The garden was silent and full of expectation, all eyes fixed on Mei Lan as she sat before the paper and brush. Haoran's polite smile never wavered as he gestured toward the table. "Please, Lady Mei Lan."
Mei Lan's fingers trembled as she picked up the brush, hovering above the paper, her face a mask of composed nerves. Jun Hao watched her closely, saying nothing but taking in every hesitation. She dabbed the brush into ink, but still her hand refused to move. The silence grew heavy.
A young noblewoman's voice cut through the hush, "Why hasn't Lady Lan started painting yet?"
Another voice chimed in from among the noble ladies, "Does Lady Lan need inspiration?"
One by one, more voices echoed, growing bolder as Mei Lan's hesitation stretched on. The blush of humiliation crept up Mei Lan's neck. Then Jun Hao's voice rang out, clear and pointed, "I thought the arts would come naturally to you, Lady Mei Lan. Or are the works praised up and down by the capital not your own? Are you a fraud?"
Mei Lan's eyes widened, her grip faltering. The brush slipped from her hand, leaving an inelegant blot of ink on the paper. "No!" she protested, voice trembling but defiant. "My art is my doing and mine alone."
Jun Hao's expression was politely unreadable. "Then let us see for ourselves."
Trapped, Mei Lan's gaze darted over the crowd. Panic twisted her features until, across the distant lawn, beneath a blossom tree she spotted Anming and her maid. Her shoulders squared as relief washed over her.
"I apologize if I seemed unmoving," she said quickly. "I'm not used to being put on the spot. If you'll excuse me, I'd like a moment to compose myself." She didn't wait for a response, bowing hastily and fleeing toward the gardens.
She found Anming and her maid and, without ceremony, led them to a quiet, unused room. "Hurry," she hissed. "We must switch now! I must not fail the Prince."
The swap was swift and practiced. Moments later, Anming emerged, transformed into Mei Lan. Every line of his posture radiated poise and effortless grace as he returned to the pavilion.
The shift was immediate. Whereas before Mei Lan had been hesitant and awkward, but now she moved with a serene confidence. While the real Mei Lan stood at a distance, hidden behind a pillar, watching the proceedings unfold. Her eyes flickered briefly to her maid, who stood nearby, face red and cheek stinging with a fresh hand-print. Mei Lan didn't bother to ask what had happened she couldn't have cared less. All that mattered was Anming's performance.
Anming bowed to the assembly, meeting Jun Hao and Haoran's gazes with calm assurance. He picked up the brush, pausing briefly at the accidental ink mark left by Mei Lan, and began to paint.
Each stroke was deliberate, flowy and elegant, the brush moving with the quiet certainty of a master. The lines curved and danced across the paper, bringing to life a pair of koi fish, their bodies entwined in a perfect yin and yang. The scales shimmered with careful detail, the water suggested with soft, flowing sweeps. Light and shadow played in the negative space, creating a sense of movement and depth that left the onlookers breathless.
Jun Hao was the first to break the silence. "Exquisite," he murmured, genuine admiration in his voice. "Each stroke is alive."
Haoran's eyes were dark, his presence gentle but intense. Outwardly he offered a warm smile, but inwardly, a seed of suspicion grew. This was the Mei Lan he was familiar with, the poise, the artistry, the aura all matched the woman he'd seen at the archery contest. The clumsy, nervous Mei Lan from minutes ago had vanished. Interesting, he mused.
As Anming set the brush aside, the crowd erupted in applause. Jun Hao stepped forward, eyes shining. "Truly, a masterpiece. I have rarely seen koi rendered with such spirit."
Haoran added, "Your talent is remarkable, Lady Mei Lan. It seems you are full of surprises."
Anming offered a serene, enigmatic smile. "Thank you, Your Highness, Master Jun. But why not test our skills further? Let's have a friendly duel of poems. Winner may claim a favor from the others, any request at all."
This would be his safety net when the time came. They'd agree to the bet because the rich could never pass up on a wager. They loved betting, if it was to win, embarrass another, or to save face. A bet was something they could never say no to.
As Anming predicted the challenge was accepted with a good-natured agreement. Jun Hao and Haoran set the terms, each promising to honor the victor's request, then the contest began.
Jun Hao recited his poem first a clever, graceful verse about spring's return. Haoran followed, his words rich and evocative, painting images of moonlit gardens and distant longing. Anming listened, then replied with his own a poem subtle in structure, with underlying blades.
The contest stretched into a second round. Each time, Anming's verses deepened, his delivery serene yet magnetic.
("When life is good, let your joy be complete,
Don't let a golden goblet face the moon empty.")
—Li Bai, "Bring in the Wine"
Jun Hao, followed behind with a sense of anticipation, his eyes glinting with challenge.
("After bidding farewell in the mountains,
At dusk I close my thatched door.
Year after year, the grass turns green in spring
But will my noble friend ever return?")
The guests praised his elegance. Haoran was next, his gaze warm and words composed. He kept it simple and clean. His need to win not as adherent as Jun Hao.
("In life, there is always infatuation This grieve has nothing to do with the win or moon Curiosity is not an enemy but a gift for the future.")
Then it was Anming's turn, the last and final one. As he recited, the pavilion fell silent. There was a subtle ache in Anming's recitation, a distant sorrow that wrapped around the words and held the audience spellbound.
("Alone, a stranger in a foreign land,
At every holiday, my longing for family grows twice as deep.
I know, on this day, my brothers are climbing high,
Each wearing dogwood—one less person by their side.")
Jun Hao was the first to recognize the poem's significance. His eyes gleamed, honest admiration breaking through. he took a step forward and bowed his head in respect. The nobles murmured in awe, and applause swept the pavilion.
Jun Hao gave a genuine smile and spoke softly. "Remarkable, Lady Mei Lan. I see now why your name is known even beyond the capital."
Haoran, who had watched every gesture with the wariness of a planner, felt his suspicions deepen and his interest sharpen. The "Mei Lan" before him was worlds apart from the hesitant girl of earlier. He could not reconcile the difference, but for now, he was forced to be impressed.
Haoran turned to Anming. "You have outdone yourself once again, Lady Mei Lan. Please, what favor would you ask us?"
Anming's smile was gentle and mysterious. "I'm afraid it's a secret for now, Your Highness. Perhaps, when the time comes you'll know and I will not have to ask."
The contest concluded, and as the gathering's energy shifted, Anming excused himself with a graceful bow. He left the pavilion, weaving through the crowd with practiced ease. At the edge of the gardens, he found Mei Lan waiting, her face tense with anticipation, and the maid beside her, still nursing her stinging cheek.
Mei Lan barely glanced at the maid. Her eyes were on Anming. "Well?" she hissed, but there was a grudging relief in her voice.
Anming simply straightened his robe and gestured for them to follow. Together, the three of them made their way back through the winding palace corridors to the main hall, where Lei Ming waited.
Back at the pavilion, Jun Hao, ever direct, voiced his confusion. "I don't understand. Why all the hesitation, if her talent is so remarkable?"
Haoran agreed, though his thoughts ran deeper. "There's more to this than meets the eye," he thought, suspicion and intrigue mingling with honest admiration. "But for now, she's passed the test."
Jun Hao turned to Haoran, probing for honesty. "What do you think? Would she be helpful to your ascension?"
Haoran was silent for a long moment, his gaze lingering on the path where Anming had disappeared and his mind stuck on Anming's illusive wording. "No," he said finally, voice cool. "Not now. But a dull tool is still a tool, nonetheless."
Late evening painted the kingdom in dark blue haze, lanterns flickering in distant windows as the world slipped toward rest. Far from the palace walls, beyond the kingdom's edge, chaos erupted beneath a sky bruised with twilight.
A man in simple martial attire tattered and blood streaked fought with wild precision against a pack of assassins and two royal guards. At his side, his confidant matched him blow for blow, swords ringing in the night air. Their movements were practiced, desperate, and the dirt beneath their boots was slick with blood. Two assailants lunged at the two, their blades glinting in the moonlight. The man—tall, broad-shouldered, moved with a predator's grace meeting them head-on. In a blur, his sword flashed: one attacker was gutted before he could even raise his weapon, another's arm was severed, sending his knife clattering to the ground. A third man tried to circle behind, but the man spun, catching him in the throat with the hilt of his sword he collapsed, choking on his own blood.
One of the royal guards charged in, only to be cut down with a single, merciless sweep. Behind the carnage, the man's partner dispatched two more enemies one with a dagger to the heart, the other with a swift, brutal twist of his neck.
The retreat began as a feint. The man and his confidant exchanged a wordless glance, then turned and fled, drawing their pursuers toward the kingdom's lights. The assassins and one of the guards followed, dogged and relentless. As they neared the city, the two fugitives split one melting into the shadows of an alley, the other, the man, weaving through the crowded streets, his breath ragged but his mind razor sharp.
Commotion broke out among the palace's outer guards within the palace. Shouts rang out. "There, stop him!" and a volley of arrows hissed through the night. One arrow grazed the man's side, slashing through fabric and skin. He gritted his teeth, ducked behind a wall of clipped hedges, and crouched, listening as his hunters thundered past, boots pounding on stone.
Hidden by the bush, he caught the warm glow of a candle. Above, a window held wide open, the scent of soap and steam curling into the air. With a quick scan, the man hauled himself up and over the sill, landing with a splash in a marble bath.
A woman was already in the water. She turned, startled, but before she could scream, the man's hand clamped over her mouth, dragging her lower into the bath. His chest heaved, blood leaking from his wound, but he held her tight, eyes never leaving the faint flicker of shadows beyond the window.
Outside, the searchers' voices were sharp with frustration.
"Where is he!?"
"I saw him come this way!"
"He just vanished—"
"Find him! No matter what, after tonight, he must not be allowed to live!"
The voices faded. The man's grip softened. He let out a cold, shuddering breath, his body finally relaxing just enough to steady himself.
Moments earlier, Anming had retreated to his chambers, eager to be done with the day. He shut the door behind him and let the silence press in, and ever so needed peace against the constant performance. The air was thick with the scent of sandalwood and old stone. He lit a lamp and poured more steaming water into his bath, watching as the vapor curled up like the ghosts of his thoughts.
He slipped out of his robes, savoring the cool air on his skin, and sunk into the steaming bath, letting the water soothe away aches and tension. For a moment, there was nothing but the slow drip of water and the steady thrum of his heartbeat.
He closed his eyes, letting the day replay behind his lids. He tipped his head back, sinking deeper, letting the warmth lull him. He'd just begun to relax when chaos intruded, Anming jerked upright, water sloshing over the rim. Before he could react, a heavy weight plummeted into the tub beside him, a body, limbs flailing, sending water flying over the edges. A man, wild-eyed and bleeding, crashed into the water. He barely had time to register the stranger's face before rough, desperate hands seized him.
A blade pressed cold and sharp against his throat. The man's breath was hot and ragged in his ear. "Do not move." the stranger hissed, voice trembling with fear and something wild.
Anming's mind raced. His skin prickled under the stranger's iron grip. He forced himself to calmness and began to access the situation, eyes darting to the wide opened window, the flicker of lamplight on the ceiling.
From outside the window came a muffled commotion: urgent footsteps, shouts, the clatter of armor. The sounds grew louder, closer, as if the world beyond the window sill was collapsing into chaos. He caught fragments: "Where is he!" "He just vanished—!" "Find him...he must not be allowed to live!"
He waited for the outside noise to quiet down before he made his move.
Anming twisted, driving his elbow viciously into the man's ribs, striking the intruder's injured torso. The man grunted in pain, his eyes fierce, but made no move to truly restrain him if anything, it felt like he let Anming go, the strength in his grasp never fully exerted.
They broke apart, facing each other across the blood-stained water.
Only now did the mysterious man risk a glance at the woman he had seized, only to freeze momentarily as he noticed a faint mole, and unmistakable diamond mark beneath the right eye. The moon shined brightly upon it, encasing the bright red mole with moonlight. It was a mark that was universally noticeable, she was not a woman, but a man— a Ger to be exact.
Noticing the man's searching gaze and then sudden realization Anming frowned and before he could ask the other who they were, their standoff was interrupted by the thunder of boots. Palace guards burst into the room, weapons drawn, eyes ablaze.