The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the palace corridors as Princess Luo Yanran,the only daughter of the Emperor and Empress of Luo, a 19 years old princess lifted her skirts and ran. Her ornate hairpins jingled with each hurried step, and her embroidered shoes made soft pattering sounds against the stone floor. Servants pressed themselves against the walls as she passed, bowing hastily.
"Brother Zhenwei!" she called out breathlessly as she spotted a tall figure in dark robes standing near the eastern corridor.
Prince Zhenwei, the second prince of Luo and son of the late Second Concubine, turned at the sound of her voice. He had been speaking with one of his personal guards, but upon seeing his sister's flushed face and determined expression, a rare smile crossed his features. With a subtle gesture, he dismissed the guard.
"Here you are!" Princess Yanran gasped as she finally reached him, one hand pressed against her chest as she tried to catch her breath. "I've been looking for you everywhere! Since the first day of your return, but I couldn't find you no matter how long I waited. You always left early and came back... who knows when!" Her words tumbled out in a rush, punctuated by quick breaths.
Zhenwei's expression softened with genuine affection—a look few ever saw on the usually stoic prince's face. "Alright, alright, I understand," he said gently, reaching out to steady her by the shoulders. "Let's talk inside, here—"
"No!" Yanran interrupted, shaking her head vigorously. "We don't have time for that! Let's go to the lantern festival!" Her eyes sparkled with excitement and something else—determination mixed with the faintest hint of accusation.
"Don't tell me you forgot your promise. The one you made before leaving two years ago."
The smile faded slightly from Zhenwei's face, replaced by a more thoughtful expression as memory washed over him.
Two years ago, the capital gates stood open before dawn.
Prince Zhenwei sat tall on his black war horse, wearing the crimson and gold uniform of a general.
Behind him, rows upon rows of soldiers stood at attention, their armor gleaming in the early morning light. Banners bearing the dragon seal of Luo snapped in the cold wind. The Emperor had ordered him to lead the campaign against the northern incursion—to participate in the war and return victorious, or not return at all.
"Brother Zhenwei!"
The desperate cry cut through the military precision of the moment. Zhenwei turned to see Princess Yanran running toward him, her formal palace robes hindering her steps, tears streaming down her young face. Without hesitation, he dismounted, his boots hitting the ground with a heavy thud.
She stumbled to a stop before him, trying desperately to compose herself, to be the dignified princess she'd been taught to be. But her voice trembled. "Brother Zhenwei... is it really important for you to leave for the war? Or is it only because you are not favored by Father? Because of the incident eighteen years ago? Tell me—if it is so, I can beg Father not to send you to war!"
Zhenwei's jaw tightened for just a moment before he reached out, gently wiping the tears from her cheeks with his thumb. His touch was careful, brotherly, infinitely tender. "Didn't you already ask him not to?" he said quietly. "He won't change his mind, even if you ask again."
Fresh tears welled in Yanran's eyes.
"But don't worry," Zhenwei continued, and despite everything—the war ahead, the Emperor's coldness, the shadow that had hung over him since childhood—his voice was warm. "Today is the Lantern Festival, right? I promise you, I will definitely celebrate the next Lantern Festival together with you. We'll eat moon cakes and roam all the market districts.
Everything. Okay?"
Before she could respond, before she could beg him one more time not to go, he remounted his horse in one fluid motion. "Let's go!" he commanded, his voice carrying the authority of a general.
The soldiers began to move. But just before they passed through the gates, Zhenwei turned back. His eyes found his sister's small figure, and he smiled—a genuine smile that lit up his usually guarded face. Then he turned forward again, riding toward war and an uncertain future.
"Of course I remember," Zhenwei said, his voice bringing them both back to the present. They sat together in the lakeside pavilion, lotus flowers floating on the water's surface while the afternoon sun painted everything in shades of gold. "But isn't it supposed to be in the evening? It's still day."
Yanran's face lit up with excitement. "Yes, we are! But we have to get ready first!" She stood abruptly, nearly knocking over the tea cup on the small table between them.
"Get ready?" Zhenwei raised an eyebrow, amusement flickering in his eyes.
"Yes! We can't go dressed like this—everyone would recognize us immediately." She gestured at their royal garments. "You get changed, and we'll leave as soon as you're ready. Okay?"
Zhenwei couldn't help but smile at her enthusiasm. After two years of war, of death and strategy and the weight of command, her simple joy was like fresh air. "Okay."
By the time evening arrived, the capital's streets had transformed. Red lanterns hung from every shop and home, their warm glow turning the approaching darkness into something magical. The air was thick with the scent of incense, roasted chestnuts, and sweet pastries. Merchants called out their wares while children ran through the crowds, waving smaller lanterns on sticks.
Princess Yanran, now dressed in the fine but unremarkable robes of a wealthy merchant's daughter, practically vibrated with excitement as their carriage stopped at the edge of the market district. Her hair was styled simply, with only a jade hairpin to hold it in place—nothing that would draw attention.
Prince Zhenwei, wearing black robes of good quality but no distinguishing features, stepped out first and offered his hand to help her down. His sword was at his hip, but concealed beneath his outer robe. Old habits from war died hard.
"Remember," he said quietly as they joined the flow of people entering the festival, "stay where I can see you."
"I know, I know," Yanran replied, but her attention was already caught by a nearby stall displaying painted silk fans. "Oh, look at those!"
Zhenwei followed at a measured distance—not too far, not too close—allowing his sister the freedom to explore while keeping her safely within his sight. He'd protected entire battalions on the battlefield; one princess in a crowded market should be simple enough.
But the crowd was thick, and Yanran's excitement was boundless. She moved from stall to stall like a butterfly, examining jade ornaments, exclaiming over embroidered pouches, watching a puppet show with the delighted laughter of someone who'd spent too long behind palace walls.
Then she stopped abruptly, her whole body going still. "Moon cakes!" she breathed, and before Zhenwei could react, she plunged into the dense crowd surrounding a particularly popular vendor's stall.
"Yanran—" Zhenwei moved forward quickly, cutting through the press of bodies. The crowd was too thick, too chaotic. He'd lost sight of her dark blue robes among dozens of others.
At that same moment, at that same moon cake stall, another figure stood examining the vendor's wares.
Yuelai's face was completely hidden beneath the hood of her cloak, the shadows concealing her features entirely. The cloak itself was deliberately shapeless, revealing nothing of whether the wearer beneath was male or female, noble or common. Only her hands were visible as she pointed to a particular variety of moon cake, negotiating price with the vendor.
But something made her pause. A prickling sensation at the back of her neck—the instinct honed by years of survival, the same warning that had saved her life countless times before.
She was being watched.
Her eyes, sharp despite the growing darkness, scanned the crowd carefully. And there—on a rooftop across the street—a figure in dark clothing. The glint of metal catching lamplight.
An archer. Drawing his bow.
Yuelai froze. The crowd pressed in on all sides—festival-goers laughing, talking, completely unaware. If she moved suddenly, if she tried to dodge, the arrow might hit someone else. The archer was skilled; she could tell by the steadiness of his stance, the confidence of his draw. He wouldn't miss by much.
Her hand moved instinctively toward her sword, but it was still sheathed beneath her cloak. Too slow. The arrow was already nocked.
Then someone pushed past her—a young woman in blue robes, eyes bright with excitement, heading straight for the moon cake display.
Everything happened in the span of a heartbeat.
The archer released.
Yuelai lunged forward, grabbing the young woman's shoulder and yanking her backward with her injured left arm. Pain exploded through her healing wound, but she ignored it, pulling the stranger behind her as she twisted her body to take the arrow's path.
The arrowhead struck her left shoulder with brutal force—the same shoulder that had been injured days before. The impact drove her back a step, and hot pain radiated through her entire arm. But the young woman was safe behind her.
The crowd erupted into chaos. Someone screamed. People scattered.
Through the haze of pain, But there was no time to reassure her. The archer might shoot again. She had to—
A hand gripped Princess Yanran's shoulder—the person who had saved her, who had taken an arrow meant for... for whom? Yanran's mind reeled, unable to process what had just happened.
Then a figure in black appeared beside them, moving with deadly precision. Prince Zhenwei had cut through the crowd the moment he'd heard the scream, and now his eyes fixed on the cloaked figure holding his sister.
An assassin. Holding the princess.
His sword left its sheath with a whisper of steel, and before Yuelai could even process his presence, he swung at her neck.
Pure instinct saved her life. Her right hand shot up, her sheathed sword somehow in her grip, intercepting his blade with a sharp clang that sent vibrations up her injured arm.
The force of the blow nearly drove her to her knees.
He's fast, she thought with a jolt of alarm. Incredibly fast.
Zhenwei's eyes narrowed. The assassin had blocked his strike, but the movement revealed something—the edge of the face covering had loosened. Without hesitation, he struck upward with the flat of his blade, knocking the hood and covering away.
Long dark hair spilled free, catching the lantern light. A woman's face, pale with pain but sharp with intelligence. Young. Beautiful, even with blood on her lips from biting back a cry of pain.
Yuelai felt the cool night air on her exposed face and knew she'd been revealed. Her injured shoulder screamed in protest as she tried to draw her sword with her right hand, tried to bring it up to defend herself, but pain made her slow—too slow.
Zhenwei's blade was already at her throat.
The edge pressed against her skin, not quite breaking it but close enough that she felt the razor sharpness. A thin line of warmth trickled down her neck—blood from where the blade had scratched her.
He's not just fast, Yuelai realized, her body frozen in place, her partially drawn sword useless. He's strong. Skilled. I can't move. If I try, he'll kill me before I can defend myself.
"Who are you?" Zhenwei's voice was cold, deadly. The warmth he'd shown his sister was completely gone, replaced by the general who had led armies, who had killed enemies without hesitation. "Who sent you here?" He raised his voice slightly. "Guards! Capture her!"
Imperial guards materialized from the crowd—they'd been stationed throughout the festival district, hidden among the common folk. Now they surrounded Yuelai in a circle of drawn weapons, creating a scene that drew even more attention. The crowd pressed back, people craning their necks to see what was happening.
Among them was Wei Ling, who had been admiring paper lanterns several stalls away when she'd heard the commotion. Her heart sank as she pushed through the crowd, dread filling her chest. Please don't let it be—
"STOP!"
Princess Yanran's voice cut through the tension like a blade of its own. She'd been frozen in shock, too frightened to speak, but now her voice rang out with royal authority despite her common clothes. "Wait, Brother Zhenwei!"
Zhenwei didn't move, his sword still at the woman's throat, but his eyes flicked to his sister. "Step back, Yanran. This person—"
"She saved me!" Yanran's voice shook, but she stepped forward instead of back. "She saved me from the arrow! Look—she pushed me out of the way and took it herself!"
For the first time, Zhenwei's gaze moved from the woman's face to her shoulder. Blood soaked through the cloak, dark and wet in the lantern light. An arrow protruded from her left shoulder, the shaft still quivering slightly.
His eyes widened fractionally. Then he lowered his sword, stepping back and sheathing it in one smooth motion. "I apologize," he said, and though his voice was still guarded, the killing intent had vanished. "I misunderstood the situation."
Yuelai said nothing. Her vision was starting to blur at the edges, dark spots dancing across her sight. The pain in her shoulder had gone from sharp to a dull, spreading numbness that frightened her more than the initial impact had. She tried to remain standing, tried to focus, but her thoughts felt scattered, disjointed.
Wei Ling, she thought desperately, her eyes scanning the crowd with increasing desperation. Where is Wei Ling? We need to leave. Need to get away before—
"You're still bleeding!" Princess Yanran's voice seemed to come from far away, though she was right beside Yuelai.
"Please, let us take you to a physician! You saved my life—I can't let you—"
"No," Yuelai managed to say, though her voice sounded strange even to her own ears. Distant. "No, thank you. I'm... I'm alright."
She wasn't alright. She knew she wasn't alright. But accepting help from royalty, from the prince who had nearly killed her, would create complications she couldn't afford. She just needed to find Wei Ling and—
"YUELAI!"
The scream tore through the marketplace, raw with terror and anguish. Wei Ling's voice.
Yuelai turned toward the sound, her body moving automatically despite the pain. Through the crowd of faces, she saw Wei Ling pushing forward, her face pale as death, her eyes wide with horror. The beautiful lantern she'd been holding fell from her hands, the paper crumpling as it hit the ground and the candle inside sputtering out.
Wei Ling ran toward her, arms outstretched.
Yuelai tried to take a step forward, tried to tell her it was alright, that she would be fine. But her legs wouldn't obey.
The world tilted sideways, the lanterns blurring into streams of red and gold light.
Her body crumpled.
Strong arms caught her before she hit the ground—Prince Zhenwei had moved with that same impossible speed, catching her mid-fall and lifting her effortlessly into his arms.
"Poison," he said grimly, his fingers finding her pulse at her wrist. It was thready, too fast. "The arrow was poisoned."
Princess Yanran gasped, one hand flying to her mouth. "No! Brother, we have to—"
"Guards," Zhenwei commanded, his voice sharp with urgency.
"Escort the princess back to the palace immediately."
"No!" Yanran grabbed his arm. "Brother Zhenwei, where are you taking her? I'm coming too! She was injured because of me—because she saved me. Please!"
Zhenwei looked at his sister's tear-filled eyes and knew she wouldn't be dissuaded. "Fine. But we move quickly." He shifted Yuelai's weight in his arms, mindful of the arrow still embedded in her shoulder. "My carriage. Now."
He strode through the crowd, which parted before him like water. Guards flanked them on all sides, clearing the path.
Princess Yanran followed close behind, her hands clasped tightly together.
And Wei Ling, her face streaked with tears, ran after them.
"Please," she gasped as she caught up. "Please, I'm her cousin. Don't leave me behind.I know medecine ,Please."
Zhenwei glanced at the young woman—clearly a daughter of some noble or officer, dressed in simple clothes.
"Zhenwei nodded curtly. They didn't have time for interrogation now. "Get in the carriage."
The royal carriage was nearby—Zhenwei had stationed it close to the festival grounds for exactly this reason, though he'd expected to use it for his sister's safety, not for a poisoned stranger who had saved her life.
He climbed in first, still cradling Yuelai's unconscious form, and laid her carefully on the cushioned bench. Princess Yanran scrambled in after him, followed by Wei Ling, who immediately moved to Yuelai's side.
"Don't worry."zhenge said. We'll be at the palace in minutes.
"The palace?" Wei Ling's voice was small, frightened.
"The royal physicians are the best in the capital," Princess Yanran said gently, placing a reassuring hand on Wei Ling's arm even as her own hands trembled. "They'll save her. They have to."
The carriage lurched into motion, moving far faster than was safe through the crowded streets. People scattered as the royal guards shouted for them to clear the way. Through the windows, the cheerful lanterns of the festival blurred past, their beauty now seeming almost mocking.
Zhenwei kept his fingers on Yuelai's pulse, his face grim. The poison was spreading quickly—he could feel her heart racing, could see the pallor of her skin even in the dim carriage light.
Whoever had shot that arrow had meant to kill.
But who had they been aiming for? His sister? Or this mysterious young woman who fought like a trained warrior but dressed like a noble women?
His eyes moved to her face. Even unconscious, even pale with poison, there was something striking about her features.
Sharp intelligence in the shape of her brow, determination in the set of her jaw. And that sword at her side—he'd felt the skill behind her block, even injured as she was. She was no ordinary person.
Who are you? he wondered, as the palace gates loomed ahead in the darkness.
Consciousness returned slowly, reluctantly.
The first thing Yuelai became aware of was softness—beneath her body, under her head. The texture of expensive silk against her skin. The second thing was the smell: medicinal herbs, but not the rough, pungent scents of common medicine. These were refined, carefully prepared, the kind only the wealthy could afford.
The third thing was pain, sharp and immediate, radiating from her left shoulder.
Her eyes opened slowly, adjusting to the soft glow of lamplight. She was lying on a bed. The room around her was furnished with elegant simplicity: carved wooden screens painted with mountain scenes, a small table holding a vase of fresh flowers, silk curtains hanging from the posts of the bed.
This was not her own room.
This was not anywhere she should be.
Panic tried to rise in her chest, but she forced it down,
keeping her breathing steady. Information first. Panic later.
She turned her head slowly, and her heart clenched.
Wei Ling sat in a chair beside the bed, her head tilted at an uncomfortable angle, asleep. Her face was puffy from crying,
One of her hands rested on the edge of the bed, fingers curled slightly as if she'd fallen asleep reaching for something.
Reaching for Yuelai.
I'm sorry, Yuelai thought, guilt washing through her. I'm so sorry, Wei Ling. I ruined your festival day. I wanted you to have fun, but instead...
She tried to sit up, and immediately regretted it. Pain shot through her shoulder, and she bit back a gasp. The movement was enough to wake Wei Ling, whose eyes flew open immediately.
"Yuelai!" Wei Ling surged forward, her hands hovering uncertainly, afraid to touch. "You're awake! Oh, thank the heavens, you're awake! I was so frightened, I thought—" Her voice broke.
"I'm alright," Yuelai said softly, even though she wasn't entirely sure that was true. "Wei Ling, where—"
The door to the room slid open.
Both women turned toward the sound. A figure stood silhouetted in the doorway, tall and imposing in black robes, backlit by the lanterns in the corridor beyond.
Prince Zhenwei stepped into the room, and his dark eyes met Yuelai's with an intensity that made her breath catch.
"You're awake," he said quietly.
And though his tone was neutral, there was something in his gaze—curiosity, suspicion, perhaps even concern—that made Yuelai realize with sinking certainty that her troubles were far from over.
END OF CHAPTER 15