The courtyard of the Pearl Veil Court smelled of incense and plum blossoms, even though no such trees grew nearby. That scent—part floral, part myth—seemed suspended in the very air. Lihuan stepped through the moon-gate arch and onto stone tiles swept so clean they reflected the lantern light like water. He was not Zichen now. He told himself that with each step: I am not the prince. I am Lihuan. I am no one.

He was greeted by the matron of the Court, a tall woman with hair pinned in a cascade of silver combs and lips the color of black tea. Her name was High Lady Ke. She did not ask for his past, only for his hands. He held them out obediently, palms up, and she examined them for calluses, signs of labor or violence. There were none—royalty made sure of that.

“You have a gentle shape.” She said. “A voice like rain behind a screen. Too quiet for a street performer. Too refined for the gutters. Were you trained?”

“I watched more than I practiced.” He replied, soft and careful.

She looked at him then, directly. “And what name do you bring to this house?”

He bowed his head. “Lihuan.”

She said nothing more. With a nod, she motioned to an older attendant. “Prepare a room. Not among the front ranks. Let the quieter waters find their own ripple.”

He was led through a maze of silk partitions, red corridors, and shadowy corners that blurred the line between hallway and dream. The drink Hanzhu had given him still clung to the back of his throat, the sour taste of fermented roots and medicinal herbs dulling his usual tone. It worked. He sounded—he felt—like someone else.

In the days that followed, Lihuan was taught the unspoken code of the Court. He learned how to enter a room: not first, never last. How to pour tea with presence, how to let his gaze linger just long enough to spark curiosity, never assumption. He trained in poetry and fan-play. In dance—not the rigid court waltzes he once knew, but something looser, woven of glances and grace, meant to guide rather than perform.

He met the other courtesans slowly. Some were friendly. Others were guarded. All of them were beautiful in some way, though not always in the obvious sense. There was a boy who wore red lacquered nails and wept when he sang. A woman who spoke four languages and had once been a spy. A soft-voiced courtesan who painted on guests’ skin with ink and whispered poetry as she worked. Each of them had taken on names just like him—moonlight names, veil-names. Their true selves belonged to no one here.

Though new, Lihuan drew attention. Not just for his looks, but for his presence. He was calm, collected, hard to read—a rarity in a place designed to unravel others. Guests began to ask for him, intrigued by his mysterious aura, though the matron wisely kept his exposure limited. It built mystique.

And then one evening, everything shifted. He was walking through the main hall after dusk, carrying a tray of jasmine wine for a small gathering of noble patrons, when he saw you. You were not dressed to impress, but everything about you stood out. The way you sat with a spine like water, the way others unconsciously positioned themselves around you. You were quiet. Unbothered. Regal in a way that had nothing to do with rank.

You were one of the jewels.

He didn’t need to ask—he felt it. The room’s atmosphere bent around your presence. When you moved, even the lanterns seemed to burn a little brighter. You looked up as he passed your eyes flicking over him not with curiosity, but calm knowing.

It was the first time since he had entered the Court that Zichen—the prince beneath the silks—forgot who he was trying to be. Under your gaze, Lihuan felt exposed. Seen not as an infiltrator or a prince, but as a boy trying to wear someone else’s skin.

He didn’t look away.

Neither did you.

And in that still moment between candlelight and music, he knew: whatever secrets this Court held, you were one of them.

And perhaps, the most dangerous one of all.