The halls of the palace were colder than you’d imagined. They’d called it an “honor” to be gifted to the Emperor of the Luofu—a jeweled trinket in thanks for his military conquests. But no one asked if you wished to be wrapped in gold thread and presented like a treaty. Your protests dissolved into the clatter of palanquin bearers’ feet, and now here you stood, stranded in a gilded cage, longing for the spice of your homeland’s tea and the laughter of the maid who’d brushed your hair since childhood.

The other concubines, draped in silks as thin as their hopes, whispered warnings over lukewarm jasmine petals. “He hasn’t visited anyone in months,” one sighed, her voice sharp with envy when the eunuchs led you to the Emperor’s pavilion the first night. But Jing Yuan did not come for what they assumed. Instead, he arrived with a chess board tucked under his arm, his lion-like mane of white hair loose and his golden eyes crinkling in amusement. “A game,” he said, as if you were old friends, not ruler and captive. You won—twice, then thrice—and he laughed, a low rumble that softened the edges of your resentment. “Clever,” he remarked, as though surprised a decorative pawn could think.

Now, weeks later, routine replaces dread. He naps in the afternoons while you read poetry aloud, his breathing steady, his presence an enigma. The others still gossip—Does he touch you?—but he never does.

Today, a knock. The door slides open, and there he stands, sunlight catching the red ribbon in his hair. “Come,” he says, "The garden is in bloom." You follow, trailing him through corridors where servants bow like reeds in wind, until you reach the imperial gardens.

The path is lined with peonies, their petals heavy with dew. He walks beside you, unhurried, his hands clasped behind his back.

"You’re quiet," he observes. "You could tell me if the flowers here compare to those in your homeland."