The garden smelled of rain and peonies. Morning dew clung to the jade leaves, shimmering like the tears of the sky, while the soft rustling of the wind carried whispers of a world she did not yet understand. The red-crowned cranes strolled leisurely by the koi pond, dipping their heads in slow, elegant movements, while the distant hum of the court still lingered beyond the stone walls.
Lian Yuhua walked beside her father, Emperor Lian Wenzhao, struggling to match his long strides. Her tiny fingers clutched at the embroidered sleeve of his robe, as if holding onto a piece of certainty in an uncertain world. She was barely seven, yet the weight of the future already loomed over her like a storm on the horizon.
Her father sighed; his voice heavy as he glanced down at her.
"It will not be easy for you, Yuhua."
She tilted her head up, her golden eyes searching his face.
"Because I am a girl?"
His expression darkened, but he did not answer right away. Instead, he reached out and tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. Her raven-black hair, thick and flowing, was adorned with delicate silver hairpins shaped like falling lotus petals. The strands shimmered in the pale morning light, cascading down her back in silky waves. A few stray locks clung to her round cheeks, still soft with childhood.
Her robes were a pale shade of lilac, embroidered with golden cranes and plum blossoms, the silk smooth and weightless against her skin. The sash around her waist was a deep violet, tied neatly into a bow at her back. She wore delicate silk slippers, barely making a sound as she stepped over the pebbled path.
Her father exhaled slowly.
"Yes," he admitted. "Because you are my only child. When an emperor has no son, the throne becomes a battlefield."
She frowned. "But... this is our home. Why would they fight over it?"
He knelt before her then, his large hands resting on her small shoulders. His once-mighty frame, draped in imperial yellow, seemed heavier than she had ever seen before.
"Because power is never simply given, Yuhua. It is seized."
A gust of wind swept through the garden, rustling the bamboo trees as if to agree.
For the first time, she noticed how tired he looked. The fine lines beneath his dark eyes, the silver creeping into his hair, the way his lips pressed together as if hiding the weight of unspoken grief. Grief for her mother.
Empress Zhen Yuexiu had died two winters ago. Killed in the war while carrying the child who would never be born.
Yuhua did not remember much of her. Only faint glimpses—her mother's laughter, the warmth of her hands, the scent of jasmine lingering in the air when she hugged her. She had been told it was an arrow that struck her down. An arrow meant for the emperor.
"If Mother were here, would it still be difficult for me?" she asked, her voice quiet.
Her father's expression turned unreadable, his gaze drifting toward the horizon.
"Perhaps," he murmured. "But she is not."
The words stung, but she did not cry. Instead, she straightened her back, trying to appear taller, stronger—like the warrior princesses in the old stories.
"Then I will be strong enough for both of us."
A sad smile touched his lips.
"One day, you may have to be."
The wind carried the scent of rain once more, and as they walked deeper into the garden, the storm on the horizon grew ever closer.
Later that evening, Yuhua sat in the imperial study, her legs tucked beneath her as she listened to the murmurs beyond the silk-screened doors. She wasn't supposed to be here. She knew that. But curiosity had always been a fierce thing inside her.
The ministers were speaking in hushed tones. She could barely make out the words, but she understood the meaning beneath them.
"King Harun of Zhao Tai grows bolder with each passing month," one voice said. "If His Majesty does not solidify his heir, the court will fracture before we even prepare for war."
"She is but a child," another scoffed. "Seven years old. She cannot rule an empire."
"And yet, she is all we have," a third voice countered. "Unless His Majesty remarries and sires a son, the princess remains our only option."
Yuhua clenched her fists in her lap.
They spoke of her as if she were a pawn. A piece to be moved across the board, bargained for, married off, used for their ambitions.
And yet, she was the daughter of an emperor. Did that not mean something?
"She will learn."
Her father's voice was calm, steady.
"She will learn, and she will be stronger than you believe."
There was silence after that. No more arguments. No more hushed concerns.
And in that silence, Yuhua made a promise to herself.
She would become what they doubted. She would carve her own place in history.
Even if the world was against her.
The next morning, her father took her to the training grounds.
She had never been allowed here before. The scent of sweat and steel filled the air, the clang of wooden swords striking against each other echoing through the open courtyard. Soldiers in lacquered armor sparred, their movements swift and calculated, while masters shouted commands over the rising sun.
Yuhua's heart pounded with excitement.
"Come."
Her father led her toward an older man standing by the racks of training swords. He was tall, his silver-streaked hair tied in a warrior's knot, his expression unreadable.
"This is General Han," her father introduced. "He will be your instructor."
The man studied her in silence before kneeling, his dark eyes unreadable.
"Princess," he greeted. "A warrior's path is not one of comfort."
She lifted her chin. "Then I will endure."
A hint of a smirk touched his lips. He straightened, then pulled a wooden sword from the rack.
"Show me, then."
That was the first step.
And she would take every step after that until the world knew her name.
Yuhua gripped the wooden sword tightly, feeling the weight of it in her hands. The wood was rough, the handle worn by years of use. She raised it to eye level, her posture steady but not perfect. She could feel her father's gaze on her, the quiet expectation, but more than that, she could feel her own determination burning brighter than any doubt.
General Han observed her closely, his gaze unwavering.
"Position," he commanded.
She adjusted her stance, feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent, sword held in both hands with the tip pointing forward. Her father had taught her the basics of swordplay in their private chambers, but it was nothing like this—nothing like the weight of the training grounds, the eyes of the soldiers, the sharp commands from the generals.
Han nodded, but his expression remained impassive. "Now, attack me."
Yuhua blinked in surprise. "What?"
"Strike," he repeated, his voice firm.
Her pulse quickened, and she took a step forward, lifting the sword to strike, but the movement felt clumsy. Han easily sidestepped her swing, and before she could adjust, he twisted the wooden blade from her hands, sending it flying across the courtyard.
She stood frozen for a moment, the sting of failure biting deep.
Her father's voice, calm but sharp, broke the silence. "Again."
She turned to face Han, her heart pounding with embarrassment, but also with a fiercer fire than before. She'd come here to prove herself. There was no turning back now.
Her stance was better this time, more grounded. She closed the gap between them, each step purposeful, her grip firm. Han was quicker than she expected, but this time, she was ready. She feinted left, then swung hard from the right, aiming for his side.
He blocked her strike with ease, but she didn't hesitate. She shifted her weight, stepping back just as his sword came crashing toward her. She ducked under the swing and rolled to her feet, adjusting her grip as she sprang up again, determined.
"Not bad," Han said, nodding once, his voice softening just slightly. "You've got fire. But fire alone won't make you a warrior."
Yuhua's breath came in ragged bursts, sweat trickling down her brow. "Then what will?"
"A warrior's mind," Han replied, his gaze sharp. "Control. Patience. Strategy."
Her father's voice, filled with pride, cut through the quiet. "You're strong, Yuhua. But this is more than strength."
She nodded, feeling the weight of his words settle into her chest. She wasn't just a princess. She would become more.
With a deep breath, Yuhua squared her shoulders, looking at General Han with newfound resolve.
"Then teach me."
General Han's eyes narrowed slightly, as if measuring the depths of her resolve. For a moment, he said nothing, only observing her with the same unwavering gaze he had since they first met.
"Very well," he finally spoke, his voice colder than before. "Let's see if you can keep up."
He moved with fluid precision, suddenly stepping forward, swinging his sword in a rapid arc. Yuhua barely had time to react. She instinctively raised her sword to block, the force of his strike rattling her arms. The sharp sound of wood meeting wood echoed across the courtyard. She staggered back, but she didn't let go.
"Focus!" Han barked, stepping in again, faster this time.
Her feet slid on the gravel beneath her, but she found her balance just in time to parry another blow. Her heart raced, the adrenaline surging through her veins, but this time, there was no panic. Just clarity.
The world seemed to slow as she measured each movement, every shift of his body, every breath he took. He was an expert, his strikes deliberate, but she could read him now. She saw the subtle openings between his attacks, the moments where his defense was slightly weaker. She waited, poised for the right moment.
Han's sword came down again, and this time, Yuhua sidestepped with a grace she hadn't known she was capable of. She struck out, her wooden blade cutting through the air in a practiced arc.
For the first time, she landed a solid hit on his sword.
A flicker of approval crossed Han's face, but it was gone as quickly as it came.
"Again," he said, stepping back. "You're thinking now. But you're still too slow."
Yuhua's chest heaved, but she wasn't tired. No, she was alive in a way she had never been before. Each command from General Han, each blow he struck, sharpened her. She was no longer the frightened girl who had been kept from the battlefield. She was a warrior in the making. And this was her path, her test.
She tightened her grip on the sword, eyes focused on him.
"I'm ready."
With a grunt, Han lunged forward, his sword coming at her with overwhelming speed. This time, Yuhua didn't hesitate. She twisted, her sword cutting the air with a newfound confidence. She parried, dodged, then countered with a strike aimed at his ribs.
It landed.
Not a clean blow, but enough to make Han pause.
His dark eyes locked with hers, a flash of surprise flickering in them. For a moment, silence filled the courtyard, broken only by the soft rustling of the wind.
"Well done," he said, his voice grudgingly impressed. "But this is just the beginning, Princess."
She stood there, breathing heavily, a small, victorious smile tugging at her lips.
The world would know her name. She wasn't just a princess anymore. She was becoming something more.
And she would make sure they never forgot it.
***
Wei Zhaoyun had never known luxury, nor had he known kindness beyond fleeting moments. Born into the chaos of war-torn Xuanhua, he was the son of a wandering physician and a woman whose name he barely remembered. When he was twelve, fate dealt its cruelest blow—their small home, tucked behind an apothecary, was reduced to cinders by a rogue faction of cultivators hunting for a lost relic. His father perished in the flames, his mother had vanished long before, and he was left alone.
The streets of Xuanhua were merciless. He scavenged, stole, and fought for every scrap, his small hands bloodied by survival. In the depths of the city's alleys, he learned the art of disappearing, slipping through the cracks of the world like mist at dawn. He should have perished like so many other orphans, but an old beggar named Master Yun took him in—not out of kindness, but necessity. Master Yun needed swift hands and silent feet, and Wei Zhaoyun needed a teacher.
Under Master Yun's tutelage, Zhaoyun learned the ways of the shadow. His training was not formal, nor was it gentle. He was taught to move unseen, to strike without hesitation, and to listen more than he spoke. The beggars of Xuanhua were no simple paupers—they were spies, informants, and messengers of the underworld.
At thirteen, he made his first kill. A corrupt merchant, known for abducting young beggars and selling them to distant lands, had crossed the wrong people. Zhaoyun had only meant to steal from him, but when the merchant woke, blade in hand, instinct took over. When he emerged from the encounter, he was bloodstained but alive. Master Yun merely nodded. "The world has no use for the weak. You chose to live."
By fourteen, Zhaoyun had gained a reputation. He was swift, deadly, and bound by no master. The leaders of the underground began to take notice, and one fateful evening, he was brought before the Mistress of the Crimson Pact—a sect of assassins hidden within the folds of Xuanhua's nobility. She offered him a choice: to serve or to be silenced.
He accepted, not out of fear, but curiosity. He had no dreams of grandeur, no visions of power. He simply wanted to survive. Under the Pact's guidance, he learned techniques far beyond mere street survival—poisons, pressure points, and the art of reading a battlefield before a single strike was made. He was no longer just a street rat; he was a shadow in training.
Fifteen saw him become one of the Pact's most valued assets. He was still young, but his hands were steady, his mind sharp. Nobles whispered of the "Ghost of Xuanhua," an assassin who moved like the wind and struck without warning. But Zhaoyun was no fool—he knew that fame was a death sentence in his line of work. He needed a way out before the Pact decided he was more liability than asset.
Then came the offer. A man draped in regal silks, a seal of jade clasped in his fingers, came to him in the dead of night. "The royal family requires a blade," the man said, his voice smooth as river stones. "One that moves unseen and obeys without question. Come with me, and you will never have to scavenge again."
Zhaoyun hesitated. A life bound to a single master? It was no different from a cage. And yet... the promise of security, of food without bloodshed, of a future beyond alleyways and shadows—
He took the jade seal.
A year had passed since he left the Crimson Pact behind. His new home was within the palace walls, but he was not yet a guard. He was merely an observer, a silent shadow learning the ways of the court. His new masters did not trust him, nor did they care for his past. He was a tool, sharpened and waiting.
It was in that year that he first laid eyes on the young queen—the girl who would one day hold his fate in her hands. She was small, delicate, her eyes filled with sorrow hidden beneath layers of duty.
He did not know then that she would become his charge, nor that his life would be bound to hers. But as he watched her from afar, unseen and unknown, he felt the stirrings of something he did not yet have a name for.
Perhaps fate had not abandoned him after all.
The winter of Wei Zhaoyun's seventeenth year arrived in waves of biting winds and frozen earth. The cold was merciless, but he had long since learned not to shiver. Survival had taught him resilience, and the rigorous training of the Imperial Guard had hardened his body beyond the frailty of common men. Yet, for all the years of preparation, he remained oblivious to the path fate had carved for him.
It was during a morning drill, beneath the towering pines of the imperial courtyard, that the first ripple of his future was felt. Zhaoyun stood among other recruits, his breath steady despite the punishing routine. His instructor, General Han Li, surveyed them with the dispassionate eyes of a seasoned warrior.
"You lot think you are strong," the general's voice boomed, causing a few of the recruits to flinch. "But strength is not enough. A soldier fights, but a guardian endures."
Zhaoyun did not understand the meaning of those words yet. But he would soon.
The palace was a world unto itself. Even as a low-ranked soldier, Zhaoyun had heard whispers of its splendor—jewel-encrusted pillars, golden lanterns that never dimmed, courtyards large enough to house entire villages. Yet, none of that prepared him for the day he was summoned within the inner gates.
A commander, clad in ornate armor with a deep crimson cloak, strode toward him. "Wei Zhaoyun, you are to accompany me."
No explanation. No warning. He followed.
Through the lacquered halls of the palace, past courtiers who barely spared him a glance, he walked into the unknown. They reached a garden shrouded in pale mist, where a woman dressed in white silk stood beneath a weeping willow. She was young, no older than he, and yet she carried herself with the grace of someone who knew she commanded the world.
"This is Her Majesty, Princess Lian Yuhua."
Zhaoyun dropped to one knee instantly. He had never been this close to royalty before. He felt a strange sensation—was it awe, or something deeper?
"She will be Queen before the year ends," the commander continued. "And you, Wei Zhaoyun, will be her shadow."
Shock rooted him to the ground. A guard to the queen? Him?
Princess Lian Yuhua's gaze wept over him like a blade. "Stand up," she said.
He obeyed, meeting her eyes for the first time.
"I do not need a shadow," she said, voice laced with quiet defiance. "But I suppose you will be different."
Zhaoyun did not know if that was an insult or a promise. But as the weight of his new duty settled upon him, he realized one thing—his life was no longer his own.
It belonged to the Queen.