At ten years old, Crown Prince Gu Lian felt this was the longest spring of his life.
In the Eastern Palace study, the old scholar's voice droned on as he lectured on the Shangshu, slow and heavy like the warm wind outside that clung to the skin and refused to disperse. Gu Lian sat upright behind a rosewood desk, posture impeccable, every gesture conforming to courtly etiquette. Yet his fingertips quietly toyed with the edge of the fine xuan paper, rolling and smoothing it until a visible crease marred its perfection.
His gaze, tinged with impatience, drifted to the seat slightly ahead and to the left.
There sat Ai Miao—the second son of the Prime Minister's household, his officially appointed study companion.
Outside, magnolia blossoms bloomed in riotous splendor against the crimson palace walls, their creamy petals glowing in the sunlight like carvings of fine mutton-fat jade. The boy, three years older than Gu Lian, wore a robe the color of sky after rain. Though his frame was still slender, his back remained straight as a young bamboo shoot.
Ai Miao was quietly jotting down notes, his pale fingers steady around the brush. The light filtering through the lattice window cast his profile in a translucent calm.
Gu Lian watched him, and the strange restlessness in his chest eased.
He remembered their first meeting—not at a palace banquet, but behind the rockery in the imperial garden. Ai Miao, praised by the emperor as "a child of rare intellect," had been alone, drawing complex diagrams in the dirt with a twig, muttering calculations under his breath. Even then, Gu Lian had sensed that this quiet companion harbored a world he couldn't quite see, but found deeply intriguing.
"Ai Miao," he whispered during a lull as the scholar sipped his tea, voice low and tinged with unconscious reliance, "Class is nearly over. Shall we go to the training grounds? A Lie said he's learned a new spear form and wants to show us."
Ai Miao didn't pause his writing, nor did his gaze shift. He merely gave a subtle, almost imperceptible nod—so fluid it seemed like a natural pause in thought.
Gu Lian's lips curved slightly. He sat up straighter, and even the scholar's drawn-out cadence felt less unbearable.
The bell signaling the end of lessons rang clear, its echo lingering through the corridors.
Gu Lian rose at once, swift enough to stir a breeze. He rounded the desk and instinctively reached for Ai Miao's sleeve. "Come on, let's not keep A Lie waiting!"
Ai Miao calmly set down his brush, arranged his notes in order, and stood. His movements were always unhurried, carrying a rhythm beyond his years—a stark contrast to Gu Lian's eager energy.
"Your Highness, Young Master Ai Miao, the sedan is ready," a eunuch bowed.
"No need," Gu Lian waved cheerfully. "Let's walk. The spring air is perfect."
They walked side by side down the long palace path, attendants trailing respectfully behind. Sunlight cast their shadows on the clean stone tiles—one long, one short, occasionally overlapping.
Gu Lian chatted intermittently, about which move A Lie might demonstrate or what dessert he wanted for supper. Ai Miao mostly listened, occasionally replying with a quiet "Mm" or "Alright," his gaze drifting over the palace eaves toward the azure sky.
Gu Lian was content.
He was used to Ai Miao's silence, and trusted it as surely as the rising and setting of the sun. Beneath that quiet lay unwavering attention and unquestionable support for his future reign.
As the empire's heir, Gu Lian had been raised to rule. Ai Miao's intellect and A Lie's valor were his left and right arms—indispensable colors in the grand painting of his future kingdom.
Spring was warm, time was gentle. Gu Lian believed life should be just like this: bright, open, with loyal friends by his side, forever as today.
But just as they were about to pass through Moonlight Gate toward the training grounds, the clatter of hooves and wheels echoed from a nearby path.
Gu Lian instinctively paused and turned.
A dusty procession escorted a plain blue-draped carriage, led quietly by officials from the eunuch bureau. They turned toward the western quarters—remote and rarely used, typically reserved for foreign envoys or hostage princes. The riders' attire was starkly different from Da Sheng's: fur-lined, muted in color, rough with the chill of the northern lands. Their faces were tense, eyes guarded, and tinged with a subtle humiliation.
"That is…" Gu Lian frowned, already guessing.
The head eunuch stepped forward and confirmed in a low voice, "Your Highness, it is the hostage prince from Beijing, just arrived today."
"Oh, a hostage prince." Gu Lian nodded, his curiosity fading. Such diplomatic arrangements were common in history. As Da Sheng's crown prince, he felt little beyond a quiet pride—another sign of imperial dominance. His gaze swept over the humble convoy, then turned back toward the training grounds.
But just as he looked away, he caught something unusual in Ai Miao's expression.
Ai Miao hadn't moved.
He stood tall as ever, but his gaze was locked onto the disappearing carriage with an intensity that unsettled Gu Lian. His face remained calm, but Gu Lian—who knew him better than anyone—sensed something unfamiliar in those usually clear, rational eyes.
It wasn't curiosity. Nor was it pity. It was… calculation. The kind of focused interest a craftsman shows a rare piece of jade, or a strategist glimpses a brilliant endgame.
That gaze, sharp and foreign, dropped a stone into the still waters between them. Gu Lian's heart skipped, a subtle discomfort rippling through his carefully ordered world.
"Just a hostage. What's there to look at?" he tugged Ai Miao's sleeve, voice tinged with unnoticed irritation. "Let's go. A Lie's waiting."
Ai Miao seemed to return from deep thought. He withdrew his gaze, and when he looked at Gu Lian, the strange light had vanished—so quickly it felt like a trick of the eye. His lips curved in their usual faint, unreadable smile.
"Mm," he replied softly. "Let's go."
The wind remained warm, the magnolia scent sweet. Gu Lian stepped forward again, toward the training grounds beyond Moonlight Gate.
But something had changed.
Ai Miao's moment of near-obsessive focus had stirred the waters of Gu Lian's spring. The ripples were small, but persistent. And Gu Lian had a faint, uneasy premonition: that hostage prince from Beijing, dismissed by all as a symbol of shame, would not pass quietly.
And the quiet boy beside him—his closest companion—might already be opening a door to a world Gu Lian had never entered.
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