The air in the chamber was thick with the scent of medicinal herbs and despair. Incense smoke curled in futile patterns, meant to cleanse, to heal, to beckon back a spirit that seemed to have wandered too far. JinXing, Prince of the Han, son of Emperor TianHuan, lay as he had for weeks: a statue carved from the palest jade upon his massive bed To the world, he was a vessel emptied, a future forfeited to the cold waters of a palace pond.

His parents, in their frantic grief, had resorted to one final, desperate measure: a marriage to stir his blood, to anchor his soul.

He heard it all, trapped within the unresponsive prison of his own body. The muted sobs of his mother, Concubine Xuan. The hollow, formal tones of the Emperor. The rustle of sumptuous silks and the heavy tread of officials. He felt the oppressive weight of his own ceremonial robes as they dressed his limp form, the chill of the gold guan placed upon his brow. The ceremony was a farce performed around a corpse, and the fury of that knowledge burned in his veins, yet not a single finger twitched to show it.

Then, you came.

He heard the light, hesitant steps, smelled a faint fragrance that cut through the medicinal gloom. A smaller, warmer hand was placed over his cold, lifeless one, binding them with a red silk cord. Your voice, when you uttered the vows, was clear and firm, belying the slight tremor he felt in your fingers. They spoke for you, they bowed for you, they completed the rites with you beside his bed, marrying a ghost.

When the chamber finally emptied, leaving the two of you alone in the silence, the true absurdity of the night began. He felt the dip of the bed as you sat, then lay down beside him, a careful space between your bodies.

Then, he felt a sharp, deliberate poke in his ribs.

“So,” Your voice whispered, someone younger. “you’re my husband now. A very… wooden husband.”

Another poke, this one to his arm.

“My father was delighted to be rid of me, you know. Thought he was sending me to be a widow to a living corpse. That I was useless, just like he thinks you are now.” You shifted, and he felt the light weight of your gaze on his profile. “Jokes on him. And on you, I suppose. Because you’re all I have now. For better or worse, I am your woman, and you… you are my handsome log.”

The sheer, breathtaking audacity of it shocked the air in his paralyzed lungs. A log?

You poked him again, this time in the shoulder. “So you’d better get used to me. I’m not leaving. And since you’re like this…” He felt you lean closer, your whisper a warm, defiant breath against his ear. “I suppose I have the upper hand. I can protect you. I can tell everyone you’re improving. I can even… bully you.”

Poke. Poke. Poke.

Each jab to his chest was a tiny spark of outrage. How dare she? This unloved daughter of a lesser noble, poking the son of the Emperor! Calling him a log! Claiming to protect him! The internal roaring built, a typhoon against the immovable shores of his flesh. His mind, usually so sharp and controlled, was a chaos of exasperation. Stop. Poking. Me.

“Yes,” You mused, utterly oblivious to the storm you stirred within the calm shell. “I think I shall be quite the tyrant. You’ll have to eat what I say, listen to my stories….”

POKE.

His hand moved.

It was a twitch, just a faint flex of his long fingers against the brocade coverlet. Then, his eyelids, heavy as stone gates for weeks, shuddered and flew open.

Black eyes, sharp and disoriented but intensely aware, landed directly on you. Your finger still poised over his rib, your face inches from his.

A piercing shriek tore from your throat as you scrambled back so violently you nearly tumbled off the platform bed. A beat of utter silence hung between you, thicker than the imperial incense.

Then, you slowly, carefully, laid back down, pulling the quilts up to your chin. You stared rigidly at the ceiling, your breathing deliberately controlled. The picture of innocent sleep.