THE FIRST CRACK
The amusement in Crown Prince Xiao Yichen's eyes did not fade immediately.
That, more than anything else, unsettled Shen Qingyi.
In the original novel, he had been distant—courteous but cold, a man who observed rather than reacted. His laughter, however brief, was not meant to exist at all. And it had been drawn out not by Qingyi, but by Lin Ruoxue.
Fate had shifted.
Xiao Yichen turned away first, sleeves swaying as he stepped toward the pavilion table. "Sit," he said lightly. "The lotus tea has just been brewed."
Qingyi and Ruoxue exchanged a glance.
This, too, was different.
In the novel, Qingyi alone had been invited to sit. Ruoxue had never been acknowledged.
They obeyed.
Servants poured tea and withdrew. Silence descended again, thick and watchful.
"You answered the Empress Dowager's question today," Xiao Yichen said, gaze returning to Qingyi. "You spoke of benevolence not as weakness, but as restraint. Few in court understand that distinction."
Qingyi inclined her head. "The classics taught me so."
"Did they?" he asked mildly. "Or did life?"
Qingyi paused. "Both."
Xiao Yichen nodded, as if satisfied, then turned his attention to Ruoxue. "And you?"
Ruoxue met his gaze without flinching. "I said nothing."
"And yet," he replied, "you are more difficult to ignore."
Qingyi felt something tighten in her chest.
Ruoxue smiled faintly. "That sounds dangerous, Your Highness."
"Everything worth noticing is."
A breeze rippled the pond, lotus leaves shivering as petals drifted onto the water.
For a fleeting moment, Qingyi forgot to breathe.
This wasn't rivalry.
Not yet.
But it was the beginning of imbalance.
Xiao Yichen set his teacup down. "Lady Shen. The Empress Dowager wishes you to assist in copying sutras for the upcoming memorial rites."
Qingyi stiffened.
That task came later in the original story—after weeks of favor.
"Yes, Your Highness."
He turned again to Ruoxue. "Lady Lin."
Ruoxue's brow lifted slightly.
"You will assist her."
Qingyi's heart skipped.
Ruoxue blinked, genuinely surprised.
"That is unusual," Ruoxue said evenly.
Xiao Yichen's lips curved. "So is this situation."
He rose. "You may leave."
The dismissal was clear.
As they bowed and retreated, Qingyi felt the weight of his gaze on their backs—measuring, considering, perhaps already rearranging them within his mind.
They did not speak until they were safely back within Qingyi's residence.
The door shut.
Ruoxue laughed.
"That," she said, pacing the room, "was not how I expected my second life to begin."
Qingyi sank onto a chair. "He noticed you."
Ruoxue stopped. "So?"
"So," Qingyi said carefully, "in the novel, he only ever noticed you when he needed someone to blame."
Ruoxue's smile faded.
"Then I prefer this version," she said after a pause.
Qingyi looked at her friend—this sharp, brilliant woman who had been written into tragedy by an author who never gave her mercy.
"You shouldn't be near him," Qingyi said quietly.
Ruoxue narrowed her eyes. "And you should?"
"That's not what I meant."
Ruoxue folded her arms. "Qingyi. We promised not to fight over a man. We did not promise to avoid all men."
Qingyi opened her mouth—then closed it.
Ruoxue was right.
Still, unease coiled deep within her chest.
Three days later, the copying of sutras began.
They worked in a quiet side hall of the palace, brush strokes soft against paper, incense burning low.
At first, they worked in harmony.
Ruoxue's calligraphy was sharp, elegant, confident. Qingyi's was balanced, refined, restrained.
Two styles. Two souls.
"You know," Ruoxue said suddenly, "in the novel, this was when you began to fall in love with him."
Qingyi's brush paused. "It was gradual."
"You admired his mind," Ruoxue continued. "His restraint. His loneliness."
Qingyi lowered her gaze. "I admired a character."
"And now?"
Qingyi didn't answer immediately.
"I don't know him," she said finally. "Not really."
Ruoxue hummed. "Then don't rush to."
Footsteps approached.
Both looked up.
An imperial guard stood at the entrance, posture straight, gaze lowered respectfully.
"Lady Lin," he said.
Ruoxue frowned. "Yes?"
"Captain Pei requests a word."
Qingyi stiffened.
Pei Jingyuan.
The man who loved Ruoxue silently to his death.
Ruoxue raised a brow. "Captain Pei?"
"Yes."
She glanced at Qingyi, curiosity sparking. "Well. Seems I'm popular today."
Qingyi forced a smile. "Go."
Ruoxue rose and followed the guard out.
Qingyi watched her leave, an unfamiliar hollowness opening in her chest.
She told herself it was concern.
Nothing more.
Pei Jingyuan waited beneath a flowering pear tree.
He knelt when Ruoxue approached, then quickly stood. "Lady Lin."
She studied him openly.
He was younger than she expected, expression restrained, eyes clear and steady. His armor caught the light faintly, polished but unadorned.
"You wanted to see me?" she asked.
"Yes." He hesitated, then said, "Please be careful."
Ruoxue tilted her head. "Careful of what?"
"The palace," he replied simply. "It devours those who shine too brightly."
She laughed softly. "Then why warn me?"
His jaw tightened. "Because I do not wish to see you harmed."
Ruoxue's smile faded, something unreadable crossing her face.
"In the book," she murmured, "you died for loyalty."
Pei Jingyuan frowned. "I don't understand."
She met his gaze fully now. "You will."
Back in the sutra hall, Shen Qingyi's brush slipped, ink bleeding into the paper.
A single dark blot marred the page.
The first crack had formed.
And neither of them yet understood how deep it would go.