The Mongol prince was a bit rougher, reminding Ming of the Emperor—but the Emperor as he was before the crown. People changed when they became Khan, and both young men were well aware of that reality.
"Mine passed away peacefully," Fhao said. "It is more than many sons can ask for."
Both knew that Fhao's territory was peaceful now, but it had once been a scarred land, disputed by many invaders.
"Indeed," Ming replied. "Few Yang-zhi manage to die outside of war or a power struggle. At least among our people." To Ming, the idea of dying in battle felt empty and tasteless. He could not truly grasp the volatile nature of the Yang-zhi.
Their scents provided another striking contrast. Ming's fragrance was a delicate blend of floral notes, tea, and the dry parchment of old scrolls. In contrast, the natural aroma of wood and exertion clinging to Fhao revealed just how different they were. Unknowingly, Ming's Han mannerisms—his soft laugh and porcelain complexion—seemed to irritate the man across from him. Fhao's expression darkened as he listened to the polite prince.
"I don't think someone like you would survive among the Mongols anyway," Fhao mocked. "Your father is a Mongol, but you even smell Han. I bet you've never even ridden a horse, have you?"
Ming bristled, the comment striking a nerve. "I still have my father's blood in my veins. I know how to ride and shoot; it is simply not my custom to do so aggressively," he grumbled. In truth, he was a capable rider, though his archery left much to be desired.
"Your royal blood doesn't seem to have granted you any of our attributes," Fhao added with a derisive smirk.
"You insult me greatly for a man who requested a private conversation," Ming retorted. He bit into a sweet with practiced politeness, but he fixed Fhao with a sharp, furious glare.
Prince Fhao let out a tired sigh. He did find Ming interesting, but the Emperor had clearly forced this proximity. In that sigh, Ming realized the truth: his father was trying to push the future Khan onto him.
"The Emperor truly never changes..." Ming muttered, then turned to his servant. "Ahmad, arrange some meat snacks for our guest."
The comment caught Fhao off guard. He was surprised that Ming had read the situation so accurately, placing them both on the same level. Their fathers were trying to unite them regardless of their own interests. The Mongol relaxed his shoulders slightly, leaning toward the table.
"So, the Prince of Jade is consenting to be courted by me?" Fhao asked. His tone was more relaxed now, his eyes tracing Ming's face, which shifted from embarrassment to indignation.
"Do not misunderstand," Ming replied, trying to conceal the blush warming his cheeks. "I merely sympathize with your situation. My father is stubborn; he must have misinterpreted your comment at the banquet, that is all."
Ahmad served a freshly prepared skewer of meat to the prince. Fhao's aide stepped forward to taste it first, but Fhao raised a hand, dismissing the precaution before biting into the meat himself.
"The Prince of Jade is trustworthy. Relax, Qara," Fhao said.
The prince's servant, Qara, looked more like a bodyguard than a valet. His hair was shaved at the sides with long braids falling from the back of his head over his shoulders. Unlike Ahmad, he was massive—a mountain of a man even in loose clothing. His gaze was as stern as his master's, and he wore light armor with a sword cinched at his waist. Ming glanced at him, then at Ahmad, who seemed equally struck by the man's stature.
"Lord Qara, if you need anything, please ask my dear Ahmad," Ming offered. "Do not worry about titles here; we prefer a lighter atmosphere in my quarters."
Palace etiquette was a labyrinthine affair, one Ming chose to ignore within his own walls. Aside from Ahmad, his personal aide, all his servants were well-compensated and treated with a status that ensured their loyalty. Yet, despite Ming's liberal views, Fhao still saw him primarily as an elegant Han prince rather than a son of the steppes.
"I wouldn't recommend being so relaxed with everyone else, however," Ming warned. "Intentions vary within the royal palace. We have many silent dangers here."
Ming knew that while some territories settled disputes with steel, the mix of Mongol and Han cultures in the capital meant that most intrigues were handled in the shadows.
"I appreciate the advice," Fhao laughed, looking directly at Ming. "But we both have a high resistance to poisons. I don't think anyone here can truly hurt us."
"I would not risk Ahmad's life out of mere presumption," Ming commented, his tone bordering on an insult. "Qara is in his position because you trust him, is he not?"
Fhao scoffed, a bit annoyed as he finished his meat. "Rude, coming from someone who was just pitying my situation."
"If you wish to discuss manners, Prince, our conversation will be very long," Ming countered, equally piqued by Fhao's boisterous nature. They were opposites in every sense. "But you still haven't told me what you wished to discuss."
Both men lowered their metaphorical weapons to address the matter at hand. Fhao produced a piece of scroll with handwriting that Ming recognized as Fhao's own clumsy script.
"The King is not he who rides upon the land, but he who understands what sustains it. To open what is closed, bring me the four pillars that cannot be touched, but without which the empire falls into darkness."
Ming read the words aloud, then looked at Fhao, struggling to contain his growing curiosity. Within seconds, the pieces began to fall into place.
"You are a prince, not a Khan," Ming mused, almost speaking to himself. "Your father died and did not pass on the title automatically. Instead, he is forcing you to solve a riddle to earn it. What is inside the chest?"
Fhao watched him, finding the scholar's intensity strangely endearing. "An earring. It is a jewel passed down through generations. It symbolizes the Khan and has been in my family longer than memory."
"Poor soul," Ming sighed, leaning back. "You wanted help with a code, not a courtship. My father truly has no sensibility."
He picked up the paper, reading it again and again. While Fhao had initially only wanted a solution to his problem, he now found himself increasingly interested in the prince himself. Ming translated the text for Ahmad, and the two scholars shared a look of doubt. Ahmad was the first to speak.
"Your Majesty, could you perhaps draw the chest for us?" Ahmad asked, clearing space on the table and producing a brush and paper. "Even the details of the carvings could be vital."
Fhao nodded and took the brush. The two scholars leaned in close as he began to sketch. They were utterly surprised to see a simple box with no visible locks—it appeared to be sealed at the corners. Ahmad looked at Ming, then at the prince, but Fhao seemed certain of his drawing.
"I will be honest," Ming said, his eyes bright with interest. "I already have some ideas, but I need you to record your previous attempts on paper so we can study them against our documents. I suspect your father was inspired by Confucian theories."
"I agree, Your Majesty," Ahmad added with a smile. "Look at the phrasing; I recognize this—it relates to lián. It is common in Confucian texts."
Ahmad and Ming began to discuss the characters with animated energy, clearly delighted by the enigma. A spark of admiration touched Fhao's eyes. This Han prince might be delicate, but his mind was a formidable weapon. Fhao rose unhurriedly and offered a traditional goodbye, hand over his chest.
"Thank you for your assistance in this matter," Fhao said, a small smile finally breaking through his stern facade. "I shall find a reward worthy of your intellectual labor."
Ming laughed, pleased by the reaction. "I shall ask for something incredibly expensive and luxurious, don't worry, new friend."
With that playful parting, they said their goodbyes.