An elegant older woman sat in the shade of a peony tree.
Her dark purple brocade robes articulated a face that had aged beautifully—small mouth, phoenix eyes, sharp brows. In her hand, a brush hovered over a half‑finished painting. She tilted her head slightly, considering the composition, then added one final stroke.
The personal maid behind her, Lili, smiled and applauded softly.
"You have improved again, Your Highness."
The woman—Princess Fei—smiled slightly, her gaze still on the canvas. The chrysanthemum she had painted seemed to sway in an invisible breeze.
"Yes," she said. "I think so too."
Lili turned to the small table nearby, poured a cup of tea, and walked toward her mistress.
"Your Highness must be tired," Lili said, offering the cup. "You've been at it for quite a while."
Princess Fei shook her head, though the smile remained. "I'm not tired yet."
She handed her brush to another maid—Ying, who had been standing quietly by the easel. Ying accepted it and offered a damp cloth. Princess Fei cleaned her fingers, where a few smudges of paint had settled in the creases of her skin.
Then she took the covered tea cup from Lili and lifted it to her lips.
A sip.
"It's good." Another sip. "A different kind of tea, isn't it?"
Lili nodded, pleased. "Yes, Your Highness. Peony tea. I heard from the other maids about a tea shop in town that sells it along with delicious snacks. So I sent someone early this morning to bring some for you to try."
Princess Fei set down the cup and glanced at the exquisitely shaped snacks on the plate beside her. Small, delicate, almost too pretty to eat.
"Thank you," she said. "You are very considerate."
She paused, her fingers hovering over the plate.
"But I think I am getting too old for these sweet things. They should be for young people."
Lili and Ying both paused in their movements. A shadow passed over their faces—sadness, quickly hidden, but not quickly enough.
They had been with their lady since she was a child. In her youth, she had been famous for both beauty and elegance—the eldest daughter of the former emperor, favored by her father, her husband, and her older brothers. She had lived a peaceful life, surrounded by love.
Until the death of her father.
The princes—her brothers—had fought for the throne. Blood had flowed in the palace corridors. When the youngest, Wei Shun, finally seized power and became the current emperor, the unrest did not end. Rebels rose one by one, too many for the young king to control.
Her husband had offered himself to her brother. He would go. He would calm the unrest.
She had tried to stop him. Tried to persuade him. But he was stubborn.
*"There is no need for more bloodshed,"* he had said. *"I will talk to them."*
On the day she received the news, she learned that he had not talked to anyone. His body had been left hanging from the city walls—a warning to outsiders.
Consumed by anger, she had rushed into the palace and announced that she would lead an army to the rebel territory herself.
The young emperor, her brother, had said nothing. He simply agreed.
She led the army with the help of the Shen and Pei families. They won the war.
But she could not celebrate.
Poisoned during her time in the camp, she had lost both her child and her womb.
At the time, Madam Shen—three months pregnant with her first child—had watched all of this. She had sat by Princess Fei's bedside for days, saying little but always being there for her. And one evening, as the sun set over the camp, Madam Shen had taken her hand.
"My child will be yours as well," she had said. Not a legal promise. Not a document. Just one woman to another, in the quiet after loss.
Princess Fei had never forgotten those words.
Now, habitually, her hand drifted to her belly—the flat, empty space where nothing would ever grow.
Sadness enveloped her. The maids behind her lowered their heads. The once‑happy moment turned grim. They knew where her thoughts had gone, but none of them dared to speak.
*Am I fine?* she asked herself.
She had learned, over the years, to say yes even when the answer was no.
"I'm fine," she said aloud.
The air remained heavy.
For fifteen minutes—or what felt like fifteen years—the garden held its breath. Peony petals drifted onto the stone table, unnoticed. The painted chrysanthemum stared back at her from the canvas, frozen in permanent bloom.
Then footsteps. Rushed. Urgent.
Princess Fei wiped the tears she had not realized were falling. She stood up, sniffling once, then composed herself. A deep breath.
She turned toward the man who had just appeared at the garden entrance.
Fan Xinyu—one of her close guards, an attendant from her army days—bowed low.
"Your Highness." His voice was steady, but his eyes carried urgency. "His Majesty summoned Young Master Shen to the palace today."
Princess Fei stiffened.
"Why? Did you hear anything?"
Fan Xinyu shook his head. "No, my lady. The study was heavily guarded. This servant could not get anything more."
Princess Fei turned away, walking a few steps to the side as her mind raced. Her brother had never shown special interest in the Shen family's heir. Not since the original was a child.
"Why now?"
She was aware of the retreat that was coming. The celebration of allied kingdoms. But she did not think this was a simple briefing.
She stopped.
"Lili."
The maid stepped forward.
"Go. Deliver this to the Shen residence quickly."
Lili did not ask. She simply accepted the small jade token the Princess always carried with her —a token that would grant her access past the Shen family's guards.
Lili bowed and hurried away.
Princess Fei walked back to her seat and sat down. Her fists clenched in her lap.
"I hope he's not aiming for that child."
Her other hand drifted again to her belly—the old habit, the old grief.
"Shen Yao is all I have left of her. Of them"
Anger flickered in her eyes. Not hot. Cold. The kind of anger that had once led armies.
"If he touches that boy- " she murmured, the rest of her words drifted away with the wind.
The peony petals continued to fall, silent and indifferent.