Winter, 1386
Within walls far less forgiving—
a life unfolded.
—
Wang Yu-Huaà was nineteen.
And still confined.
The Imperial Court had condemned her long before any official decree was written. Society had simply followed.
Mad.
Unstable.
Broken.
The words clung easily. Too easily.
It was convenient—
for them.
Because it had meant they did not have to look closer.
—
Her chambers were not small. They were, in fact, generously furnished—silk drapes, carved lattice windows, a brazier that never went unlit in winter. To an outsider, it would resemble comfort.
To Yu-Huaà, it was a well-decorated cage.
She sat by the window when the decree arrived.
She had been watching the light.
Not the scenery beyond—never that. Her gaze rested instead on the way sunlight fractured through the carved wood, scattering itself across the floor in uneven patterns. It was predictable. Controlled.
Unlike people.
Footsteps approached.
Measured. Formal.
Not a servant.
Yu-Huaà did not turn.
"The decree has been issued."
The voice belonged to a court official—one who did not bother to soften his tone. Why would he? There was no need for courtesy here.
No need for anything.
"You will marry the Crown Prince."
—
No negotiation.
No discussion.
—
The son of the man who had signed her father's death warrant.
Irony was not something the court concerned itself with.
—
She listened.
Quietly.
Still facing the fractured light.
—
Then—
she smiled.
—
It was not a pleasant expression.
—
The official faltered. Only briefly. But enough.
He had expected hysteria. Perhaps defiance. At the very least—emotion.
He received none.
"Preparations will begin immediately," he continued, recovering. "You will remain within the residence until the appointed date."
Of course she would.
They had always preferred her contained.
—
That night—
she disappeared.
—
No one saw her leave.
No servant reported movement. No guard recalled a disturbance. No door was found unlatched, no window disturbed.
By the time they realised—
she was already gone.
—
Military Grounds — Outskirts of Nanjing
The arrow flew before the guards understood what they were seeing.
It cut through the winter air—clean, precise, silent.
Not a warning.
A strike.
—
It should have killed him.
—
Zhu Biao, Crown Prince of the Ming, did not move like other men.
There was no panic. No hesitation.
Only instinct.
His hand rose—swift, unthinking—
And caught the arrow.
—
The force drove it through flesh.
Blood followed immediately, dark against the pale of winter light.
But he did not fall.
—
The courtyard erupted.
"Your Highness!"
"Find the archer!"
Guards surged outward, scanning rooftops, walls, the distant tree line beyond the outer grounds. Orders collided with one another in the chaos.
But the Crown Prince stood unmoving.
His grip tightened around the shaft embedded in his palm.
He did not release it.
—
"Stop."
The command cut through the noise—not loud, but absolute.
Everything stilled.
—
Zhu Biao lowered his hand slightly, studying the arrow with a focus that bordered on detached curiosity. The fletching was unremarkable. The craftsmanship… precise, but not identifiable. No insignia. No message.
Whoever had fired it had not intended to be known.
—
Or had not needed to be.
—
"Distance?" he asked.
A guard hesitated. "Far, Your Highness. Beyond standard range."
Zhu Biao's gaze lifted—not toward the men before him, but past them. To the far edges of the training grounds. To the spaces where sight blurred and certainty dissolved.
A skilled archer, then.
One who had calculated the shot.
One who had expected it to land.
—
And yet—
there had been no second arrow.
—
Interesting.
—
"Seal the perimeter," he said calmly. "Search every structure within range."
"Yes, Your Highness!"
The guards dispersed immediately.
—
But even as they searched—
they found nothing.
No trace.
No footprint.
No broken branch or displaced stone.
The winter ground lay undisturbed.
—
Only the arrow remained.
And the question it left behind.
—
Miles away—
hidden once more behind walls meant to contain her—
Wang Yu-Huaà laughed.
—
Softly.
To herself.
—
Was she so taken by the act she put on all those years?
Her only misfortune in life was the surname she held—
Wang.
—
Her bright amber eyes reflected the dim light of her chamber as though nothing had changed. As though she had never left. As though the world beyond her confinement remained untouched by her hand.
Speckles of light poured onto her face.
Her braid lay over her shoulder, threaded with delicate ornaments that caught the faint glow of the brazier.
Composed.
Untouched.
Contained.
—
She had learned long ago—
to lower expectations to nothing.
—
Yu-Huaà corrupted perception.
Her erratic behaviour, her carefully crafted instability—it had done exactly what she intended.
They believed her unworthy of attention.
Unworthy of surveillance.
Unworthy of threat.
—
"If they think you're broken…"
Her voice barely rose above a whisper.
"…they stop trying to break you."
—
And so they had stopped.
—
And in a not so far away distance, within a household more powerful than her own another life unfolded beneath far stricter control.
Withholding a life of deception not at her will. She was playing chess with her own life unaware.
Completely.
—
Xu Residence
The winter rain fell without pause.
It struck the tiled roofs in steady rhythm, slipped from curved eaves, and gathered in the stone basin below in soft, relentless drops.
A lady stood slightly beneath the overhang, unmoving.
She did not watch the rain.
Or rather—
she appeared not to.
⸻
The rain stopped—
from above her.
"My Lady."
The servant's voice came carefully, as though uncertain how much sound was appropriate.
Xu Lıan did not turn.
"I am aware," she replied, before the warning could be given.
—
A pause.
Then another voice—
softer, but edged with something firmer.
"Fourth Sister."
—
Lıan inclined her head slightly.
"Second Sister."
⸻
Xu Ying approached without hesitation. She did not reach out to guide her, as others often did. That mistake had been corrected long ago.
Xu Lıan did not require guidance.
—
"You have been standing here for some time," Ying said.
"I find the rain… predictable."
—
It was an odd answer.
But not one that invited questioning.
—
Xu Ying studied her briefly.
There was something about the fourth sister that resisted understanding. Not unsettling—no. The Xu household did not tolerate instability.
But neither was she entirely… comfortable.
Xu Lıan existed within the family as something already settled.
Accepted.
And yet—
not fully placed.
—
"You should return inside," Ying said at last. "Father will be receiving guests."
Lıan turned immediately.
No hesitation.
No misstep.
—
She walked without falter.
Not once did her hand reach outward.
—
The veil wrapped around her eyes remained undisturbed.
It was never removed in daylight.
No one questioned it.
—
In the Xu residence, explanations were unnecessary.
Order existed not through answers—
but through silence.
—
Servants did not ask why the fourth daughter moved with such precise stillness. Nor why her presence seemed to diminish and sharpen all at once.
They simply adjusted.
As all things within that household eventually did.
—
Six years ago—
she had not been Xu Lıan.
She had not been anyone at all.
—
February, 1380
The year everything ended.
—
She remembered it not in fragments—
but in decisions.
—
She had stripped herself first.
Not of clothing—
but of identity.
—
Her posture softened.
Her shoulders lowered.
Her presence reduced.
—
Her speech slowed.
Shortened.
Made uncertain.
—
Her gaze dropped—
then unfocused—
then emptied.
—
She had made herself smaller.
Quieter.
Forgettable.
—
Because survival did not belong to those who resisted.
It belonged to those who disappeared.
—
The road had been long.
Hunger, she ignored.
Fatigue—
she could not.
—
The mistake happened near dusk.
—
She saw the carriage.
Measured its speed.
Its distance.
Its direction.
—
And miscalculated.
—
The impact was slight.
Enough.
—
Voices rose immediately.
Sharp.
Irritated.
—
"Watch where you're going!"
"Are you blind?"
—
She did not respond.
Did not move.
Did not apologise.
—
That was the second mistake.
—
Silence—
in the wrong moment—
draws attention.
—
The carriage door opened.
Slowly.
—
A woman stepped out.
—
She did not speak at once.
She looked.
—
And in that moment—
everything could have ended.
—
She saw too much.
—
Hands too refined.
Even beneath dirt.
—
Posture correcting itself—unconsciously.
—
And eyes—
that did not plead.
—
Not fear.
Not desperation.
—
Something else.
—
"Inconsistency," the woman murmured.
—
That was what saved her.
Not weakness—
but error.
—
"Bring her closer."
—
Lıan allowed herself to be moved.
Measured.
Controlled.
—
"What is your name?"
—
A pause.
Calculated.
—
"Lıan."
—
Mercy.
—
The irony had not escaped her.
—
She survived through calculation—
yet was saved by pity.
—
And just like that—
her second life began.
—
Present — 1386
Now, Xu Lıan stood within one of the most powerful households in the empire.
Adopted.
Accepted.
Unquestioned.
—
Lıan had learnt quickly.
Where to stand.
When to speak.
When not to.
—
And most important—
how to remain unseen.
Existing in a place she was never meant to.
—
Xu Da was the empire's shield.
A general whose loyalty had built the Ming's strength.
His household reflected that power.
Disciplined.
Unyielding.
—
His eldest daughter, Xu Yihua, was already wed to the Fourth Prince—the Prince of Yan.
A union of strategy.
Of alignment.
Of future consequence.
—
And now—
new talks had begun.
—
"A Marquis has been appointed."
News travelled quickly within the capital Nanjing.
It always had.
The words spread quickly through the Xu residence.
"Jiangxia."
"A man who saved entire regions from famine.
"A blessing, they say."
—
His name followed soon after.
—
Zhıyuan.
—
Within the great hall, discussions unfolded with quiet calculation.
"A man favoured by the Emperor must be bound carefully."
"The Xu family is the natural choice."
"Second Daughter—perhaps."
—
A pause.
—
A glance—
brief, unintentional—
toward the fourth.
—
Then dismissed.
—
Because even in consideration—
some things did not fit.
—
Xu Lıan stood where she always did.
Still.
Unremarkable.
Forgotten.
—
And yet—
something beneath the surface had begun to shift.
—
A Crown Prince had been targeted.
A girl had defied her confinement.
A man had risen from obscurity into power.
—
And within a household built on loyalty—
stood someone who belonged to none of it.
—
The rain continued to fall.
Soft.
Endless.
—
Washing over a world already beginning to change.
—
No one spoke of it.
Not yet.
—
But beneath silence—
threads were tightening.
—
And soon—
they would begin to pull.
—
Xu Lıan did not move.
—
But behind the veil—
her eyes were open.