Two weeks into senior cadet term
The Academy's dawn bell rang while apricot petals still clung to night mist.
Lan Yue rolled from cot, laced white robe, buckled the prince-shortened sword, and joined the river of trainees jogging the outer wall.
Every third morning the Crown Prince himself led the run—"to remind the future guard that royalty keeps pace."
Today Zhao Shen waited at the gate, cloak the colour of wet steel.
He nodded as she passed—formal, elder-brother polite—yet his gaze lingered a heartbeat longer than duty required.
Behind her, Zhao Yuan jogged up humming a tavern tune.
"Morning, little swan. Try not to outrun His Cloudiness today; his pride bruises easily."
Yue snorted. "I only run forward. If someone chooses to keep score, that's his hobby."
Yuan laughed loud enough for Shen to hear.
Ahead, Shen's shoulders squared—one degree stiffer—but he did not look back.
Thunder and lantern, she thought. Same sky, different storms.
Wall run – sunrise
They circled the palace perimeter: five li, uphill stairs, downhill gravel.
At the third watch-tower Shen increased pace—a silent test.
Trainees groaned; gaps opened.
Yue stayed third behind him, breathing steady.
At the final straight he surged—sprint finish.
Instinct answered—she pulled even.
Boots drummed planks, hearts hammering.
He crossed one stride ahead, turned, offered a hand to steady her momentum—a gesture meant for comrades, not cadets.
She took it, felt callus and warmth, released quickly.
Around them panting seniors stared: no one had matched the prince's kick since Chen Wei two years ago.
Shen's mouth twitched—almost a smile—then he addressed the group.
"Finish line is not the goal. Goal is to bring every comrade across it. Pair up, cool-down stretches. Dismissed."
Yuan arrived late, hands on knees.
"Next time I'll tie weights to his boots," he wheezed.
His eyes flicked to their still-joined palms a moment ago, then to her face—curious, unreadable.
Lecture Hall – Archery Theory
Master Cao droned about wind-age and humidity.
Yuan doodled paper frogs; Shen sat forward, attentive.
When Cao asked for volunteers to demonstrate blind-fold instinctive shooting, Shen stood.
"Need a spotter," he said. "Someone light enough to stand beside the target and tap the butt—auditory cue—without flinching."
Every gaze swung to Yue—smallest senior, best balance.
She rose, bowed, took position.
Shen tied black silk over his eyes—the same cloth once used as rooftop signal; her stomach fluttered.
Ten paces.
He nocked, drew.
She tapped target rim—two quick, one slow—the rhythm they'd used on night patrol.
Thud—arrow split the center.
Applause.
He lifted the blindfold; eyes found hers—acknowledgement of shared code, public yet intimate.
Yuan clapped too, but his smile was thinner.
Afternoon – Sword Forms
Instructor paired students: tall with short, strong with quick—to balance weaknesses.
Naturally Yue's partner was Zhao Shen.
They moved through Eight-Gate, steel whispering.
At Gate Six—Ripple Parry—her wrist angled too wide; his blade slid under, kissed her ribs—halt.
"Again," he murmured.
Second try she corrected; steel rang clean.
"Better," he said, voice low. "Trust the lean, not the muscle."
Yuan watched from another pair, parried late, earned a reprimand.
Evening – East Garden Patrol Rotation
Cadets drew lots for night watches.
Yue pulled midnight-to-dawn on the moon-bridge—the rebuilt wooden span replacing the ice bridge of treaty memory.
Yuan drew same slot, same post.
Shen, off-duty, would sleep.
Before lamps dimmed Yuan draped an arm across her shoulders.
"Luck of the lots. Try not to fall asleep; I'll tell ghost stories."
She elbowed him. "Try not to scream when mice cross."
From across the hall Shen's gaze tracked the casual touch—a flicker of storm, gone before anyone noticed.
Moon-Bridge Watch – dead of night
Lanterns bobbed on water below; frogs sang.
Yuan told ridiculous tales of river spirits who traded hearts for moon-cakes.
She laughed, guard relaxed—until a splash echoed upstream.
Both straightened—hand on sword.
A shadow slipped between pillars of the old dock: boat without lights.
Yuan signalled: I circle left, you right.
She nodded, scaled balustrade, ghosted along lotus stones.
At the dock prow a hooded figure lifted a crate—clink of weapons.
Yue stepped from shadow.
"State your business."
Figure dropped crate, drew twin short hooks.
Yuan closed from opposite side.
Three heartbeats of steel—hooks rang, sword flashed, figure twisted, dove into water.
Yue kicked a loose plank—it slammed the swimmer's head; Yuan hauled him up, sputtering.
Under the hood: a woman, river-pilot tattoos, same guild as Ling Yao weeks ago—White Moon die-hard.
Before they could bind her, woman bit a capsule—foam at lips, dead.
Yuan cursed. "They're still recruiting."
Yue stared at the spreading ripple—currents beneath currents.
Dawn report – Commandant's office
Shen arrived still buckling armour, hair damp.
He listened, gaze flicking between them—standing closer than protocol, both muddy, breathing hard.
"You two handled it alone?"
"Standard pair protocol," Yuan shrugged. "Worked."
Shen's eyes lingered on Yue's torn sleeve—a scratch bleeding.
He stepped closer, produced a clean handkerchief, pressed it to her arm—gentle, firm.
"Next time call for backup before engagement," he said quietly.
"Time didn't allow," she answered.
For a moment the room narrowed—three heartbeats of something raw.
Yuan cleared throat. "We'll write full statements. Together."
Shen released the cloth, stepped back—eldest brother mask re-locked.
"See the surgeon. Then both of you—off-duty rest. That's an order."
Barracks noon – empty infirmary
Surgeon gone to breakfast.
Yue cleaned cut herself, clumsy with left hand.
Door opened—Shen entered, carried salve and bandage.
"Sit," he said.
She obeyed.
He unwound bloody cloth, applied herb paste, fingers careful.
"Bridge memories?" he asked softly.
She nodded. "Every time I cross water."
"Me too," he admitted.
Silence, comfortable yet crackling.
Finished, he didn't release her wrist.
"Yue… if anything happened—" He stopped, re-phrased. "Promise you'll signal. Black cloth, rooftop, anything."
"I promise," she whispered.
Their eyes held—elder brother slipping, something deeper surfacing.
Footsteps outside—he let go, stepped back just as Yuan walked in carrying moon-cakes.
"Surgeon said sweets for shock," Yuan declared, but his gaze darted from her bandaged arm to Shen's carefully neutral face.
"Perfect timing," Shen said coolly. "See that she eats. I have drills to inspect."
He left—cloak swirling, scent of spring rain lingering.
Yuan offered a cake, smile bright but eyes shadowed.
"Thundercloud looked ready to storm. Did I interrupt?"
"Nothing to interrupt," she said, accepting cake—yet her pulse still beat against the ghost of Shen's fingers.
Yuan bit into his own cake, chewed thoughtfully.
"Lightning's getting louder, little swan. Hope your wings are strong."
She met his gaze—playful surface, concern beneath.
"They are," she answered. "But sometimes the sky confuses lanterns with stars."
He laughed, but the sound was softer than usual.
Outside, clouds gathered—white piled on grey, thunder distant yet approaching.
And beneath the eaves of the Academy, three shadows learned the shape of a triangle—none willing to name it yet, all feeling the first drops of the coming storm.