The bench was cold, but Xu Feiran didn't move.
The plum trees around her stood in rigid silence, their skeletal branches stretching across the courtyard like brittle fingers reaching for the moon. The blossoms had not yet bloomed. It was too early in the year, and too cold. Nothing bloomed easily here.
She sat with her hands folded in her lap, the embroidered phoenixes on her sleeves softening in the moonlight. Her hair was loose now, stripped of its ceremonial armor. It trailed over her shoulder like black silk, caught once or twice in the jade clasp at her throat. Her lips were bare of paint. Her face, for the first time all day, was her own.
She felt invisible.
She preferred it.
But she was not alone.
There, beneath the carved eaves of the eastern corridor, someone lingered. She had sensed it moments earlier—not the sound of footsteps, but the absence of silence, the particular quiet of someone holding their breath.
She didn't turn.
If it was a maid, they would announce themselves.
If it was a spy, they wouldn't.
And if it was him—
She didn't let her mind finish the thought.
The figure remained for a moment longer. Then the shadows shifted, and the presence faded.
Gone.
Xu Feiran didn't exhale until she heard a night bird call, and even then, it came out slowly. She stood, composed herself, and turned toward her chambers.
She passed under the hanging lanterns in the covered walkway, her footsteps soft against the stones. Her hair moved with her like a veil of ink. The courtyards were empty. Silent. A palace meant for a thousand voices, now filled with nothing but ritual and echo.
When she reached her quarters, Yue'er was already awake.
"I couldn't sleep," Yue'er said simply, handing her a bowl of warm chrysanthemum soup.
Feiran took it, careful not to meet her eyes.
"Did he…" Yue'er began, then faltered.
Feiran didn't answer.
Yue'er knelt beside her and took a silver comb from the tray, beginning to work through the long strands of Feiran's hair with careful fingers. Neither spoke. The only sound was the soft pull of silk through silk.
Feiran sipped the soup.
Eventually, she said, "He didn't say goodnight."
By morning, the palace was bustling again.
The new Crown Princess was to be presented formally to the court. Feiran was dressed in layered robes of ivory and lavender—symbolic colors of unity and renewal. Her face was painted again, but lighter this time. Her eyes were lined with cinnabar, her brows shaped like willow leaves.
She sat in the greeting hall, flanked by senior concubines and lesser consorts, all of whom had worn jewels more ornate than hers.
Meilin sat closest to the Crown Prince's empty chair.
It was not a mistake.
Feiran greeted them each with practiced grace, offering tea, polite smiles, and silence when needed. She knew exactly how much to speak, how long to bow, and how not to reveal a single thought.
She could feel their eyes on her. Not admiring—measuring. Waiting for her to falter.
She didn't.
But when Meilin took her tea cup, she smiled without her eyes and said, "Your Highness is truly delicate in manner. I can see why His Highness married you. You make the perfect painting."
Feiran bowed her head slightly. "I am flattered."
Meilin's smile widened. "A painting cannot speak. Nor think. It simply waits to be looked at. Isn't that right?"
Feiran met her gaze, soft as snow.
"If that is so," she said, "then I do hope you find someone worth painting you."
Meilin's expression shifted just slightly. A flutter of breath. The faintest crack in the mask.
She did not respond.
But she didn't need to.
Feiran had drawn the line.
Later that afternoon, the Crown Prince finally appeared.
Xu Feiran had not seen him since the moment he left her chambers.
He walked into the outer pavilion where the sun was just beginning to lower behind the western wall. The shadows made him look sharper, taller. He moved like someone who was always watched, even when alone.
Feiran stood as he approached. Her robe fluttered slightly in the late winter wind. She bowed deeply.
"Your Highness."
He regarded her for a moment—his expression unreadable.
"You are well?" he asked.
It startled her.
Not the words themselves, but the question. It was the first personal one he had ever asked her. Even as children at court banquets, even during the engagement rites, he had always spoken in declarations and ceremonial phrases.
Feiran answered with care. "I am well. Thank you for asking."
A pause.
He looked past her, toward the frozen plum trees.
"You are not what I expected," he said quietly.
She blinked.
"I'm not certain what Your Highness means."
He didn't answer.
Instead, he turned and began walking away.
Just before he left the pavilion, he said without looking back:
"Don't wait up at night."
Three nights passed.
Feiran saw him only from afar—at court, at rituals, never once alone.
Yue'er said nothing, but her eyes were dark with unspoken worry.
On the fourth day, an unexpected gift arrived at Feiran's quarters.
A scroll.
It was sealed with the Crown Prince's personal emblem.
Feiran held it for a long time before unrolling it.
Inside: a poem. Calligraphy in his hand.
"A mountain covered in snow,
waits for no one to climb.
The plum does not bloom
for the wind to admire."
There was no signature. No explanation.
Feiran read it again and again.
Was it a warning? An apology? A cruel joke?
Yue'er read it behind her shoulder and frowned.
"Do you want me to burn it?"
Feiran stared at the ink.
"No."
She rolled it back up and placed it in her private chest.
That night, she stood alone in the garden again, beneath the same trees that refused to blossom.
She thought of the scroll.
Of the man who had written it.
Of the girl she had once been, watching him from the garden paths, wondering what it would be like to speak with him, to be seen by him.
She closed her eyes.
"I am not a painting," she whispered into the wind.
Behind her, again, the shadows shifted.
Someone had been watching.
Again.