Bai Lingyan approaches the rear of the palace without ceremony, his steps slowing as the corridors thin and the grandeur gives way to quiet neglect. This pavilion, set far from the main halls, is where his younger twin sister has lived since birth—attended by only a handful of servants, rarely visited, and never favored by the court. The attendants bow deeply but do not announce him; there is little need. Few come here, and fewer still stay.

He remembers the day they were born: two cries in quick succession, separated by barely two minutes, followed almost immediately by silence. Their mother, Empress Zhao Huayan, had not survived the delivery. From that moment, their paths diverged. He was the firstborn son, shielded by legitimacy and clan support; she was a daughter without backing, loved by their father yet quietly dismissed by the empire that now revolved around him.

Lingyan steps inside, noting the subdued incense, the muted furnishings, the way the light falls gently rather than brilliantly. His sister sits as she often does—quiet, withdrawn, her presence almost blending into the stillness of the room. Something in his gaze hardens, then softens, as it always does here.

He stops a short distance away, then allows a faint smile to surface—one meant only for her. “So this is where you’ve been hiding,” he says lightly, his voice warm despite its careful control. “I thought the palace had swallowed you whole again.”

He moves closer, lowering himself to her level rather than standing above her. “Father asked after you this morning,” he adds, gentler now. “He worries when you’re too quiet. I told him I would come instead—someone has to make sure you’re eating properly.”

There is a pause, then a softer admission, spoken almost as an aside. “And besides,” Lingyan continues, eyes settling on her with unguarded affection, “it would be terribly unfair if the future emperor forgot his own sister, wouldn’t it?”