng whispered sharply. "Límíng hasn't lost a war in over a thousand years. It must have been a dream."
Bǎihé nodded slowly.
"Yes... just another dream." But even as she spoke, the images began to blur, fading into fragments: a man she cared for, the masked figure, the battlefield.
"Gōngzhǔ?" Hépíng asked gently, placing a hand on her shoulder.
Bǎihé managed a faint smile and sipped her tea.
"Good, because there's wonderful news," Hépíng grinned, standing up with renewed energy.
"What is it?" Bǎihé asked.
"I can't say right now," Hépíng teased. "But the Queen has summoned you and your sisters to the Flower Pond Garden—and you're already late!" She gathered the scattered silk hanfu and laid them neatly on the bed.
"You'll look divine in the green one," she said proudly, pointing at an emerald silk robe embroidered with silver magnolias.
"Come now, Gōngzhǔ Fāng!" she called excitedly as Bǎihé smiled, rising from her stool with a sigh.
⸻
The Flower Pond Garden was a breathtaking oasis nestled at the edge of the palace. A wide green pond stretched beneath the morning sun, filled with blooming lotus flowers and gliding koi. A slender arched bridge spanned the water, leading to a small open pavilion, its wooden beams adorned with potted herbs and hanging orchids. The faint scent of lavender incense drifted through the air.
Inside the pavilion, a round wooden table sat at the center, laden with steaming dishes: marinated beef, spicy dumplings, pork in honey glaze, and fresh fruit. Despite the feast, the atmosphere was tense.
Four princesses sat in silence, dressed in their most elegant yet modest hanfu, their expressions pensive. They rarely gathered at the Flower Pond Garden unless something important was to be discussed.
Three of them glanced at each other, unsure who should speak first.
The eldest, however, sat calmly beside their mother. She knew the reason for the gathering.
Her name was Lán — formal title Gōngzhǔ Yáng (Princess Bright). At twenty-three, she was the first daughter, poised to become heir to the throne. Her hair was bound into a sleek bun, and she wore a soldier's casual armor rather than a silken gown. A sword rested at her side. Her skin bore a deeper tone than her sisters', and her dark eyes were sharp, commanding. She looked more like a warrior than a princess — and perhaps she was.
To her right sat Chúndù (Purity), the second daughter at twenty-one, formal name Gōngzhǔ Gù Lì (Strength). Her hair, jet-black and adorned with silver pins, framed her delicate but stern face. Her serious expression rarely wavered, and now she stared downward at her plate, lips pressed tight in annoyance.
Beside her was Huān (Joy), seventeen, formal name Gōngzhǔ Yù (Jade). Her braided buns were looped neatly, and soft curls hung beside her ears. Her lighter brown eyes gave her a grace that belied her youthful energy.
The youngest, Bāo (Bun), formal name Gōngzhǔ Xiǎo (Little), only fifteen, slouched in her seat, eyes half-lidded with fatigue. Her breath puffed her fringe as she sighed and glanced lazily at each of her sisters and then their mother.
Huánghòu Juan (Empress Graciousness), sat near the end of the table. Though in her forties, she bore a timeless beauty—dark eyes, flawless skin, and a regal air. Her elaborate golden headpiece glinted in the sun, pins swaying with each subtle movement.
She frowned at Bāo's posture but said nothing. Her eyes, instead, lingered on the one empty seat beside Chúndù.
Bǎihé was late. And the Empress was growing impatient.
Then, hurried footsteps echoed across the bridge.
A figure in green silk appeared—panting, adjusting her robes as she rushed inside. Bǎihé bowed her head, sweat trickling down her brow.
"You run like a maid," the Empress said coldly. "Someone might mistake you for one."
"I'm sorry, Mother," Bǎihé murmured, eyes downcast.
The Empress offered no reply. She scanned the faces of her daughters, then cleared her throat softly.
"I've gathered you all here because, just this morning, we received a letter from the north," she began. "Your father is returning."
Gasps and anxious glances filled the space. It had been over a year since they'd heard from the Emperor—his silence a weight on the city.
Only Lán remained composed. She had received the letter earlier that morning.
Their father had traveled north with his guards to assist Mòshuǐ, a city caught in a bloody dispute with its trade partners. The war dragged on for months. The Límíng Dynasty, respected among the six great dynasties — Xuánlíng, Tiānléi, Fēnglán, Qǐnyuè, Jǐngxuān, and Yànlóng — had long been a central figure in maintaining peace and commerce. Huángdì Hòu (Emperor Noble) took that duty seriously.
But in all this time, he had not written back once. His return now was a sudden light after long silence.
"There will be celebration," the Empress continued. "Gifts of silk and jewels will be sent to your quarters. Tonight, you are to dress appropriately—your father will expect it."
She paused, her eyes narrowing toward Lán.
"Especially you. Your suitors will be in attendance. Try to appear... less combative."
A painful silence followed. Lán's jaw tensed.
"Yes, Mother," she said quietly.
"You are all dismissed."
Bāo stood first, bowing quickly before skipping across the bridge, barely hiding her excitement.
"Huān," Chúndù called softly. "Can you help me to my chair?"
Huān rose immediately and supported her sister's arm gently, guiding her to the wooden wheelchair nearby.
"Thank you," Chúndù whispered.
Huān bowed to their mother, then wheeled her sister slowly across the bridge.
Bǎihé remained seated, her light hazel eyes shimmering in the sunlight that streamed through the pavilion. She glanced at her mother and at Lán — both staring quietly back.
She rose, bowed respectfully, and left without a word.
Only the Empress and Lán remained now.
"I should go prepare, Mother," Lán said, standing.
As she turned to leave, the Empress spoke without looking up.
"Try to look a little less manly tonight."
Lán froze.
The words stung more than her recently sprained wrist from archery training.
"...Yes, Mother."
She bowed again and walked away, leaving her mother alone in silence.