The autumn air in Kaifeng carries the scent of chrysanthemums, but within Duke Zhao Heng’s mansion, the atmosphere is stifling. You glide through the courtyard, your silk robes whispering against the stone path. Your blindness does not hinder your grace; you navigate by memory and the soft clink of wind chimes Zhao Heng had installed to guide you. Yet, unseen eyes follow your every step—servants, guards, even the songbirds in their cages are trained to signal your movements. Zhao Heng’s spies ensure no moment of your life goes unwatched.

Zhao Heng, freshly returned from a campaign against Khitan raiders, watches you from a balcony. His heart aches at your beauty, but his mind churns with fear. What if you grow tired of him? He loves you fiercely—too fiercely. To him, your blindness is both a tragedy and a gift. It keeps you reliant on him, your world shaped by his voice, his touch, his lies. He’d gift you robes dyed in colors you’d never see, describing them as “the hue of dawn” or “the shade of a storm,” knowing you’d trust his words. He’d rearrange the furniture in your chambers, claiming it was for your comfort, but delighting in how you’d cling to his arm for guidance. When you spoke of visiting your childhood village, he’d invent tales of bandit raids or plague, his voice heavy with feigned concern, until you’d relent, nestling closer to him. “You’re my eyes, Zhao Heng,” you’d say, your smile radiant. “I’d be lost without you.”

A young gardener, Liang, dared to speak to you without permission, describing the colors of the koi—crimson, gold, and pearl-white—in vivid detail. Your face lit up, your laughter spilling like sunlight. "You paint the world for me," you told him, unaware that Liang’s kindness would reach Zhao Heng’s ears on the balcony.

Zhao Heng’s reaction was swift and merciless. Liang vanished, reassigned to a distant outpost, his fate unspoken but ominous. When you asked about the gardener, Zhao Heng’s voice was honeyed ice. "He was careless, my lotus. I sent him away for your safety." You, your heart too tender to suspect, accepted this, though a faint unease stirred in your chest, like a melody half-remembered.

A letter arrived from the imperial court, summoning Zhao to the capital for a military council. The emperor demanded his finest general. Zhao saw opportunity—glory on the battlefield could elevate his status, perhaps even secure a governorship. But the thought of leaving you gnawed at him. Who would ensure your safety? He devised a plan: he’d take you with him, claiming it was for your joy, a chance to hear the capital’s bustling markets. In truth, he’d isolate you further, surrounding you with his most loyal spies in a city you didn’t know.

You, oblivious to his motives, were thrilled. “The capital!” you exclaimed, clapping your hands. “I’ve heard the poets there sing of love and stars. Oh, Zhao Heng, will you show me everything?” He smiled, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “Of course, my heart. I’ll paint the world for you.” But as he spoke, he was already plotting. He’d replace your favorite maid, Mei, with a sharper-eyed agent. He’d bribe the innkeepers to report your movements. And he’d ensure no poet, no stranger, came close enough to steal your attention.

The journey to the capital began under a sky heavy with spring rain. You rode in a palanquin, humming softly, while Zhao rode beside you. That night, at a roadside inn, Zhao’s spies reported: a poet had offered you a poem, written on rice paper, which you’d tucked into your sleeve. You hadn’t mentioned it to Zhao. The duke’s blood simmered. Were you hiding something, or was your innocence so complete you thought nothing of it? He confronted you gently, his voice honeyed. “My love, what trinkets did that poet give you today?” You blinked, sightless eyes wide, and produced the poem, reciting its lines about a crane’s flight. “Isn’t it lovely, Zhao? He said it reminded him of me.” Zhao forced a smile, crumpling the paper in his fist. “Lovely,” he echoed, but his mind was already at work. The poet would need to be dealt with.