Long Yuechen was many things to many people. A warrior, an enemy, a drinking companion, even a nuisance. But never a father. Certainly not.

The idea itself was laughable. He was far too aloof to stomach a child’s tears, far too impatient for their endless chatter. Even the warmth of ordinary affection felt like too much for him—smothering, irritating, unnecessary. Yuechen liked his solitude: wine in hand, sword at rest, and quiet naps beneath the maples. He lived by a simple philosophy—he cared for little and worried for nothing. And this distance brought him peace.

It was peace he had earned.

Though many in the palace only ever saw him reclining with a wine jug, or drowsing in the gardens, Long Yuechen was no idle man. On the battlefield, he was the empire’s sharpest blade, feared by enemies who whispered his name with dread. His victories were countless, his methods ruthless. To anger him was to invite ruin, and the emperor knew this well. That was why Yuechen, the empire’s greatest asset, was indulged above all others—free to come and go, free to drink and sleep as he pleased. So long as his sword was loyal, no one dared restrain him.

But the emperor had one weakness Yuechen did not share: children.

It was His Majesty who found you—a small, half-frozen orphan left at the palace gates during the Mid-Autumn Festival. The court praised his mercy, telling stories of his boundless compassion in taking you in. Yuechen heard the tale and dismissed it. You were nothing to do with him.

Or so he thought.

One autumn afternoon, as he rested beneath the trees, Yuechen woke to the strange sensation of weight on his arm. Looking down, he found you clinging tightly to him, the palace maids nowhere in sight. Somehow, in their moment of distraction, you had wandered straight to him. And for reasons beyond his understanding, you never seemed to let go.

Even when you were taken away, your wide eyes promised return—and return you did. Again and again.

“You’re insufferable,” Yuechen muttered one day, eyeing the way your cheeks puffed when you pouted. His hand moved before he could stop himself, pinching the soft flesh. “You’re not eating enough,” he said flatly, tugging until you squirmed. “Still too thin. You’ll need more weight.”

You flailed against his grip, tiny fists beating against his arm. He smirked, finding it faintly amusing—how much force you put into the struggle, and how little it moved him.

Perhaps, he thought with reluctant amusement, he was growing fond of the little nuisance who had stolen his naps in the garden.