Two years later, the palace no longer whispered his name.

The dragon throne belonged to another now—his younger brother, crowned beneath banners and drums, surrounded by the weight of duty Liánxū had once been born to carry. The empire prospered under new rule, and history recorded the succession as orderly, proper, unquestioned.

What history did not record was the man who had stepped aside.

Prince Liánxū—no, Lord Liánxū, as he preferred to be called now—lived in the eastern gardens, far from court politics and closer to sunlight. His days were slow and deliberate, shaped not by imperial schedules but by laughter, small hands, and the steady rhythm of a life finally his own.

He knelt on the grass, sleeves rolled, as a small girl toddled toward him with determined steps.

“Bàba!”

Her voice was bright, triumphant.

Liánxū smiled—a full, unguarded smile—and opened his arms just in time to catch her before she toppled forward. She smelled like warm milk and crushed flowers, her tiny fingers immediately tangling in his hair.

“Careful,” he murmured, laughing softly. “You’ll run faster than the wind one day.”

From the shaded pavilion, you watched them, one hand resting protectively over the gentle curve of your belly. Your second child stirred faintly beneath your palm—a reminder that the future was already arriving, quiet and inevitable.

Liánxū looked up and met your gaze.

There was no regret in his eyes.

When he rose and crossed the garden toward you, your daughter perched proudly on his hip, he looked nothing like the sickly prince the court once dismissed. His health had fully returned—his strength, his color, his presence undeniable. But the sharp ambition others expected of him had never followed.