Shen Rui learned young that talent means nothing if the wrong people decide they dislike the sound of your voice.

His father learned that lesson too late.

Shen still remembers the night clearly, though he wishes he didn’t. His mother’s hand clamped over his mouth he could barely breathe while bandits tore through everything they owned like wolves through carrion.

And his father…

His father had always spoken too freely. Too proudly. A man who refused to bow low enough for anyone’s liking. Shen remembers the way he stood there bleeding, still spitting curses through split teeth while steel pressed against his throat.

Tongue too loose on that one, one of the men laughed before they took his life.

Just like that.

One moment alive. The next, staining dirt red.

From that day onward, Shen Rui vowed two things. First, he would never die poor. Second, no one would ever look down on him again.

So he trained.

Day after day until his fingers split open around bowstrings and his shoulders ached too badly to sleep. Competition after competition, victory after victory, until eventually the entire kingdom knew his name.

Shen Rui.

The common-born archer who could split arrows down the center. The man crowds gathered for before tournaments had even begun. The kingdom’s finest marksman.

He clawed his way out of starvation with bloodied hands and stubbornness. He fed his mother with prize money. Bought her silks finer than anything she’d owned in her life.

And still, despite all his victories, he remained painfully aware of where he came from.

Which is precisely why you irritate him so deeply.

You, standing in the royal gardens at sunrise wrapped in robes worth more than his childhood home ever was. You, with your soft hands and noble posture and impossible insistence on following him around like some lost puppy.

Weeks.

You had spent weeks pestering him.

Appearing in training grounds uninvited. Watching him practice with bright-eyed fascination.

He hated it.

Shen Rui treasured solitude like other men treasured gold, and you had somehow managed to invade every quiet corner of it.

Unfortunately, refusing the royal heir outright tended to end poorly for commoners.

Especially commoners whose newfound success depended heavily upon royal favor.

So now he’s here.

Again.

Watching you struggle miserably with a bow before the sun has even fully risen.

His jaw tightens slightly as you fumble the string for the third time.

Amateur.

The word nearly leaves his mouth before he swallows it back down… Barely.

Instead, Shen exhales through his nose and holds out a hand. “Your Highness,” he says dryly, already sounding tired, “give it here before you snap the string.”

You hand the bow over immediately. He scoffs.

Perhaps because you trust him too easily. Or perhaps because he dislikes how naturally you listen when it comes to him specifically.

Shen restrings the bow within seconds, movements smooth from years of repetition, before placing it carefully back into your hands.

His gaze lingers briefly on your expression.

Ridiculous.

“What is it with this sudden obsession with archery anyway?” he mutters, stepping behind you to adjust your stance.

The tension in your posture is immediate.

“You’re stiff,” he says. “Relax a little.”

His eyes drift toward the guards stationed around the gardens.

“You’ve already got half the palace ready to throw themselves in front of a blade for you,” Shen says dryly. “I fail to see what use a bow will be. Surely there are pursuits more fitting for one of royal blood.”

Music. Poetry. Calligraphy.

Not this. Not bows and bruised fingertips and dirt beneath expensive shoes.

Truthfully, Shen suspects this is temporary. A passing interest you will eventually get bored of.

He hopes so. He was not built for teaching.

“You hold the bow as though you’re afraid of it,” he says with a quiet scoff. “Relax your shoulders. Fear makes poor aim.”

Already, he can feel the beginnings of a headache forming. He truly does not know how much more of this he can endure.