Perspective: Zhuge Han
The letter was simple.
Too simple for the seal it bore.
The paper, though cold to the touch, had been folded with personal care — something I recognized instantly.
My brother might be an emperor, commander of armies, ruler of an entire empire… but he was still the same methodical man — infuriatingly precise in every detail.
Nothing that came from his hands ever happened by accident.
I broke the seal with a trace of Qi, letting the red wax dissolve into a faint wisp of vapor.
A subtle scent of pine and ash drifted out — the distinctive aroma of spiritual wax used in the imperial chambers.
The handwriting was unmistakable.
Fluid, firm, slightly slanted — as though each stroke had been drawn halfway between haste and restraint.
Han,
First, I must reprimand you for leaving without giving me the proper farewell.
Remember, regardless of our positions, we are still brothers.
I couldn't help but smile.
It was exactly the kind of opening Su Yeon would use — light, almost playful, yet carrying that invisible weight hidden between the lines — the perfect blend of irony and authority.
Not that my brother was difficult to understand.
On the contrary.
He was frighteningly transparent.
The problem was never him — it was the world around him.
In a family with twenty-five stepmothers and thirty-three siblings, sincerity was indistinguishable from protocol.
Even affection sounded rehearsed.
Which was why simple phrases like "we are brothers" always seemed to carry more than one meaning.
I continued reading, trying to ignore the silent presence of the woman still standing before me.
This letter is written primarily due to a small issue…
It has reached my ears that you are involved with the Lady of the Yuan He Clan.
And though it is not within my power to command it, I would ask that you avoid this situation —
at least until our treaty with the White Flame Empire is resolved.
For a moment, I couldn't decide what bothered me more:
the silent warning disguised as a polite request,
or the fact that a relationship that didn't exist had already reached the emperor's ears.
Su Yeon had always been skilled at wrapping commands in gentle words.
That phrase — "I would ask" — was nothing more than the polite version of "do not dare."
But what truly unsettled me was the second implication.
If my brother already knew of the supposed affair, then the entire Empire did.
Which meant someone had started the rumors.
I took a slow breath, closing my eyes for a moment.
All this over an innocent journey, a simple act of courtesy, for allowing two ambitious young nobles to accompany me.
The Empire had a special talent for turning trivialities into politics.
I looked back at the letter.
Aside from that, I wish you a pleasant journey.
As for the girl standing before you…
She is one of our sisters. Greet her properly.
Until soon,
Zhuge Su Yeon, Emperor of the Zhuge Dynasty.
I folded the letter slowly.
The sound of the broken seal still echoed in my mind.
"One of our sisters…"
I lifted my gaze to the woman standing before me — the silent agent, the shadow that had manifested the Empire inside my room.
Her red eyes remained fixed on me, unblinking.
No emotion. No reaction.
And suddenly, everything made sense.
The gaze, the silence, the flawless posture.
The Black Swan before me wasn't merely an imperial servant — she was blood of my blood.
The Empire had many ways to watch its princes.
But none so effective as turning family itself into shadow.
For a brief moment, I almost laughed at the irony.
My brother, the emperor, not only knew where I was — he knew who was with me.
And as always, he had chosen the coldest, most efficient way to remind me of it.
I looked down again at the shattered seal.
The paper still felt as heavy as lead in my hands.
And in the silence that followed, I understood the message that hadn't been written:
"Be careful what you call coincidence, brother. Sometimes, even fate serves the Empire."
I breathed deeply.
The air felt colder now, as if the very room had heard the letter and was waiting for my response.
For a long while, I just stared at the broken imperial seal.
It still glimmered faintly under the lamplight — a golden, arrogant shine, as if even in pieces it refused to forget who had the last word.
It took me some time to decide what to do.
Replies to the emperor were not things one wrote impulsively.
But he was my brother — and perhaps because of that, excessive formality felt unnecessary.
Or worse, false.
I took a fresh sheet of paper.
The motion was slow, deliberate.
My hands were still cold — not from fear, but from the lingering memory of the woman's eyes: steady, unreadable, and silent as duty itself.
I dipped the brush in ink.
The tip touched the page, the black stain spreading like a sigh.
Then I began to write.
The words came calm and clear.
There wasn't much to say.
I thanked him for his concern, assured him there was "no relationship of note" with Lady Yuan He, and, at the end, wished him peace — which, coming from me, was the closest thing to irony I allowed myself.
When I finished, I set the brush aside and folded the paper carefully, once, then again.
I didn't seal it.
There was no need.
The woman before me was seal enough.
I stood and approached her.
Each step sounded too loud in the quiet room.
She remained still, watching me with that same composed expression.
Only the faint glint in her eyes betrayed a trace of expectation.
I handed her the letter with both hands — the formal gesture of imperial courtesy between siblings.
"Thank you, sister," I said, my tone respectful but not submissive.
For the briefest moment, her stillness broke.
Her lips curved into a faint smile — barely perceptible, yet genuine enough to catch me off guard.
There was an unexpected gentleness in that gesture, as though for a heartbeat she ceased being an imperial shadow and became simply… human.
"It's not a problem, brother," she replied, her voice low, steady, and eerily serene.
That voice didn't seem to belong to the room — or even to this world.
It sounded pure, like a breath inside the soul, the kind of sound that bypasses the ears and settles in the mind.
Then, without warning, she moved.
Not quickly — but with a grace that defied space itself.
The air rippled faintly, the lamplight bending like liquid glass.
For an instant, I could have sworn she was still there.
But her blue gaze vanished first.
Then the outline of her cloak, the shadow on the wall, the sound of her breathing — everything simply… ceased to exist.
No sound.
No flutter of fabric.
Nothing.
It was as if she had never been there at all.
Only the letter I had written remained on the table, ink still wet, and the faint scent of pine — the same as the imperial wax — lingering in the air, slowly fading.
I stood there for a while, staring at the space where she'd been.
The room looked the same, yet it wasn't.
The space felt smaller, heavier.
And now, even silence had weight.
The inn, which had once been a comfortable stop along the journey, no longer felt safe.
And for the first time since leaving my mother's estate, I understood what she had meant when she warned me:
"The Empire doesn't need swords to watch us. Sometimes, blood is enough."
I sat again, the lamplight flickering softly beside me, and looked at the broken seal on the table.
The dragon still stared back — still regal, still unyielding.
And in that moment, I understood, with absolute clarity, what it meant to be a Zhuge.
We are never truly alone.
Not when the room is silent.
Not even when we believe we are safe.