The Lan family's assigned quarters lay in the eastern wing of the inner barracks: a small courtyard with two rooms, a narrow strip of garden, and an elderly plum tree that leaned as if forever listening for orders.
Yue ran through the gate as soon as the attendant finished pointing it out, her bundle bouncing against her back. The air smelled of oiled leather, steel, and the faint sweetness of plum blossoms clinging stubbornly to the branches.
"Yue'er," Lan Zhen called from behind, "do not—"
"I'm just looking!" she shouted back, already circling the courtyard like a restless cat.
The rooms were plain but clean. One held two low beds and a chest; the other, a simple table and two stools. Sunlight spilled in diagonally, catching a line of dust motes. The walls felt solid. Safe.
Compared to the flapping tents of the northern outpost, this was luxury.
Yue dumped her bundle in the corner and immediately ducked under the table, reaching for the thin gap between the floorboards. The wood was tight, well-fitted, but a child's fingers could still find space.
"What are you doing?" her father asked, stepping through the doorway.
"Checking for rats," she said, serious. "And secret compartments."
Lan Zhen stared at her for a heartbeat, then let out a breath that could have been a laugh or a sigh.
"There are no rats in the inner palace," he said. "At least, not the kind that hide under floorboards."
Yue wriggled back out and sat cross-legged on the floor. "Then where do they hide?"
"In silk," her father said, his tone turning dry. "And brocade. And court ranks."
She didn't understand, not fully, but she tucked the words away.
"Are we really staying here?" she asked instead. "Not going back north?"
Lan Zhen's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
"For now," he said. "His Majesty needs someone he trusts at his back."
Yue blinked up at him. "Then… you'll be behind the King's throne every day?"
"If His Majesty wishes."
"And I can train in the main practice yard?" she pressed. "With real guards?"
A shadow crossed his face.
"Yue'er," he began.
She scrambled to her feet and planted herself in front of him, small hands balled into fists.
"I know what you're going to say," she said quickly. "That girls should embroider and pour tea and sit quietly. But you promised I could learn as long as I did my other work. I—"
"I promised you could learn to protect yourself," Lan Zhen cut in, the faintest edge to his voice. "Not that I would send you to the front lines."
"But I can be useful!" Yue protested. "I'm fast. My stance is getting better. Uncle Ma said my wrist is steady when I—"
"Uncle Ma," her father said, "also once tried to fight off five mounted bandits with a cooking ladle because he was too drunk to find his sword. I will not be taking advice from him on this matter."
Yue's mouth snapped shut. She couldn't argue with that.
Lan Zhen studied her for a long moment, then reached for the cloth-wrapped bundle she'd tossed aside. He set it on the table and carefully unknotted it.
Inside lay a simple wooden sword. The grip was smooth from countless hours in her hands, the edges notched where it had met rocks and fence posts. A thin length of red cord was tied at the pommel, the same colour as the ribbon in her hair.
"You've carried this all the way from the north," her father said quietly.
Yue swallowed. "Of course."
Lan Zhen balanced the wooden blade on his palm as if weighing it against the air.
"You are my daughter," he said. "I knew from the day you bit a stable boy for teasing a lame horse that you were not made to sit by the window and count stitches."
Yue's ears burned. "He kicked the horse first."
"I remember." A corner of his mouth twitched. "The horse kicked him back. On the other side."
She couldn't help it; she grinned.
Lan Zhen's expression sobered again.
"But the palace is not the northern camp. Eyes here are sharper. Tongues are worse than arrows. You understand?"
Yue nodded, though the understanding was hazy.
"So," he continued, "you will train. But you will also learn to walk quietly. To listen. To know when to speak and when to bite your tongue, not stable boys."
He held out the sword.
"You will practice here, at dawn and dusk, when the yard is empty. When you are stronger—when your footing no longer wobbles and your wrist no longer drops when you parry—I will think about letting you join the junior drills."
Yue stared at the sword, heart thudding.
"Really?" she breathed.
"On three conditions," he said.
She straightened. "Name them."
"One: you will obey the palace rules. No wandering alone into forbidden quarters. No climbing roofs. No sneaking into the kitchens at midnight to steal buns."
"That's three already," she muttered.
"Two," he continued as if he hadn't heard, "you will treat every person in this palace—whether broom-sweeper or prince—with respect. Your tongue is sharp. Use it carefully."
She thought of the boy in indigo, his quiet voice, his steady eyes.
"I… will try," she said.
"Three," Lan Zhen said. His gaze softened very slightly. "You will remember that you are my only child. Swords can be replaced. You cannot."
The words landed heavier than armour.
Yue's throat tightened. "Then… you shouldn't have taught me to hold a sword at all," she said, forcing a grin. "You should have given me an embroidery needle."
Lan Zhen's answering smile was brief and a little rueful.
"I tried," he said. "You used it to stab a scorpion."
"It was going to sting you," Yue protested.
"Exactly." He set the sword firmly in her hands. "So listen to me when I tell you how not to get stung here."
Yue closed her fingers around the worn wood. It fit into her palm as if it had been waiting for this moment.
"I'll be careful," she said. "I promise."
He studied her face, then nodded once.
"Good. Unpack. At third bell, report to the small east practice yard. I will introduce you to the drillmaster."
Yue's eyes widened. "Today?"
"Today," he confirmed. "If you're going to insist on walking a dangerous path, better you start learning where the pits are."
He turned to leave, then paused in the doorway.
"And Yue'er," he added without looking back, "about the princes. Keep your distance. Their world is not ours."
Yue thought of the way the Crown Prince's gaze had felt—steady, heavy, like the air before a storm.
"I'll just watch from far away," she said.
Lan Zhen did not answer. The door slid shut behind him.
The small east practice yard lay behind a low wall of grey brick. By the time Yue found it, following the directions of a bored-looking servant, the shadows of the plum tree in her courtyard had already stretched long across the packed earth.
Most of the palace's main ground was immaculate stone, swept until even dust seemed ashamed to settle. Here, however, the earth was scarred with the marks of countless boots. Wooden dummies stood in neat rows, their surfaces gouged and patched. Racks of practice spears and swords lined the wall.
At the far end, a man in a faded training tunic stood with his back to her, hands clasped behind him. His hair was threaded with grey, his shoulders still square.
"Drillmaster Han," Lan Zhen said, bowing slightly. "Thank you for agreeing to take in one more trouble."
Yue blinked. She hadn't even heard her father arrive.
Han turned. His face was sun-dark, his eyes narrowed from years of squinting into distance. A thin scar traced his jaw, vanishing under his collar.
"So this is the little warhorse you spoke of," he said, voice rough but not unkind. "The one who broke her front tooth trying to headbutt a bandit."
Yue's hand flew to her mouth instinctively. "That was years ago," she protested, words muffled.
Han's eyes crinkled. "Teeth grew back, I see. Good."
She straightened, dropping her hand. "I've improved since then," she said, chin up.
"So I am told." Han's gaze flicked to Lan Zhen. "You are certain, old friend? Training in the north is one thing. Training under the King's eaves is another."
Lan Zhen's jaw tightened. "If I forbid it, she will do it behind my back. Here, at least, I can watch her fall."
Yue scowled. "I don't fall that—"
"On your face," he added.
Drillmaster Han chuckled.
"Very well," he said. "Lan girl, show me your stance."
Yue stepped onto the packed earth. Her heart raced, but her feet knew what to do. She planted them shoulder-width apart, one slightly ahead of the other, knees bent, weight low. The wooden sword slid into her grip as naturally as breath.
She exhaled, letting the noise of the palace fade until all that remained was the feel of the ground under her soles, the grain of the wood, the faint smell of dust and sweat.
Then she moved.
The practice form was one her father had drilled into her since she was barely taller than the blade: a simple sequence of cuts, blocks, and turns. Her arms traced the familiar arcs, muscles remembering faster than thought. The tip of the sword hissed faintly through the air.
She finished with a final downward cut, the blade stopping a hair's breadth from the packed earth, breath steady.
Silence.
She risked a glance up.
Drillmaster Han's expression had not changed much, but his eyes were sharper.
"Again," he said.
She went through the sequence three more times, each angle corrected, each step shifted. Han's instructions were brief, almost curt, but precise. By the time the training bell rang in the distance, sweat clung to the back of Yue's neck and her arms trembled faintly.
"That is enough for today," Lan Zhen said.
Yue opened her mouth to protest, then thought better of it. She wiped her forehead with her sleeve, breathing hard.
"Tomorrow," Han said, "dawn. You will run the inner barracks yard three times before you touch a sword."
"Three?" Yue blurted. "But that's—"
"Four, then," Han corrected himself.
Yue snapped her mouth shut.
Lan Zhen's lips twitched.
They were about to leave when a shadow fell across the gate.
"I heard," a familiar voice said, "that there was a new recruit worth seeing."
All three of them turned.
Crown Prince Zhao Shen stood just inside the entrance, simple training clothes replacing the formal brocade of the morning. His hair was still tied up, but the jade crown was gone; only a plain wooden pin held the knot. Behind him, Second Prince Zhao Yuan bounced on the balls of his feet, eyes alight.
"Drillmaster Han," Zhao Shen said, inclining his head. "Forgive the intrusion."
Han dropped into a low bow. Even Lan Zhen bowed deeper than he had earlier.
"Your Highness," Han said. "The yard is at your disposal."
"I will not disturb your schedule," Zhao Shen replied. His gaze slid past Han to Yue, who stood frozen, wooden sword still in hand. "I only wished to see General Lan's daughter's progress."
Yue's heart pounded. Her tunic was damp with sweat, her hair probably sticking out in all directions. Not at all how one was supposed to appear before a prince.
She considered hiding the sword behind her back, then realized that would be useless. She straightened instead, trying to mimic the calm she'd seen on veterans' faces before battle.
Zhao Shen's eyes took in the flush on her cheeks, the tremor in her grip, the stubborn lift of her chin.
"How many forms do you know?" he asked.
"Three long, two short," she answered automatically. "But I only do the first two long ones well."
Zhao Yuan laughed aloud. "Honest too."
Zhao Shen stepped into the yard. The air seemed to shift around him, tightening.
"Show me the first," he said.
Lan Zhen inhaled sharply. "Your Highness, Yue'er has only just—"
"It is only a practice form," Zhao Shen said, without looking away from Yue. "If she is too tired, she may refuse."
Yue swallowed. "I'm not tired," she said.
She lifted her sword again.
This time, she was painfully aware of every pair of eyes: her father's, the drillmaster's, the princes'. Her shoulders wanted to creep up; she forced them down. Her fingers itched to wipe the sweat from her brow; she tightened them on the hilt instead.
She drew a breath, fixed her gaze on a point beyond Zhao Shen's shoulder, and moved.
Cut, block, turn. Step. The form unfolded. In the middle, the wooden blade slipped half a finger's breadth lower than it should have; she bit the inside of her cheek and corrected. At the final strike, her footing was half a hair off; she adjusted before the tip met the earth.
When she finished, her lungs burned. She kept her face as blank as she could.
A beat of silence.
Then, unexpectedly, a light clapping.
Zhao Yuan was applauding, not mockingly, but with genuine delight.
"You were right, Brother," he said to Zhao Shen. "She's better than half the junior guards."
"Yuan'er," Lan Zhen began, but Zhao Shen lifted a hand and the protest died.
The Crown Prince stepped closer. Up close, Yue could see a faint sheen of sweat at his temples too; perhaps he had come from his own training.
"Your cuts are clean," he said. "Your steps are light." His gaze dropped briefly to her feet. "Too light, sometimes. Wind may carry you; it may also topple you. Roots are as important as wings."
Yue blinked.
"I'll… add weight to my steps?" she ventured.
"A good start," he said.
He turned to Drillmaster Han. "From tomorrow, if General Lan permits, have her run the main parade ground with the junior squad twice a week."
Han's brows shot up. "Your Highness, the junior squad is—"
"Four years older, on average," Zhao Shen said. "If she is to truly protect what she claims, she cannot compare herself only to children."
Yue's mouth went dry. The junior squad. Real drills. Real sparring.
Her father's hand closed briefly on her shoulder, fingers firm.
"Your Highness," Lan Zhen said carefully, "Yue'er is still a child. I do not wish—"
"You once told my father," Zhao Shen said, eyes steady on Lan Zhen, "that an arrow that never leaves the quiver cannot serve its purpose, no matter how carefully it is carved."
Lan Zhen froze.
Zhao Shen turned back to Yue.
"You wish to be a guard?" he asked. "To protect this palace?"
Yue's throat felt tight, but the answer was the same as it had been that morning.
"Yes," she said.
"Then," Zhao Shen said mildly, "you should train among those you will one day stand beside. Or in front of."
He let the words hang.
Yue's heart hammered against her ribs.
Lan Zhen exhaled slowly. When he spoke again, his voice was low.
"If Your Highness commands it, I will not refuse," he said. "But if she breaks, it will not be the palace that bleeds."
Zhao Shen's gaze softened, almost imperceptibly.
"I have no wish to shatter what I ask to be tempered," he said. "She will start with two runs a week. If she falters, the fault is in my judgment, not her will."
Yue looked between them, barely breathing.
Zhao Yuan bounced closer, grinning at her.
"We'll train together, then," he said. "I sneak out to the junior drills whenever my tutors' backs are turned."
"Second Brother," Zhao Shen said, a warning note threading his tone.
"I said sneak," Zhao Yuan replied. "Not 'I definitely will in the future.'"
Yue couldn't help it; a small laugh escaped her.
Zhao Shen's mouth curved the slightest bit.
"Dawn, then," he said. "Do not be late, Lan Yue."
He turned to leave, then paused just beyond the gate, his profile outlined against the dimming light.
"Lan Yue," he said without looking back, "when you run, do not look only at your feet."
She frowned, puzzled. "Then… where should I look, Your Highness?"
"At the horizon," he said. "If you wish to reach it."
With that, he was gone, the flutter of his plain training robes no less regal than his formal ones.
Yue stood very still, wooden sword hanging limp in her hand, chest heaving.
"You heard His Highness," Drillmaster Han said brusquely. "Dawn. Main parade ground. If you're late, I'll have you running until your legs forget how to stop."
Yue nodded, still half in a daze.
As she and her father walked back to their quarters, the palace lanterns were already being lit, one by one, soft halos of light chasing away the approaching night.
"Father," she said quietly, "are you… angry?"
Lan Zhen was silent for several steps.
"I am many things," he said at last. "Angry is not one of them."
"Worried?" she tried.
"Always," he said. "That is a father's burden."
She bit her lip.
"But… proud?" she ventured, almost whispering.
His hand came down to rest briefly on her head.
"Yes," he said. "Also that."
Her chest swelled. The ache in her arms suddenly felt less heavy, the dust on her legs less like dirt and more like proof.
That night, lying on the narrow bed in the small room off the plum tree courtyard, Yue stared at the dark ceiling and traced the shape of the Crown Prince's last words in her mind.
At the horizon.
She had only just entered the palace. The throne hall, the council chambers, the royal study—all these were still distant, forbidding shapes beyond gates she wasn't allowed to pass.
But dawn would come. The parade ground would wait. Her feet would run, her lungs would burn, her legs would learn the weight of duty.
She curled her fingers around the invisible hilt of her sword and closed her eyes.
Far away, in a building she could not yet imagine, a boy in a quiet room unrolled a thin sheet of paper and, by the light of a single lamp, began to sketch.
The strokes were rough, uncertain at first: the outline of a small face, eyes bright, chin tilted in that stubborn way he had already seen twice that day.
When he finished, Crown Prince Zhao Shen sat back and regarded the clumsy drawing in silence.
"It doesn't look like her," Zhao Yuan's voice said from the doorway, half-teasing, half-curious.
Zhao Shen did not start; he had heard his brother's approach.
"No," he agreed. "It doesn't."
"But you kept the ribbon," Zhao Yuan noted, pointing at the crooked line of red he'd dabbed at the side of the inked hair.
Zhao Shen's fingers lingered for a moment on that small splash of colour.
"She will grow," he said. "The drawing can change later."
"Why bother drawing at all?" Zhao Yuan asked, flopping onto the low couch. "You could just summon her and stare."
Zhao Shen shot him a flat look. Zhao Yuan grinned.
"In case," Zhao Shen said finally.
"In case what?"
"In case I forget," he answered quietly, rolling up the paper with care, "the way she looked, the first time she stood in front of the gate and said she wanted to protect my world."
He tied the scroll with a plain string and slid it into the inner compartment of his desk.
Outside, the palace lanterns flickered. Somewhere beyond the next wall, the distant clang of a watchman's gong marked the passing of another hour.
In one small courtyard, a girl dreamed of running.
In another, a boy stared at the closed drawer for a long time before finally lowering the lamp flame.
Neither of them knew how many wrong turns, sharp edges, and unseen drops lay between this night and the horizon he had named for her.
For now, dawn was enough.