The seasons changed without ceremony.
Within the palace, those changes were visible only in the direction of the wind and the fabrics worn by the servants. Curtains were replaced, different incense was lit, and the palace schedule shifted little by little. Yet for Li Yanqing, the days continued to follow the same pattern.
Morning lessons.
Afternoons spent reading reports.
Evenings copying manuscripts.
Only, there was one new habit he never fully noticed.
Whenever he sat alone—whether in a pavilion, the reading hall, or a high balcony—his hand would almost always slip into the sleeve of his robe. His fingers would find something small and light, then close around it gently.
A hair ribbon.
Plain. Unadorned. Even its color had begun to fade.
Yanqing never tied it into his hair. He merely kept it, folded neatly, as if afraid that touching it too often would cause it to fray.
Sometimes he would stare at it for a long while.
Sometimes he only needed to be certain that it was still there.
That day, Yanqing sat by the window as dusk descended. Orange light brushed across the floor, stretching the shadows of the bookshelves. He had just finished reading a border report—about troop movements, about harsh weather, about training proceeding without significant obstacles.
Shen Zhiyuan's name did not appear anywhere on the page.
Yet Yanqing read the report twice.
He closed the scroll slowly and leaned lightly against the window frame. Outside, the sky lay vast and clear.
Without realizing it, he murmured softly, almost soundless.
"Is the wind colder there?"
No one answered.
And Yanqing did not feel he needed one.
He opened his palm slightly, gazing at the hair ribbon beneath the fading light. His fingers traced the fabric's fibers, now faintly worn from being held too often.
He remembered that day in the pavilion—Zhiyuan's hesitant hand as he passed it over, the look in his eyes as though he wished to say so much, yet chose silence.
Yanqing closed his hand again.
"Zhiyuan… work hard," he murmured.
He did not speak those words as a command.
But as a message.
---
The wind at the northern border truly was colder.
It did not merely bite at the skin—it seeped through clothing, carrying the scent of dry earth and iron. The barracks stood solid, yet were never truly warm. Here, mornings arrived too quickly, and nights felt far too long.
Shen Zhiyuan sat at the edge of his wooden bunk after night training.
His arms felt heavy. His shoulders ached. His breathing was still slightly uneven. Yet his back remained straight—a habit he had never quite shed.
In his hand, he held a small object.
A jade hairpin.
Its color was pale, almost plain, its surface smooth and cool. There were no striking carvings, no excessive ornamentation—only jade chosen with care.
Zhiyuan had never worn it.
He kept it wrapped in cloth, tucked into the deepest part of his personal pack. Yet every night before sleeping, he would take it out for a moment.
As if to confirm that it was real.
He turned the hairpin slowly between his fingers. The jade reflected the lamplight softly.
"A protective charm," he murmured, barely audible.
He had never truly believed in talismans.
But for this one, he did not dare dismiss its meaning.
Outside, the sound of soldiers' footsteps passed by, followed by brief laughter that quickly faded. The barracks were never truly silent, yet stillness settled the moment voices ceased.
Zhiyuan leaned his back against the wall and stared at the dark wooden ceiling.
His thoughts returned to the palace.
To the high pavilion.
To the window veiled with thin curtains.
To someone who stood calmly there, gazing from afar without waving.
Zhiyuan closed his eyes for a moment.
He did not regret leaving.
He knew that if he wished to stand beside that person someday, he could not remain where he was. He had to temper himself first.
And yet…
His hand tightened slightly around the jade hairpin.
"Six years," he whispered.
The number did not feel any lighter when spoken.
But now, it had a purpose.
Zhiyuan opened his eyes again and carefully put the hairpin away. He stood, straightened his clothes, and prepared to rest.
Tomorrow, training would begin before sunrise.
And he would not falter.
---
Season after season.
Year after year.
The eastern gate of the capital opened early in the morning.
Imperial banners fluttered low in the spring wind as rows of citizens lined the road. There were no excessive shouts—only restrained murmurs of anticipation, as though everyone was waiting for something worthy of being awaited.
Li Yanqing stood in the observation pavilion.
His position was the same as it had been six years ago.
But he was no longer the same person.
He stood upright, both hands hidden within his sleeves. His formal robes fell neatly over a fully matured posture. His face was calm, his gaze clear, yet there was a faint tension even he refused to acknowledge.
Below, the sound of approaching hooves began to rise.
Measured. Heavy. Disciplined.
The returning troops entered the gate in nearly perfect formation. Armor reflected the morning light; weapons were held neatly aloft. Several banners of victory were carried among them—not ostentatious, but enough to make it clear they had not returned empty-handed.
At the front rode Shen Zhiyuan.
His frame was steady, shoulders straight, movements firm. The sharpness of youth that once lingered on his face had been tempered by time and battle—not hardened, but deepened, steadied.
He looked straight ahead.
But as the procession slowed near the city center, his gaze lifted slightly.
Toward the pavilion.
Shen Zhiyuan recognized it at once.
And he saw Li Yanqing.
His horse's pace did not falter, his expression did not change. Yet there was a brief pause—only a moment—in his breathing. Like someone realizing that the weight constricting his chest for years was still there, waiting.
In the pavilion, Li Yanqing did not move.
The cheers of the people swelled around him, yet sounded distant. His heartbeat remained slow and steady, but louder than it should have been.
He understood one thing with absolute clarity.
Shen Zhiyuan had returned as someone new.
No longer the young man who had departed with a vague promise and heavy steps, but a man carrying the results of years Yanqing had not witnessed.
Their gazes met.
Not for long.
But long enough.
Long enough for Li Yanqing to draw a deep breath without realizing it.
Long enough for Shen Zhiyuan to straighten his back just a fraction more.
The procession continued forward. Protocol demanded it. Official receptions awaited ahead.
When Shen Zhiyuan passed beneath the pavilion, he did not look back.
And Li Yanqing did not call out.
Yet both of them knew—
They had acknowledged each other's presence in silence.
---
The main hall of the palace glowed beneath hanging lanterns.
The welcoming ceremony proceeded according to protocol. Titles were announced, brief reports delivered, victories recorded in formal, precise language. Applause arose at the appropriate moments.
Li Yanqing sat in his seat of honor.
His expression was composed, his posture upright. He listened to every word, nodded where required, displaying the attentiveness befitting the weight upon his shoulders.
Shen Zhiyuan stood several steps below.
He bowed his head at the proper angle—not too low, not arrogant. His voice was steady as he answered the emperor's questions. There was no hint of self-glorification, only clear accounts of what his troops had endured.
Yet in between—
Li Yanqing became aware of something unsettling.
He was too aware of Shen Zhiyuan's presence.
Not because of merit, nor because of the attention of the hall—but because every time Zhiyuan spoke, the sound felt close. As though six years had never truly separated them.
When it was Li Yanqing's turn to speak formally, his gaze dipped for a brief moment.
Unintentionally.
Their eyes met again.
This time, a little longer.
Long enough for Li Yanqing to pause before continuing, his tone still controlled.
"The service you have rendered," he said calmly, "will be duly recorded by the empire."
The words were formal. His authority intact.
Yet Shen Zhiyuan heard something beneath them—composure held too carefully.
He replied, "It is this subject's duty."
Brief. Precise. No more.
They both understood this was not a place for anything beyond their respective roles.
And because of that… the restraint became all the more apparent.
The ceremony concluded. The hall gradually emptied.
Officials gathered in small groups; some soldiers were summoned for further instructions. Shen Zhiyuan stepped back with his contingent, following the prescribed flow.
He did not turn around.
Li Yanqing did not call out.
Yet as Shen Zhiyuan reached the threshold, he felt something strange—a small, almost instinctive urge to confirm one thing.
He turned.
Li Yanqing was still there.
Not looking at him directly. Standing with the same calm posture as before, as though departures and returns alike had never shaken anything at all.
Shen Zhiyuan inhaled slowly.
The feeling he had once dismissed as mere youthful attachment had not faded.
It had only changed shape.
---
Night fell quietly.
Li Yanqing sat alone in his study. An oil lamp burned dimly, illuminating the open scroll before him. He read one line, then stopped.
His focus slipped away.
He closed the scroll slowly and leaned back in his chair.
Outside the window, the night wind whispered softly.
Shen Zhiyuan's image surfaced unbidden—not the youth he once was, but the man who had stood in the hall today. Mature. Steady. So different from the Shen Zhiyuan of six years ago.
Li Yanqing exhaled.
He did not yet know the name of that feeling.
He only knew that whenever Shen Zhiyuan crossed his thoughts, his mind never truly rested.
And something capable of disturbing his composure like that could never be simple.
Elsewhere in the palace grounds, Shen Zhiyuan stood in the courtyard of the temporary barracks.
His outer robe was removed, his hair loosely tied. He gazed at the night sky without truly seeing the stars.
His thoughts returned to that pavilion. That hall. That gaze—too calm.
His hand curled slowly into a fist.
Six years he had spent strengthening himself—for the battlefield, for responsibility, for a future still undefined.
And now he understood.
What he had avoided all along was not distance.
But the truth that there was something within him he could no longer ignore.