The Elegance Pavilion rose gracefully above the lively street, its lacquered pillars shining under lantern light.
Owned by Duke Lin Changyu, it was the capital's most refined gathering place—where nobles debated poetry, scholars displayed their talents, musicians played rare instruments, and flower wine flowed like poetry itself.
Tonight, the pavilion was crowded.
Inside, Bai Rouyuan, Princess Murong Qingshi, and Wen Xianyi slipped into a quiet corner table overlooking the center stage.
A heated poetry debate was already stirring the hall.
The Debate Begins
A noble scholar, dressed in flowing brocade, recited dramatically: "—thus, the moonlight symbolizes serenity of mind!"
His friends clapped enthusiastically.
But sitting opposite him, wearing simple blue scholar robes, sat a young man whose calm presence outshone the entire hall.
Prince Murong Yunxi.
The Fourth Prince.
But tonight, he had no attendants, no royal robes, no fanfare.
Only quiet elegance.
He shook his head gently.
Murong Yunxi, "No. That verse was written during the poet's exile — it speaks of yearning, not serenity."
The scholar stiffened.
Though he knew of Yunxi's royal status, the prince was so gentle that people often dared to debate him.
Scholar, "Your Highness… respectfully… that interpretation lacks passion."
Murong Yunxi offered a polite smile.
"Interpretation requires reason, not passion."
The scholar scoffed.
"And reason says the moon reflects clarity of spirit!"
Murong Yunxi, "Not when written in hardship."
Scholar, "But moon imagery in classic literature—"
Murong Yunxi (softly interrupting), "—varies by context. In this poet's case, his diary at the time—"
Scholar, "Diaries are private. Easily dramatized. Not reliable."
Murong Yunxi, "Emotions written in solitude are the purest of truths."
A hush fell.
Fans snapped shut.
Scholars leaned forward.
Music faded.
Bai Rouyuan smiled under her xuesha veil.
Murong Qingshi bit her lip to keep from laughing.
Only Wen Xianyi looked dangerously irritated.
She muttered, "Idiots. Both wrong."
"Let them debate," Rouyuan whispered.
"I can't," Xianyi hissed. "They're butchering literature!"
Murong Qingshi tried distracting her with tea—utterly useless.
Wen Xianyi stood abruptly.
Bai Rouyuan sighed.
Murong Qingshi hid behind her fan.
Wen Xianyi Steps into the Flames
Xianyi strode toward the debate circle, posture sharp and confident.
Her presence alone silenced several scholars.
The brocade-clad scholar sneered when he saw her.
Scholar, "Does a lady intend to participate?"
"Poetry is the realm of scholars, not feminine sentiment."
Wen Xianyi raised one brow, "Poetry is not for fools either,"
"Yet here you are, loudly debating it."
Gasps erupted.
Several noblewomen dropped their fans.
And at the center, Yunxi lifted his sleeve to hide a soft chuckle.
Because he knew that voice.
He knew that fire.
How could he forget?
Even after ten years—he remembered her silhouette dancing through the Wen Mansion courtyard, her bright, mischievous eyes, her fearless tongue that spared no one.
Wen Xianyi.
His little cousin from his mother's side.
He had met her when he was a child, accompanying Consort Rou, his mother, to visit their maternal family.
Xianyi had been a whirlwind—talkative, bold to the point of recklessness, utterly indifferent to rank or decorum.
Seeing her now, Yunxi felt warmth bloom in his chest.
She truly hadn't changed at all.
A Scholar Meets His Match
The scholar flushed red.
Scholar, "Y-You dare insult—"
Xianyi, "Your reading is shallow."
She pointed at the poem scroll. "This line was written in exile."
"During famine. During homesickness."
The scholar snorted, "And how would a lady know that?"
Xianyi smiled like a knife. "Because my Wen Merchant Clan handled the poet's journey records."
"By the way, I am Wen Xianyi, the granddaughter of Wen Shisheng, Patriarch of Wen Merchant Clan."
Dead silence.
Xianyi, "The moon in this poem is neither clarity nor serenity."
She turned to Yunxi.
Their eyes met.
"It is longing."
The hall fell completely silent.
Yunxi's gaze sharpened with interest, "And why do you believe so?"
Xianyi smirked. "Because you are wrong—"
She pointed at the scholar.
"And he is also wrong—"
Finally, she straightened proudly.
"Let me tell you the truth."
The Final Blow
Yunxi, "…Very well. What proof do you offer?"
Xianyi stepped forward, voice sweet but razor-sharp.
"The original manuscript from the poet's grandson—catalogued and sold by my Wen Merchant Clan fifty-three years ago—clearly states the poem was written during his longing for home."
The hall erupted.
Fans fell.
Scholars choked.
Someone dropped a teacup.
And Yunxi…was speechless.
For the first time in years, someone had defeated him in a scholarly debate.
He exhaled softly.
His eyes shone with admiration. "…You win."
Xianyi offered a triumphant smile—sharp, elegant, not mocking.
She turned to leave for Bai Rouyuan and Murong Qingshi table, lifting her fan. "You should study in our libraries someday, Your Highness."
"They might teach you something."
The entire pavilion froze.
Yunxi froze. "Did she… remember me?" He spoke in his mind.
As her figure vanished behind a curtain of lantern light, he murmured quietly—
"…Interesting."