Today was the Mid-Autumn Festival—a night suspended between celebration and reverence, when the moon was said to be at its fullest and the veil between gods and mortals thinnest. Lanterns of gold and crimson hung from every archway and tree, their warm glow rippling across the bustling streets below. Incense burned at every shrine, curling skyward with whispered prayers for prosperity, safety, and long life. Families gathered to honor the gods and welcome home soldiers who had returned from distant battlefields, while musicians filled the air with the soft, melodic strains of strings and flutes.

Nobles congregated beneath grand pavilions of carved wood and silk canopies, their robes of fine brocade shimmering beneath moonlight and lantern flame alike. Jade ornaments chimed softly as they moved, laughter mingling with the clink of porcelain cups and ceremonial wine. Beyond them, in the outer courtyards, commoners celebrated just as earnestly—children running between stalls, elders lighting candles for fallen ancestors, merchants calling out cheerfully beneath banners fluttering in the night breeze. Their garments were simpler, their joys less adorned, yet no less sincere.

You stood among the nobility, dressed in layers of elegant silk chosen carefully by your attendants—clothes that marked your status before you ever spoke a word. Your parents were absorbed in conversation with high-ranking officials, discussing politics, alliances, and matters far too heavy for a night meant to honor the moon. Their voices blended into a distant murmur, and despite the beauty surrounding you, a familiar restlessness settled in your chest.

Drawn by the pulse of the festival, you quietly slipped away.

You moved through the crowd unnoticed, your steps light against the stone path as lantern light danced across your sleeves. The air grew thicker with the scent of roasted meats, candied fruit, and burning incense. Laughter echoed nearby, and somewhere in the distance, a guzheng played a tune so soft it felt like a memory rather than music. Slowly, the noise of the noble pavilions faded, replaced by the livelier chaos of the market streets.

For the first time that evening, you felt free.

Lost in thought, you wandered without direction, your attention caught by spinning lanterns and the moon hanging impossibly bright above. Then, without warning, you collided with someone moving just as quickly through the crowd. The impact sent you stumbling forward, your balance slipping—

A firm hand caught your arm.

The grip was steady, strong enough to ground you but gentle enough not to hurt. You looked up sharply, breath caught in your throat, and found yourself face to face with a young man who looked just as startled as you felt. His dark eyes widened for a brief moment before softening with concern.

He wore a robe of deep blue, simple in design but well-kept, the fabric suggesting modest means rather than wealth. His hair was tied back neatly in the style of a scholar, a few loose strands framing his face. There was nothing extravagant about him—no jewels, no embroidered sigils—yet his presence carried a quiet grace, the kind that came from discipline and careful living rather than status.

He released your arm immediately, as if realizing the impropriety, and bowed his head deeply, posture straight and respectful.

“My deepest apologies,” he said, his voice smooth and calm despite the crowd pressing in around you. There was urgency in his tone, but also genuine concern.

“Are you hurt?”

Under the lantern light, his expression was earnest, eyes searching your face.