Huan returned to her quarters with a heavy heart. She knew her mother would soon find out she had gone out without permission—but she no longer cared. Her mother's control over her life felt suffocating, and for once, she needed to breathe.
"Huan!" Chún Dú called out as a maid pushed her wheelchair toward her younger sister.
"How's Mother? Angry, I presume," Huan muttered as she approached.
Chún Dú reached out, gently clasping Huan's hand with a quiet, understanding look, as if offering unspoken comfort.
"What about the Crown Prince of the Tiānkōng (Sky) Dynasty?" Huan asked quietly. "Has he left?"
Chún Dú nodded.
"If Mother asks for me, tell her I'm unwell and resting in my quarters," Huan said, wiping away the tears that had started to form in her eyes.
"It's alright... Did you have fun?" Chún Dú asked softly.
"Yes, I did, Jiějiě. Thank you for asking," Huan replied with a smile, small but sincere.
Chún Dú nodded in relief. "Go get some rest. I'll handle Mother."
Huan gave her a grateful look, then disappeared into the quiet shelter of her room. Chún Dú gave a subtle signal, and the maid turned her wheelchair away from the doors.
⸻
It had been quite some time since Bǎihé last wandered the streets of the city. Now, surrounded by the lively chants of merchants and the scents of spiced bread and roasted duck, she felt herself exhale tension she hadn't realized she was carrying. Though her ankle still ached from the earlier sprain, the change of scenery was the balm she needed.
Eventually, she found herself at the famed Lǐzǐ (Plum) House—a place newly renowned throughout the Límíng Dynasty for its captivating entertainers. Men and women adorned in silks of vibrant hues danced like flowing rivers, captivating the eyes of nobles and commoners alike. Bǎihé limped slowly up the polished wooden stairs leading to the top floor, where the view was said to be always more breathtaking. A section reserved only for the wealthy and noble.
She was quietly escorted to a private table. The scent of jasmine tea was already in the air as she settled into her cushion. Below her, elegant figures in blue silk twirled to the notes of the zither. The melody echoed through the open air, light and graceful. But to Bǎihé, it all felt soulless—just like every other performance she'd seen lately. Hollow beauty. Lovely... but empty.
She poured herself a cup of steaming jasmine tea and brought it to her lips. The warmth helped. But even that didn't fill the dull ache in her chest.
⸻
Across the room, Yìchén sat at a table a few seats away, his sharp eyes fixed on the stage below.
"Yíchén," Liang whispered, nudging his shoulder. "Haoyu's still angry about what happened earlier. Do you think the princess is alright?"
"She sprained her ankle, not died, Liang," Yì Chén replied dryly, taking a calm sip of his tea.
Liang shrugged but pointed suddenly. "Wait—isn't that her?"
Yíchén followed his gaze and found Bǎihé just settling into her seat, her profile bathed in soft lantern light.
"Hm," he hummed in acknowledgment. He stared for a moment longer before rising to his feet.
"Where are you going?" Liang asked. "We're supposed to keep a low—"
But Yíchén was already walking away.
⸻
"Gōngzhǔ Fāng," he greeted with a slight bow.
Bǎihé turned, surprised at first, but then softened. "General Kōng. What a surprise to see you here."
She gestured politely to the empty cushion across from her. "Come, sit."
He bowed again before accepting the offer. "I'm far from a general, Princess. You may call me just Kōng."
"Aren't you Haoyu's advisor?" she asked curiously.
Yíchén gave a subtle nod.
"Would you like some tea? It's jasmine," she offered, reaching for the pot.
"No need, I'll pour it—"
"I insist," she interrupted, already pouring the delicate stream of tea into his cup. The steam coiled like threads of silk between them.
"Thank you," he said, bowing his head. "You are indeed gracious."
They sat in silence for a moment, watching the dancers below as the zither continued its melodious hum.
"Haoyu didn't send you here, did he?" she asked suddenly, side-eyeing him. "You can tell him I'm fine."
"I'm simply here to enjoy the performance," Yíchén replied with a small smile.
"Hmm... It just started not long ago. They all dance so gracefully."
He nodded. "It's not just the movements. It's the story they're telling."
Intrigued, Bǎihé leaned forward slightly. "Story?"
"Silk of blue dance with grace..." he began to recite.
"Grey comes to shield disgrace,
Of a simple dying face."
His words, rhythmic and haunting, floated between them.
"It's an old poem," he explained. "About a fisherman who risks his life every day to catch fish for his ailing wife. But no matter how many fish he brings, big or small, she remains close to death. What he fails to realize is... she's dying from his absence, not his failure."
"So... a tragedy?" Bǎihé whispered, her brows drawn in sadness.
Yíchén shook his head. "Only if he never realizes his mistake. Then yes—it becomes a tragedy."
Below, two dancers had taken the stage, dressed in pale yellow hanfu. The woman closed her fan and dropped to the floor like a wilting flower. The man followed soon after. Moments later, dancers dressed in oceanic blues swept in and carried them off the stage like waves reclaiming what belonged to the sea.
Bǎihé's eyes shimmered. She hadn't noticed when the performance began to shift. When the music became more than sound. When the bland became beautiful.
A tear slid down her cheek.
"Are you crying, Princess?" Yíchén asked gently, offering her a napkin. "I didn't mean to upset you."
Bǎihé took it, chuckling softly through her tears. "No... It just sounded so much more beautiful all of a sudden. Thank you."
She handed him back the napkin with a grateful smile.
"Without you, I wouldn't have understood the performance so deeply."
"And I'm grateful for your company," he replied. "I spend a lot of time studying literature—it's a joy to share it."
Bǎihé smiled again. "Let's do this again, then. I'd love to return tomorrow."
"I'd be honored," Yíchén said, standing with her and bowing his head.
"There's a performance even more beautiful tomorrow evening," he added. "If the princess permits, I would like to accompany her."
"Then it's a promise," she said with a graceful bow before disappearing down the staircase and into the crowd.
Yíchén watched her until the last hint of her orange robes vanished through the lantern-lit doors.
⸻
"Wei Yíchén!" Liang called out, rushing up to him breathless.
"What is it?" he asked, turning toward his panting companion.
"Haoyu wants to see you immediately. A letter from his father just arrived."
Yíchén sighed deeply. "The day is barely over... Very well, let's go."