"Some oaths are not spoken aloud, yet they bind more tightly than chains."
Xu Feiran stood in the stillness of her room, staring at the reflection in the glass.
The candlelight flickered against the lacquered frame of the vanity, casting soft, tremulous shadows behind her. There was no one there. No shape, no outline of a man. Nothing.
But the sensation remained. That low, subtle weight pressing down on the back of her neck. That invisible string that tugged just beneath her ribs.
She pressed her hand lightly to her chest and turned fully toward the door.
Still nothing.
She exhaled—long and slow—and crossed the room to blow out the candle, the smell of wax and plum incense mingling in the air.
Outside, the plum trees still refused to bloom.
By mid-morning, Feiran was summoned to the northern training court—an odd request, one delivered by a court eunuch with no explanation other than, "By the Crown Prince's orders."
Yue'er frowned as she adjusted Feiran's hairpins.
"Why there? You've never been summoned to the training courts."
Feiran met her gaze in the mirror. "Perhaps His Highness has remembered I exist."
The words held no bitterness. Only a dry, crumbling truth.
Yue'er tucked a final strand of hair behind Feiran's ear. "Take your heavier cloak. The wind's strong near the north walls."
Feiran nodded. "Will you come with me?"
"I'll follow from a distance," Yue'er said, her eyes sharp. "If anything feels wrong—"
Feiran smiled faintly. "I'll pretend I'm merely dizzy with admiration."
Yue'er didn't laugh.
The northern training court was a world apart from the glittering halls and perfumed pavilions of the inner palace. Here, the air was colder, the ground packed with dust and gravel. Soldiers drilled in silence, swords gleaming like bone under the pale morning sun.
Feiran arrived under escort, her pale lavender cloak catching the wind as she stepped through the gate. She was the only woman present, and all heads bowed as she passed. But no one looked her in the eye.
Except one.
He stood at the center of the yard, motionless, as if carved from stone. Tall, broad-shouldered, cloaked in dark blue with no insignia—only the sword at his hip marked him as more than just a soldier.
Commander Wen.
He stepped forward, bowed deeply, and did not rise until she spoke.
"Rise, General."
He straightened, but still did not meet her gaze. His eyes remained fixed somewhere just below her shoulder.
She studied him.
He was younger than she remembered—perhaps thirty—but there was something in the stillness of his face that suggested years of silence. His features were sharp, but not cold. His expression unreadable.
"I did not expect to be summoned here," Feiran said.
"It was my request, Your Highness," he replied, voice steady. "By the Crown Prince's leave."
She lifted an eyebrow. "To what purpose?"
He paused. Then reached into his sleeve and produced a scroll, sealed in red wax with the prince's mark.
Feiran accepted it but did not open it.
"A report," he said, "on the Crown Prince's upcoming security tour to the western provinces. His Highness requests your approval of the ceremonial arrangements, as dictated by tradition."
She turned the scroll over in her hands.
"I see. So I am to approve what is already decided."
He said nothing.
She looked up at him fully. "Do you find this exercise necessary, Commander?"
There was a pause.
Then, for the first time, he met her eyes.
And held them.
It was a moment so quiet it could have broken.
His eyes were dark. Not cold. But full of something she couldn't name—something careful and tired and deeply held.
"No, Your Highness," he said. "But I find it… overdue."
Her breath caught—just slightly.
He lowered his gaze again.
Feiran turned the scroll once more and tucked it into the sleeve of her robe.
"You served under my father before you served the prince," she said.
"Yes, Your Highness."
"And now you serve both."
"I serve the Crown."
She nodded.
"And the woman who carries the Crown's future?"
His jaw tensed. Just a fraction.
"I protect what the Crown commands me to protect."
Feiran studied him for a long moment.
"Tell me something, Commander," she said, voice soft but even. "If the Crown commanded you to let something precious break—would you?"
A breath.
Then, quietly: "I would delay the breaking, as long as I could."
Feiran didn't reply.
Behind her, the wind picked up again, lifting strands of hair from her temples. Somewhere behind the walls, a plum branch cracked.
She turned without a word and walked away, her boots silent on the stone.
He didn't watch her go.
But the instant her figure vanished from view, he bowed again—this time to no one.
And held it far longer than required.
Later that day, Feiran opened the scroll.
Inside, the ceremonial itinerary was detailed. Precise. Meaningless. A list of rituals she would not attend, events she would not witness. Everything planned without her, presented as if her seal would make it real.
She looked to the bottom.
There, beneath the seal, was a single line in a different hand. Not the Crown Prince's. Finer, more elegant.
"Not all things that bend are meant to break."
She stared at the words until they blurred.
Then she folded the scroll and placed it beside the poem.
The box containing Meilin's hairpin still lay nearby.
And beyond the window, the plum trees remained bare.
Still waiting.
Just like her.