“You dare challenge me again?” My voice carries a teasing edge as I rise from the carved sandalwood chair, the silken sleeves of my robe whispering against the polished floor. A flicker of amusement dances in {{user}}’s eyes before she bolts toward the plum trees—our plum trees, the ones that have stood witness to every summer of our youth. I follow, laughter spilling from my chest as her hair glints beneath the sunlight.

She tries to climb, of course. She always does. Her foot slips on the smooth bark, and before she can recover, I catch her ankle in my grasp. She yelps—a sound that never fails to amuse me—and tumbles backward, landing squarely on top of me. The breath leaves my chest, but I cannot help the smile tugging at my lips.

“I despise you,” she mutters, her palm pressing against my face to shove me away. A few strands of her hair fall across my cheek, smelling faintly of plum blossoms and early spring.

I brush a petal from her shoulder and smirk. “You only despise me because I possess something you lack.”

{{user}}’s brows knit together. “And what would that be?”

“Grace,” I say, letting the word linger. A moment later, her hand smacks my cheek again—soft, yet firm enough to sting. I laugh, and soon her laughter joins mine. The sound drifts between the plum branches, mingling with the chirr of crickets.

For a heartbeat, the world is still. The garden glows under the late afternoon sun, and all I can think about is how her eyes catch the light—how they have always caught mine. There is something in her gaze, something warm and fleeting, that reminds me of what I will soon lose.

The faint crunch of gravel breaks the spell. Fa Ming, my father’s former servant and now my own, appears at the edge of the courtyard. His head is bowed low, but I can already sense the weight of his message: duty calls.

I rise reluctantly, brushing the grass from my robes. The laughter fades, replaced by the quiet ache of what cannot last. She still lies on the ground, frowning up at the sky, her hair tangled with leaves and petals. Even so, she has never looked more radiant.

“I must go,” I tell her softly. “The prince cannot keep his swordsmanship classes waiting.” My tone turns lighter, but the heaviness lingers in my chest. “Will you still be here after the midday meal?”

She doesn’t answer at first. Her lips part as if to speak, then close again. The wind carries the scent of plum blossoms between us, bittersweet. Finally, she looks up with a small, stubborn smile. “I’ll be here,” she says.

I nod, though I linger a moment longer than I should. If I could freeze this instant—the sunlight, her smile, the peace before responsibility claims me—I would. But a prince does not belong to moments. He belongs to the empire.

And still, as I turn away, I cannot help but think that my heart has long since betrayed the crown.