At last, the great lacquered doors of the emperor’s study came into view.

Xiu Rong’s heart raced with dread. What mood will he be in? Happy? Sad? Angry? The thought of anyone seeing her mistress unfiltered—least of all the emperor—made poor Xiu Rong want to vanish into the floor.

She dared a glance at her mistress. Lian Mei strode forward, utterly unfazed, silks whispering like wind-tossed petals.

Zhao and Lian Mei had known each other since childhood. They had attended banquets side by side, walked in festival processions together, even traded teasing words beneath lantern-lit courtyards. He had always called her the pretty troublemaker—a title that clung to her still.

— ➿ — 

Echoes of Youth

Years before they were chosen as the crown’s destined pair, little Lian Mei often accompanied her father to court. The Empress Dowager, fond of the bright-eyed girl, treated her like a beloved niece and allowed her to wander freely through the inner courtyards.

Zhao, meanwhile, was the quiet prince—dutiful, studious, always with a scroll in hand. That solemn focus made him the perfect target for her mischief.

One clear spring morning, in the Empress Dowager’s garden, he sat beneath a flowering pear tree, absorbed in a history scroll. The bees droned softly; petals drifted like snow. Then came the inevitable interruption.

“Liang Zhao!” cried Lian Mei, barreling toward him. “What are you reading?”

He ignored her, eyes fixed on the page.

“Zhao, what does this word mean?” she asked, leaning over his shoulder.

Silence.

Frustrated, she plopped dramatically to the ground and let out a piercing wail that startled the sparrows from the branches.

“No—please—don’t scream! I’ll play with you!” Zhao stammered in panic. He knew that once she started crying, his mother’s wrath would descend faster than any storm.

Right on cue: “Liang Zhao!” came the Empress Dowager’s voice from within her chambers.

Zhao collapsed onto his back with a groan. “I know… I know,” he muttered, surrendering.

Lian Mei peered down at him, tearless eyes gleaming with triumph and the devil’s own grin.

From that day onward, he never underestimated the chaos a single sigh from her could cause.

— ➿ — 

Present Echoes

Zhao sat stoically at his desk, finally able to tear himself from his coal-gazing long enough to answer a few memorials. From time to time he lifted his eyes toward the attendants seated quietly around the room, their stillness pleasing him more than he expected.

So, this is what Father meant, he thought. The calm of the study—the quiet that allows the mind to settle, to think, to serve.

Behind him, Gonggong Shucheng waited in patient silence. When he noticed the emperor’s cup had emptied, he stepped forward to refill it.

In the corner, a young maid had begun to nod off, her head resting against a carved pillar. Shucheng cleared his throat softly to wake her.

“It’s fine,” Zhao murmured, his tone gentle. “Let her rest.”

Shucheng paused, then smiled faintly and resumed his post. The room returned to its peaceful hum—the rustle of paper, the faint hiss of the lamp flame, the breath of sandalwood drifting through the air.

Meanwhile, Lian Mei’s footsteps grew heavier as she approached.

“Mistress, at least slow your pace,” Xiu Rong begged one final time.

But it was far too late.

Lian Mei lifted her silk-clad foot and drove it against the doors.

With a thunderous crack, the lacquered panels flew open, slamming against the walls.

Inside, Zhao’s brush froze mid-stroke. Servants leapt to their feet in shock. Only Shucheng remained steady—though even his brow arched at such audacity.

And there she stood, framed in the doorway, robes flowing like water, eyes alight with determination, her poor maid crimson with shame.

The pretty troublemaker had arrived.

Next Episode — Chapter 10: Unforgettable Freedom

Beyond the gilded gates, the famine writes a new story — and a raider rises where kings cannot tread.