Spring, Year 13 of Hongxi Era
Capital air smelled of apricot bloom and forge-smoke; the Guard Academy opened its gates for the annual muster.
Lan Yue, thirteen and still more legs than grace, stood in the inspection line with shoulders back and heart hammering like a farrier's hammer.
She wore the plain grey trainee robe they handed to every petitioner, but the cord at her waist was her father's old sword-braid—cut shorter, re-knotted.
A private vow: I won't borrow your name, but I'll borrow your luck.
Across the yard older cadets marched in perfect blocks, white sashes flashing like egret wings.
That was the colour she wanted—white robe, senior division, the right to patrol palace rooftops instead of stable fences.
A hand clapped her shoulder.
"Ready, little sister?" Chen Wei—seventeen, already a corporal—grinned down.
"Stop calling me that when we're in ranks," she muttered, but grinned back.
He'd taught her the wrist-flick that sent a crossbow bolt through a moving ring at thirty paces; she owed him bruises and loyalty.
The muster drum rolled.
Silence dropped like a blade.
The Commandant's Table
Commandant-General Zhao Heng—uncle to the princes—sat beneath a silk canopy painted with the imperial dragon.
At his left stood Crown Prince Zhao Shen, eighteen, armour lacquered midnight-blue, cloak lining the colour of winter sky.
He looked every inch the future commander: shoulders broader than she remembered, face still calm, eyes still searching.
Their gazes brushed.
He inclined his head—formal, public.
She bowed, cheeks suddenly hot. Stop that, she told herself. He's inspecting troops, not greeting old friends.
But when the roll reached her name he lifted one finger.
"Lan Yue, step forward."
A hundred heads turned.
She marched out, halted, saluted fist-to-palm.
"Your Highness."
Zhao Shen's voice carried just enough for the front ranks.
"Your father's record is exemplary. The Academy expects no less from his kin. Train hard—honour the name you choose to carry."
A compliment or a warning?
She couldn't tell, but the whispers behind her were instant:
That's the Chief Guard's daughter… the one the prince himself recommended last year…
She fell back in line, ears burning.
The Cut
Selection worked like a sieve:
First—archery: hit the red at forty paces.
Second—forms: execute the Eight-Gate sword set without fault.
Third—sparring: three bouts, win two.
By dusk two-thirds of the hopefuls had been sent home.
Yue's shoulders ached, but she stood in the white line—accepted.
Chen Wei whooped; she allowed herself a small smile.
Then the Commandant produced a parchment.
"The following recruits will enter the Senior Cadet cohort—roof patrol, night escort, field tactics."
He began reading names.
Her heart sank when the list ended—her name not called.
Senior cohort wore white robes; the rest stayed grey for another year.
She swallowed disappointment, told herself patience.
A pause.
Zhao Shen murmured something; the Commandant lifted a brow, then added:
"One correction. Lan Yue—transfer to Senior. Report to Quartermaster for fitting at dawn."
Stares again—some admiring, some sour.
She felt the ground tilt. He moved me onto the list.
Quartermaster's shed – torch-light
White robe slid over her arms like cool water.
The belt—white leather stamped with a tiny swan—was new, not re-issued.
A gift? A message?
She buckled it, unsure whether to feel grateful or indebted.
Boot-steps outside; Zhao Shen entered, sending the quartermaster scurrying.
He carried a long bundle wrapped in indigo silk.
"Walk with me," he said.
They strolled along the empty armoury porch, moonlight striping the rafters.
He spoke without looking at her.
"Some will say you were placed because of favour. Let them. The list is mine to amend. What matters is that you prove the amendment wise."
She stopped. "I never asked for—"
"I know." His gaze met hers, steady. "But I will not waste talent to soothe gossip. And…" A faint smile. "I need guards I can trust on rooftops when I'm twenty, not when I'm thirty."
The bundle unwrapped: a short sword, lighter than regulation, edge already blued.
"Steel suited to your wrist. Use it well."
She took it, throat tight. "Thank you, Your Highness."
"Shen," he corrected softly. "When we're alone."
Heat flared again; she looked away. He's still the older brother who carried you off a burning bridge.
But the bridge felt farther tonight.
Barracks common-room – later
Senior cadets lounged around one table, dice clacking.
A boy with laughing eyes—Second Prince Zhao Yuan, sixteen—beckoned.
"Swan-girl! Sit. We're deciding who patrols the east garden tomorrow—loser buys moon-cakes."
She hesitated; Chen Wei pushed her forward.
"Go on, little sister. Earn your cakes."
Yuan poured her tea, leaned close.
"Ignore my brother's storm-cloud face. He's been insufferable since you arrived. I, on the other hand, am delighted to have a partner who can actually hit the target."
Across the room Zhao Shen entered, paused at the sight of them, then moved to a corner table with officers—close enough to overhear, far enough to pretend disinterest.
Yuan grinned, voice low. "See? Thundercloud. Better steer clear before lightning strikes."
She laughed, but her skin prickled—two princes, one roof, one lamp casting twin shadows.
Night drill – rooftop course
Seniors ran the "Swan Path": leap from armoury roof to library beam, slide down tiled slope, vault the moon-gate, land silent on gravel.
Fail and you lost white robe for a month.
Yue crouched at the starting ledge, heart racing.
Below, cadets gathered to watch the first-year girl the Crown Prince had favoured.
She breathed once, sprang—
Tiles slick with dew, a wobble, correction—
Mid-leap a gust slapped her cloak; she tucked, rolled on the beam, found balance—
Final vault—perfect landing, knees soft as snow.
Applause, whistles.
She straightened, breath steaming, and saw Zhao Shen at the courtyard edge—hands behind back, eyes bright with relief he tried to mask.
Zhao Yuan whooped. "Told you lightning prefers swans!"
She bowed to the princes, to the night, to the future she had just sworn to guard—
and felt the world tilt a little more, not toward danger but toward choice.
Barracks cot – past midnight
White robe folded at the foot, new sword on the blanket, moonlight striping the rafters.
She lay awake listening to twenty other girls breathe, and to the echo of two voices:
Shen: Prove the amendment wise.
Yuan: Better steer clear before lightning strikes.
She touched the sword hilt, smiled into the dark.
Lightning or lantern—she would decide which to follow, and when.
Tomorrow the real training began:
sweat, bruises, rooftop races, midnight watches—
and somewhere above them all, two brothers who once shared every book and sword now sharing a silence shaped like a girl in white armour.
But tonight she was simply Lan Yue, thirteen, first of her name to wear the white robe on the first day—
and the first to realise that the list had been only half the battle; the other half would be learning to live on it.