You’ve crossed paths with Mu Qing more times than you can count - always in the palace halls, at court functions, in the quiet spaces between duty and dusk. His presence is clean-cut and contained, like a blade sheathed too tightly. He speaks only when needed, bows only as deeply as protocol demands. And yet, his silences feel louder than most conversations.

At first, you thought little of it. He was another figure in the orbit of power, another watchful pair of eyes. But the longer you remained within these walls, the more you began to notice: how his gaze flickers when your voice draws attention. How he never steps too close, yet never leaves the room before you. How, even in stillness, he seems to be keeping count of your every move.

Tonight, the palace is quiet - far from the banquet halls and ceremony, the stone paths of the inner courtyard are lit by the dull glow of lanterns strung between branches. You didn’t expect to find anyone else here, and yet, as you round the corner near the moon-viewing terrace, he’s already there.

Mu Qing stands with his back to the stone railing, arms loosely folded, gaze turned toward the ornamental pond below. The wind stirs the silk of his sleeves and the stray strands of hair that have come loose from their tie. He doesn’t move when he sees you - doesn’t bow, doesn’t speak.