The world at dawn belonged to the guards.
Lan Yue learned this the hard way.
The sky was only just beginning to pale when she stumbled out of bed, fingers clumsy on the knot of her sash. The air bit through her thin tunic, smelling of cold stone and water from the wells. In the courtyard, the old plum tree was a dark silhouette, petals drifting like pale ghosts.
She splashed her face from the basin, hissed at the chill, and grabbed her wooden sword.
Her father was already awake. He sat at the small table, strapping on his bracers with unhurried movements.
"Eat," he said, tilting his chin at the steaming bowl on the table.
Yue's stomach knotted. "I'm not hungry."
"You will be," he said. "Better rice now than dirt later."
She gulped down half the porridge, feeling it sit heavy and warm in her belly. Her hands shook just enough to make the chopsticks clack.
Lan Zhen watched without comment, then rose.
"The main parade ground," he said, "is three courtyards west, two north. You'll hear it before you see it."
"Hear what?" Yue asked.
He paused at the door.
"Breathing," he said. "Lots of it."
He was right.
Even before she reached the high archway that marked the parade ground, the low thunder of feet on packed earth, the sharp calls of drillmasters, and the rhythmic exhale of dozens of lungs filled the air.
Yue stepped through the arch and stopped dead.
The main parade ground was enormous—at least three times the size of the little east yard. The ground had been beaten flat and hard by generations of training. Sunlight had not yet fully reached it; the eastern wall cast a long, cool shadow.
Lines of young men in training uniforms ran its perimeter, boots thudding in unison. Their faces were flushed, breaths misting faintly in the morning chill. Each carried a sandbag over one shoulder.
Yue's own breath hitched just watching them.
"At the back," Drillmaster Han's voice barked from somewhere to her right. "Newcomers don't stand in front!"
She jumped. Han stood near the centre of the ground, arms folded, voice slicing cleanly through the morning noise.
"Yes, Drillmaster!" she shouted back, and jogged toward the edge of the running circle.
"Without the sword," he added.
She glanced down at the wooden blade and flushed, quickly propping it against the low wall.
As she joined the runners, several heads turned. Most were older boys, perhaps twelve to sixteen, sweat already darkening their collars. Their glances flicked over her slight frame, her loose hair ribbon, her too-large boots.
A few smirked. One or two looked away quickly, as if not wanting to be seen staring.
Yue gritted her teeth and matched her steps to theirs.
The ground was harder than the little yard, each impact jarring her ankles. The first lap was almost exhilarating—the cold air in her chest, the beat of feet, the sense of being part of something larger than her own stride.
By the second lap, her breath was burning. The porridge in her stomach sloshed uncomfortably. One of the boys ahead of her drifted sideways, forcing her to change pace; her rhythm shattered and her legs protested.
"Straight line!" someone shouted. "We're not drunken geese!"
Yue's cheeks flamed hot and cold at once.
She fixed her eyes on the back of the boy in front of her—a slightly hunched figure with a frayed collar—and focused on not falling.
By the time Drillmaster Han finally called, "Halt!", Yue's lungs were on fire. She stumbled to a stop with the others, hands on her knees, dragging in great, ragged gulps of air.
"Not bad," a voice panted next to her.
She looked up to see the boy with the frayed collar grinning at her. He had a mop of dark hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, and a nose that looked like it had been broken once and never quite healed straight.
"You didn't fall," he said. "First time out, I kissed the ground before I reached the first corner."
Yue tried to laugh and coughed instead. "I'm… not dead yet," she managed.
"That's the spirit." He offered a hand. "Chen Wei. Junior squad, third unit."
"Lan Yue," she said, straightening without taking it.
He didn't seem offended. "General Lan's daughter, right? News travels fast."
"Does it also bend?" Yue muttered.
Chen Wei smirked. "Depends who's talking."
"Enough gossip," Drillmaster Han's voice cracked like a whip. "Form up!"
They scrambled into lines.
Yue found herself at the far right end of the back row. It made sense; she was the shortest. The morning light was growing stronger now, edging the tops of the walls in gold.
"Today," Han barked, walking down the line with hands clasped behind his back, "you lucky lot will be honoured by the presence of His Highness the Crown Prince in your drills."
A ripple ran through the ranks, part excitement, part dread.
"Try not to fall on your faces," Han went on. "Or do. It will be memorable for him."
A few muffled snorts.
Yue's stomach did an odd little flip.
"He came yesterday," she whispered under her breath. "He's not going to—"
"Attention!" Han roared.
Every spine snapped straight.
From the archway, footsteps approached—unhurried, even. Yue kept her eyes forward, resisting the urge to crane her neck.
"Your Highness," Han said, bowing. "The junior squad is ready."
"At ease," Zhao Shen's voice replied. "I am only here to join the drill, not to inspect it."
There was a faint, irrepressible, "Hurray," from somewhere in the middle row. Han didn't turn, but his voice acquired a dangerous sweetness.
"Very well, if His Highness is here to join," he said, "we will show him our hospitality. Twenty push-ups, everyone. If one of you collapses, the whole squad does ten more."
A collective groan, quickly swallowed.
"Down!" Han snapped.
Yue dropped with the rest, palms stinging as they met the packed ground.
"Up! Down! Up!"
By the seventh, her arms felt like boiled noodles. By the fifteenth, her shoulders screamed. She clenched her jaw, staring at the dirt inches from her nose.
"One more," Han said. "Think of it as bowing to His Highness."
A few breathless laughs.
"Up!"
Yue pushed with everything she had. For a terrifying second, her arms did not respond. Then, from somewhere deep in her back, strength surged. She rose, trembling, but upright.
"Good," Han said. "You may yet live to see noon."
"Drillmaster Han is merciful today," Zhao Yuan's bright voice called from the edge. "Last month he made us do thirty just for dropping a spear."
"That spear nearly went through your foot, Second Prince," Han said dryly. "If you're going to drop weapons, at least aim them at the enemy."
A ripple of laughter moved through the squad, loosening shoulders.
Yue dared a sideways glance.
The Crown Prince stood a short distance away, in the same plain training robe as yesterday, hair pinned simply. Zhao Yuan bounced next to him, already rolling his sleeves up like he meant to join.
Zhao Shen's gaze skimmed the lines, pausing briefly at each face.
It reached Yue, passed, then drifted back.
For the barest fraction of a heartbeat, their eyes met.
His expression did not change. He gave no nod, no smile. But something subtle in his gaze—approval? expectation?—made the ache in her arms recede just a little.
"Form pairs," Han ordered. "Basic drills. Footwork and balance. No one hits the ground without my permission."
Yue turned, expecting to partner with Chen Wei. Instead, a shadow fell over her.
"May I?" a calm voice asked.
She looked up, heart lurching.
Zhao Shen stood in front of her, hands loose at his sides. Up close, the faint sheen of sweat on his neck suggested he had already done his own morning training.
Her mouth went dry.
"You… Your Highness," she stammered.
"If you don't wish to," he said quietly, "I can spar with Drillmaster Han instead."
Yue's mind supplied a vivid image of Drillmaster Han pummelling her mercilessly later for refusing the Crown Prince.
"I don't mind," she blurted. "I mean—I would be honoured."
His lips twitched. "Very well."
Around them, the rustle of whispers rose, then fell as Han's glare swept the ground.
"Eyes on your own partners," he snapped. "The Crown Prince won't jump into your laps, stop craning your necks!"
Zhao Yuan, somewhere in the middle, snickered loudly. "He might if you ask nicely—"
"Second Prince," Han said warningly.
"Fine, fine."
Yue swallowed, trying to focus.
"Feet," Zhao Shen said calmly, nodding at the ground. "Show me your stance."
She obeyed, sliding into position. Knees bent, weight low. She remembered his words from yesterday.
Roots as important as wings.
"Better," he said, after a moment. "But your right heel is still too light. If I push—"
He stepped forward and extended two fingers toward her shoulder.
Yue braced herself.
The touch was gentler than she expected, but steady. Even so, her back foot wobbled.
She caught herself, heat flushing her face.
"Again," he said.
He pushed, a little firmer. This time she held.
"Good," he murmured. "Now move as if attacking. No sword. Just feet and hips."
She obeyed, stepping forward, turning, retreating in the basic pattern.
Without noticing, she began to match her breathing to his quiet instructions: in on the shift forward, out on the pivot, in on the retreat. The world narrowed to the patch of ground under her feet and the occasional brush of his hand correcting a shoulder, a hip, the angle of her knee.
He never lingered. The contact was matter-of-fact, professional. But each brief touch burned through the thin fabric of her tunic with startling clarity.
"Your balance improves quickly," he observed.
"I don't want to fall in front of everyone," she muttered, then immediately regretted saying it aloud.
He was silent for a moment. Then:
"There is no shame in falling," he said. "Only in refusing to stand up again."
Yue blinked at him.
"I've seen you fall," Zhao Yuan called over from nearby, as if he had been itching for a chance to join the conversation. "Remember when you were ten and—"
"Yuan'er," Zhao Shen said without raising his voice.
Zhao Yuan coughed. "I mean, I've seen you stand up again very impressively."
Yue bit back a laugh.
"Eyes on your opponent, Second Prince," Drillmaster Han barked. "Unless you wish to kiss the ground again."
"Never," Zhao Yuan declared. "We're on bad terms."
The drills went on.
By the time Han called for a break, Yue's legs shook like reeds in a river, but there was a strange lightness under the exhaustion. The parade ground no longer seemed quite as huge and distant; her footprints, mingled with dozens of others, marked it just the same.
"Water," Han said. "Small cups. No one drinks enough to drown."
As the squad dispersed toward the water buckets, Zhao Shen stepped back.
"You did well," he said quietly.
Yue wiped her forehead with the back of her wrist, trying to look less like a panting dog.
"I nearly fell twice," she pointed out.
"And did not," he replied. "That is the important part."
She hesitated. "Your Highness… why are you…?"
He tilted his head slightly. "Why am I what?"
"Helping me," she said bluntly. "There are many other guards. Many other… people."
He regarded her for a long moment, something unreadable in his gaze.
"Because you said," he answered at last, "that you wanted to protect my world."
His voice was matter-of-fact, as if he were stating the weather.
"You were eight," he continued. "Many eight-year-olds make promises they forget by supper. Let us see whether you remember yours longer than that."
Yue opened her mouth, then closed it again.
"I will," she said finally. "Remember, I mean."
His eyes softened, just a little.
"I hold people to their words," he said. "Especially when they say them loudly."
A shout from near the water buckets interrupted them.
"Hey! Careful!"
Yue and Zhao Shen both turned.
A young guard had tripped, sending a bucket sloshing dangerously close to the edge of the ground where the stone began. Another boy jerked back, slipping on the wet patch.
He flailed, arms pinwheeling.
Yue moved without thinking.
Her feet, already primed by repetition, carried her forward. She lunged, caught the back of the boy's collar, and yanked.
He tumbled sideways, away from the stone lip, landing hard on the dirt with a surprised "Oof!"
Yue's own momentum threw her off balance. For a terrifying instant, the ground tilted. Her legs forgot where to be.
A hand closed around her forearm, steady as iron.
"Careful," Zhao Shen said, pulling her upright.
She blinked, heart hammering. His grip was firm, fingers wrapping almost all the way around her thin arm.
"Th-thank you, Your Highness," the fallen boy stammered, scrambling to his feet and bowing so low he nearly head-butted her.
"Thank her," Zhao Shen said, releasing Yue only when he was certain she was steady. "She pulled you."
The boy—broad-shouldered, red-faced with embarrassment—turned to Yue.
"Thank you," he mumbled. "I didn't mean to—"
"Watch your feet next time," Yue said, still breathless. "The ground doesn't move. You do."
A few nearby boys snickered.
To her surprise, the red-faced guard grinned.
"Yes, sir—uh, miss—uh…"
"Lan Yue," she supplied.
"Lan Yue," he repeated. "I'll… watch where I step."
Drillmaster Han strode over, giving the damp patch a withering look.
"Water on the ground," he said. "Sloppy. Ten extra laps for your unit after drills."
Groans rose.
"You can thank your teammate," Han added, jerking his chin at the boy Yue had saved. "If not for him, it would be twenty."
The boy winced. "Sorry."
"It's just running," Chen Wei said philosophically. "Better than scrubbing latrines."
"Who said you don't have to do both?" Han growled.
The groans deepened.
"Enough," Zhao Shen said calmly. "Drillmaster, may I suggest splitting the laps over two days? Exhaustion dulls reflexes. I would prefer the guards who protect my father to stay sharp."
Han's mouth flattened, but he inclined his head.
"As Your Highness wishes," he said. "Five today, five tomorrow."
The squad exhaled quietly in relief.
Yue glanced up at Zhao Shen.
He stood with arms loosely folded, face composed, but the line of his jaw was a touch softer than when he'd first arrived. His gaze shifted briefly to her, the barest acknowledgement.
"Back in line!" Han barked. "Break's over. You want to chat, do it after you can't feel your legs."
By the time the morning sun had fully cleared the eastern wall, Yue's tunic was soaked through. Every part of her body ached. When Drillmaster Han finally dismissed them, the squad staggered off the ground like survivors of a siege.
"Not bad for a first day," Chen Wei said, limping slightly as he matched her pace toward the weapon racks. "You didn't throw up. That's more than I can say for me."
Yue made a face. "My stomach thought about it."
"Next time, think quieter," he advised.
They parted ways at the archway, Chen Wei heading toward the barracks, Yue back toward the little plum tree courtyard.
Halfway there, she almost walked straight into someone.
"Watch it," a sharp voice snapped.
Yue jerked back.
The girl standing in front of her wore a simple but finely cut dress, pale green silk that caught the light. Her hair was pinned up with care, two delicate jade pendants dangling at her temples. A maid hovered just behind her.
Yue, sweaty and dust-streaked, became acutely aware of the mud on her boots.
"Sorry," Yue said, stepping aside.
The girl's gaze swept over her training uniform, the wooden sword slung across her back, the dirt on her hands. Something like disdain flickered across her face.
"You're the guard's daughter," she said, as if the words tasted strange. "The one who answered His Highness at the gate."
Yue stiffened. "Yes."
The girl lifted her chin. "I am Wen Ruo. My father is Minister Wen. We serve in the inner court."
Yue had learned enough in one day to know that meant power. Ministers wrote the words that moved armies.
"I see," Yue said.
Wen Ruo's eyes narrowed at her flat tone.
"You should be more careful," she said. "Running around like that. If you had knocked me down, it would have been… troublesome."
"I said I was sorry," Yue replied. "And I didn't knock you down."
"Not today," Wen Ruo said coolly. "But the palace is not a camp. People here remember. Especially when a nobody is impolite."
The word nobody snapped like a twig.
Yue's fingers curled.
"I didn't mean any disrespect," she forced out.
Wen Ruo smiled, thin and victorious.
"See that you don't," she said. "Some of us have been preparing our whole lives to serve near His Highness. It would be a shame if… others… stumbled in the way by accident."
She glided past, maid in tow, the faint scent of jasmine following.
Yue stood very still, jaw tight.
Some of us have been preparing our whole lives…
"What are you doing?" a new voice asked behind her. "Planning to take root in the path?"
Yue turned.
Zhao Yuan stood there, hands folded behind his head, watching her with open curiosity.
"Second Prince," she said quickly, bowing.
He waved a hand. "If you bow any lower, you'll be licking the floor. Don't. Han will make you scrub it."
Despite herself, Yue huffed a laugh.
"You look like you swallowed a bitter plum," Zhao Yuan observed, tilting his head in the direction Wen Ruo had gone. "Did Lady Wen say something sour?"
"You shouldn't ask that," Yue said carefully. "She's… important, isn't she?"
Zhao Yuan made a face. "Her father is. She is… loud, in a quiet way."
Yue frowned. "How can someone be loud quietly?"
"Trust me," he said. "You'll see. She's been paraded in front of us since she could totter, always with a scroll or a qin in hand. 'Lady Wen recites poetry so well.' 'Lady Wen plays so beautifully.'"
He mimicked an older courtier's fawning tone with such accuracy that Yue snorted.
Zhao Yuan grinned. "I prefer people who know how to fall down without screaming."
"I try not to fall at all," Yue said.
He eyed the dust on her knees. "You're not there yet."
"Working on it," she muttered.
He chuckled, then grew more serious.
"Don't worry about her," he said. "She likes to circle around my brother like a cat around a brazier. Makes a lot of fuss but won't actually jump in."
Yue blinked. "Around… the Crown Prince?"
"Of course," Zhao Yuan said. "She wants to be Crown Princess. Or Empress, if she reaches far enough."
The words sat oddly in Yue's ears.
"She's… suited?" she asked, unsure why she was asking.
"In the eyes of the court?" Zhao Yuan shrugged. "High birth. Proper manners. Knows exactly how deep to bow to please everyone."
"What about in your brother's eyes?" slipped out before Yue could stop it.
Zhao Yuan paused, gaze sharpening in an unexpectedly older way.
"My brother," he said slowly, "sees… differently."
Yue swallowed. "Differently how?"
Zhao Yuan studied her for a moment, then smiled, a flash of mischief back in his face.
"You'll find out if you keep running," he said. "And don't fall too much."
He waved and trotted off, whistling under his breath.
Yue watched him go, then looked down at her dirt-streaked hands.
Crown Princess.
The title felt like a word from a different language, belonging to a world separated from hers by gates she could never cross.
She shook her head, as if to clear fog, and started back toward the plum tree courtyard.
That night, after the lamps were extinguished and her father's breathing deepened into sleep, Yue lay awake, staring at the faint outline of the ceiling.
Her limbs throbbed pleasantly with exhaustion. Tomorrow would be worse, Drillmaster Han had promised. She almost looked forward to it.
Her mind drifted, unbidden, to Wen Ruo's cool eyes, to Zhao Yuan's easy grin, to the steady weight of Zhao Shen's hand on her arm.
We serve in the inner court.
"I'm just a guard's daughter," she whispered into the dark.
The words did not sting as much as she expected. They felt solid. True. Something she could stand on.
In a room far above hers, lit by a softer, steadier lamp, Zhao Shen sat at his desk again.
He unrolled the same crude sketch he had made the night before. The roundness of the cheeks was already wrong; today she had looked sharper, more angular, the first lines of muscle and determination etching themselves into her.
He picked up his brush, hesitated, then set it down.
Instead, he reached for a fresh strip of paper.
This time, he did not try to draw her face.
The brush moved, strokes quick and sure, forming characters that flowed into one another:
"Roots as important as wings."
He let the ink dry, then rolled the slip and slid it into a narrow bamboo tube.
When he sealed it, his fingers lingered on the lid.
Zhao Yuan's voice drifted from the doorway again, softer this time.
"Writing proverbs now?" he asked.
"Reminders," Zhao Shen said.
"For you or for her?" Zhao Yuan asked.
Zhao Shen did not answer.
He blew out the lamp and stared into the darkness for a long moment, listening to the distant, faint sounds of the sleeping palace: a guard's footsteps, an owl's call, the rustle of leaves in some far courtyard.
He knew, better than Yue could yet, how unforgiving the path she had chosen would be. How narrow. How full of places where one misstep could mean disaster, not only for her but for those around her.
And yet, when he had watched her run that morning, stubborn and breathless and refusing to fall, something in his chest had eased, just a fraction.
"Grow quickly," he murmured into the dark, the words almost a prayer. "But not so quickly you forget who you are."
In the small courtyard under the leaning plum tree, Lan Yue finally drifted into sleep, dreams full of pounding feet, bright horizons, and a voice that said, over and over:
Don't look at your feet.