The capital's spring ended not with rain but with a single imperial decree: the Crown Prince would host the Lantern Rite on the Night of Flowing Light, the first great festival since the old emperor's death.
Every noble house with a daughter of marriageable age received a gilt-edged invitation.
Every kitchen in the palace stocked extra oil for the torches that would line the River of Shadows, where lantern boats carried wishes to the sea.
And every guard—male or female—was ordered to patrol in full view, blades polished, boots silent, smiles forbidden.
Lan Yue learned of the festival the way she learned most things now: by overhearing whispers while she ran.
"They say the Empress Dowager will choose the betrothal candidate before the moon sets."
"They say the Wolf King's spies will slip inside the city disguised as poets."
"They say the Crown Prince himself will light the first lantern and write a name upon it."
Yue's lungs burned as she finished her laps, but the gossip clung like sweat. She slowed near the archway, wiping her face with the sleeve that now bore the faint imprint of steel plates—Zhao Shen's gift. The bracers had become second skin; she forgot they were there until someone stared.
Someone was staring now.
Wen Ruo stood on the marble steps above the parade ground, flanked by two maids holding silk parasols though the sun was still low. Her robe this morning was the color of young bamboo, embroidered with tiny silver phoenixes that caught the light each time she breathed. She watched Yue with the stillness of a heron watching minnows.
Yue touched her forehead in the briefest salute and angled away.
"Lan Yue." Wen Ruo's voice carried like a flute note—soft, impossible to ignore.
Yue stopped. "Lady Wen."
"A word, if your duties allow." Wen Ruo descended the steps. The maids remained above, parasols tilted to shield their mistress from both sun and witnesses.
Yue's pulse thudded against the leather bracer. "I'm due at the armoury."
"It will take only a moment." Wen Ruo's smile was small, perfect. "About the festival."
Yue swallowed. "I'm stationed on the riverbank. No festival for me."
"Precisely why I wished to speak." Wen Ruo stopped an arm's length away. "You will be… visible. People notice guards who stand too close to the prince. Especially when they are not truly guards."
The words struck like a practice blade—controlled, but meant to bruise. Yue kept her face blank. "I wear the uniform. I hold the post. That makes me a guard."
"Does it?" Wen Ruo's lashes fluttered. "My father says titles sewn on borrowed cloth unravel in the first storm. You train on the parade ground, yes. Yet your name is not on the imperial roster. Your pay comes from the general's purse, not the palace treasury. A charming… anomaly."
Anomaly. Yue tasted the insult. She leaned closer, voice low. "Anomalies can still bite."
Wen Ruo's smile never wavered. "I hope you remember which hand feeds you. The festival is a mirror, little sister. In torch-light every crack shows. Pray your reflection pleases the Dowager." She turned, robes whispering, and climbed back to her maids.
Yue released a breath she didn't know she'd held. Her knuckles ached inside the bracers.
The armoury smelled of oil and iron. Lanterns hung from hooks, their flames guarded by glass so the sparks wouldn't dance into barrels of pitch. Yue reported to Drillmaster Han, who handed her a new assignment scroll sealed with vermilion wax.
"River patrol, north sector," he said. "Pairs. You're with Chen Wei. Swords only—no spears; the crowd's thick. Keep the nobles from drowning each other in perfume."
Chen Wei groaned beside her. "Last year two ladies duelled with ivory fans over who stood nearer the prince. One fell in. The river stank of jasmine for days."
Han's glare silenced him. "Moonrise to moonset. Eyes open. The Wolf King's agents favour festivals—easy masks, easy exits." He paused, gaze resting on Yue. "And girl—keep your own mask on. Emotions glitter brighter than silk tonight."
She nodded, cheeks hot.
Dusk painted the palace eaves gold. From every balcony hung silk lanterns shaped like lotus, dragons, dancing cranes. Musicians tuned zithers on flower-bedecked barges. Kitchen boys scurried with trays of honey cakes and almond tofu. Court ladies drifted in clouds of powder and gossip, their sleeves brushing the stone paths like coloured snow.
Yue and Chen Wei took position on the Moon-Watching Terrace, a marble platform that jutted over the river. From here they could see the lantern boats sliding past, each carrying a single candle and a paper wish. Reflections shimmered on the water—red, green, indigo—until the surface looked like shattered rainbow.
"Beautiful," Chen Wei murmured. "And terrifying. One spark and the whole city burns."
Yue's hand rested on her sword hilt. "Then we become the rain."
He glanced at her, surprised. "Poetic for someone who smells of sword oil."
"I bathed," she protested.
"Not enough. You still stink of determination."
She laughed, then stiffened. Across the terrace, Zhao Shen had appeared.
He wore formal black: robe embroidered with silver waves, crown of white jade. A single lantern—unlit—hung from his left hand. Behind him walked two eunuchs carrying trays of ink brushes and paper slips. Nobles bowed low, forming a corridor of silk and whispers.
Zhao Yuan followed, less solemn, robe half-unlaced, peach-blossom wine already on his breath. He spotted Yue and winked. Zhao Shen did not look her way, yet she felt the pull of his attention like a string around her ribs.
A gong sounded. The crowd hushed.
The Empress Dowager emerged onto the upper balcony, robes of imperial yellow blazing against the twilight. Her voice rang clear:
"By grace of Heaven, the Dragon Throne endures. Tonight the Crown Prince shall light the first lantern and set it upon the river. May the current carry his wish to the palace of the Sea Queen."
Zhao Shen stepped forward. A eunuch knelt, offering ink and brush. He dipped, paused, then wrote on the paper slip—quick, decisive strokes. No one saw the words; his body shielded the paper. He folded it, tucked it inside the lantern, and lit the candle with a taper handed by a priest in star-blue robes.
Drums rolled. Flutes soared.
He placed the lantern onto the water.
The tiny boat drifted, flame flickering, into the current of coloured lights. Nobles released their own lanterns in a wave of rustling silk. Soon the river was a galaxy of candles, each carrying secrets: love, ambition, fear, hope.
Yue watched until her eyes watered. She wondered what he had written. She wondered if wishes could drown.
A scream sliced the music.
On the opposite bank, a lantern burst—not from wind, but from something thrown. A second scream. Smoke billowed, acrid, chemical. Panic rippled through the crowd like wind through wheat.
"Fire arrows!" Chen Wei shouted.
Yue's sword was already out. Across the river, masked figures in boatman cloaks raised short bows. Flaming arrows arced toward the terrace.
"Shield the prince!" someone bellowed.
Yue moved. She vaulted the balustrade, landing on the lower steps. Zhao Shen stood motionless, eyes tracking the trajectories. Guards closed around him, forming a wall of shields. Zhao Yuan drew a hidden blade from his sleeve, stance suddenly sober.
An arrow hissed past Yue's ear. She swung, knocking it aside with her bracer. Sparks scattered.
"River side!" Han's voice carried over the chaos. "They're aiming for the barges!"
Yue saw it: the oil-soaked lanterns, the silk canopies, the musicians trapped on floating platforms. One spark and the river itself would burn.
She sprinted along the terrace, Chen Wei at her heels. They leapt onto a lantern-laden skiff, cutting the rope. The current grabbed them, sweeping them toward the blazing arrow line.
"Steer!" Chen Wei yelled.
"With what?" she shot back.
She grabbed a long bamboo pole used to hang lanterns, jamming it into the riverbed. The skiff spun. Flames kissed the edge of a barge. She vaulted across, slashing lantern ropes, kicking burning paper into the water. Heat seared her sleeves.
A masked figure jumped onto the barge from the shadows, dagger flashing. Yue met him blade-on. The impact jarred her bones. She twisted, using his momentum to flip him over her hip into the river. Another came. Chen Wei engaged, fighting back-to-back with her.
Above, Zhao Shen's voice cut through the din—calm, commanding:
"Archers on the roof! Third unit, north slope! Clear the civilians!"
He was directing from the terrace, exposed but unflinching. An arrow streaked toward him. Yue's heart stopped—then a shield snapped up, blocking it. The guards closed tighter.
Smoke stung her eyes. Her sword felt heavy. A third attacker lunged; she parried, riposted, felt the wooden blade crack against bone. The man crumpled.
"Yue! Boat!" Chen Wei pointed.
A small unlit craft drifted beneath the barge. Inside lay a clay jar leaking black oil—an incendiary bomb. A fuse hissed, nearly spent.
Without thinking, Yue dived. She hit the water, cold shocking her skin. She surfaced beside the craft, grabbed the jar, and hurled it toward the open river. It landed, exploded in a gout of flame—away from the lanterns.
Hands hauled her back onto the barge. She coughed, soaked, hair plastered to her face. Chen Wei grinned wildly.
"Nice throw."
"Next time," she gasped, "we let the fish fight."
The attack ended as quickly as it began. The masked figures melted into side alleys or slipped beneath the water. Guards gave chase. Fires were doused. Musicians rescued. The river of lanterns now carried scorched paper and the smell of pitch, but the city still stood.
On the terrace, Zhao Shen knelt beside a fallen guard, checking for breath. When he stood, his eyes found Yue across the water. Torch-light flickered between them. He inclined his head—small, almost invisible. A silent acknowledgment.
She bowed, water dripping from her sleeves.
Later, when the crowd was herded inside and the terrace cleared, Yue sat on the marble steps, wringing out her tunic. Her bracers were scratched but intact. The leather had saved her forearms from burns.
A shadow fell over her.
Zhao Yuan, robe singed, offered a flask of warm wine. "For the river rat who saved the orchestra."
She took a swallow, coughed. "Any captives?"
"Two. Both dead by poison pellets. Professional." His grin was gone. "The Wolf King sends greetings."
She stared at the dark water. "They wanted to burn the festival. Make the prince look cursed on his betrothal night."
"Or simply burn him." Zhao Yuan's voice was soft. "Either way, you stopped it."
She shook her head. "We all did."
He studied her. "My brother wishes to speak with you. Alone. Terrace garden. When you're dry enough not to drip on the peonies."
Her stomach flipped. She nodded.
The garden was silent, lit only by hanging lanterns swaying in the breeze. Zhao Shen stood beneath a pomegranate tree, arms behind his back. He had changed into a plain dark robe, hair still damp from washing away smoke.
Yue approached, boots squelching. She bowed. "Your Highness."
"You're hurt," he said immediately.
She glanced at a scrape on her knuckle. "Nothing worth bandaging."
He stepped closer, lifting her wrist to inspect the bracer. A long scorch mark marred the leather. His thumb brushed the edge—gentle, almost reverent.
"They protected you," he murmured.
"I protected them back," she said, surprised by her own boldness.
His mouth curved—barely. He released her wrist but did not step away.
"The wish I wrote," he said suddenly, "was for the realm's safety tonight."
She swallowed. "The Sea Queen must have heard."
"Perhaps." He reached into his sleeve and drew out a second paper slip, folded tight. "This is for you."
She took it, fingers brushing his. The paper was warm.
"Read it when you're alone," he said. "Then decide if you still want to stand on my parade ground."
Before she could answer, footsteps approached—guards, official this time. Zhao Shen's expression shuttered. He stepped back, the prince once more.
"Dismissed, Lan Yue. Rest. Tomorrow the real hunt begins."
She bowed, clutching the slip, and retreated into the shadows.
In her small room, lamp low, she unfolded the paper.
Two lines, written in the same steady hand that had penned her bracer motto:
If the river carries my name tomorrow,
will you still wade into the flames beside it?
No signature. None needed.
She stared at the characters until they blurred. Then she smoothed the paper, pressed it against her heart, and whispered into the quiet:
"Yes. And the day after that."
Outside, the last lantern drifted out to sea, carrying smoke and secrets and the fragile promise of a girl who had learned to stand her ground—even when the ground was a burning barge on a river of shadows.