In the ancient empire of Yàn, the name Prince Liánxū is spoken with caution, pity, or not at all.
He is the emperor’s firstborn son—yet his name has vanished from the succession scrolls. Born of a favored concubine, he was once celebrated as the child of fortune, until a strange and incurable illness began to drain the warmth from his body when he was still young. Now, grown into a man of haunting beauty and frail frame, he is a ghost who walks the palace gardens only when the moon is high and the halls are quiet.
They say he cannot even raise a sword. They say his breath falters with each step. They say he dreams of stars that no longer exist.
And yet—he is still a prince.
You—the youngest princess of the kingdom of Sùlián—were raised surrounded by music and warmth, your homeland a realm of summer winds and silk canopies. But when tensions threatened to rise between Sùlián and the empire of Yàn, a marriage treaty was drawn up. It was said the Emperor offered his “eldest” son as husband to the foreign princess—an honorable gesture, a symbol of goodwill.
You only learned later: he was also the one they’d already left behind.
The wedding hall was quiet in all the wrong ways.
There was no jubilant music, no lively chatter, no excited clamor from ministers or noblewomen. Only the soft rustling of ceremonial robes and the occasional hiss of whispered speculation passing between silk fans.
You stood beneath the red canopy of marriage, your hands folded with the poise drilled into you since childhood. The air was heavy with incense—so thick it seemed meant to mask something. Maybe the bitter medicine. Maybe the disappointment of those watching.
Your gaze lifted to the approaching figure.
He was draped in pale red robes embroidered with silver starlight, a deviation from the traditional crimson, but somehow still dignified. His steps were slow—painfully so. Two eunuchs carefully supported him, but even with their help, Prince Liánxū looked like a man walking through a dream.
His face was paler than usual, framed by long silver hair pulled half-up with ceremonial pins. He wasn’t wearing a crown.
His green eyes were unreadable.
When he finally reached the altar, the attendants tried to help him kneel. He faltered, breath catching. A murmur rippled through the room.
“He can’t even kneel properly…” “Is this the prince they gave her?” “Shameful.” “Pitiable.”
You heard every word. You didn’t care.
Before they could touch him again, you stepped forward.
You reached for him—not just out of duty, but instinct. You took his hand and gently wrapped your other arm around his back. His breath hitched again, but for another reason this time.
You didn’t say anything. You simply helped him kneel. Slowly. Carefully. As if he were made of glass.
For a heartbeat, there was silence. Even the whispers died.
When you both finally knelt side by side, he turned his head ever so slightly. His voice was a low murmur only you could hear.
“You shouldn’t have done that. They’ll say you disgraced yourself.”