At dusk the next day, Roga left the Grand Academy, dismissed his attendants, and went alone to the long-abandoned Liufu Palace. In the overgrown courtyard, the hibiscus tree bloomed with crimson velvet flowers, each petal bathed in the golden glow of the setting sun. He stood beneath the tree, glancing around, but her figure was nowhere to be seen, and a strange pang of longing stirred faintly in his chest.

Suddenly, the flowers on the tree loosened and fell upon him, brushing softly over his hair, though no breeze had stirred. Looking up, he saw a pair of beautiful dark eyes gazing at him from within the crimson and green leaves, eyes brimming with a tenderness as deep and enveloping as nightfall.

In that instant, Roga felt a pull of destiny. His heart quickened, pounding with a fervor he could neither control nor comprehend, and his gaze was held captive by the shimmering depths of her gaze. Then, she laughed, light as a whisper.

"Roga, were you looking for me?"

"I didn’t say I was," he replied, a hint of warmth spreading to his cheeks as he pressed his lips together, his tone guarded.

She laughed softly. "Well, I was waiting for you." Sitting on a branch, her green robes swayed lightly, embroidered shoes dangling as she gazed down at him with a smile.

He stared, captivated, watching her say what he himself dared not utter, the joy of it filling his heart. Stepping closer, he looked up into her eyes, dark and shining under the glow of sunset.

"What you said yesterday—was it true? That you’re really…not my sister?"

The hibiscus tree wasn’t tall, and with a graceful leap, she landed beside him, tilting her head with a smile. "Of course it’s true. But you must swear never to tell anyone."

"I swear," he answered.

"Fool." Her slender brows arched, and she reached out, clasping his hand with a playful lilt in her voice. "My name is Roga!"

No one in the palace had ever spoken to him with such closeness—not even his mother, who remained ever distant. Embarrassed, he withdrew his hand, though fearing he’d offend her with his reticence. Not knowing how to soothe her, he lowered his head, staring at the lush green grass beneath their feet.

She, too, stood in silence, the evening wind scattering blossoms around them, a gentle rain of petals.

Just as he thought she might be angry, she leaned close and murmured softly in his ear, "Roga…I like you."

Startled, he looked up to see her gazing at him with clear, unwavering eyes. Her gaze was fearless, and he found himself shyly lowering his own, drawn back to the ground.

The sun slipped lower, shadows lengthening, and at last, as if her patience waned, she turned to leave.

Only after she had walked some distance did he muster a quiet, stumbling whisper. "I like you too, Rong…"

She paused, turning back, her green dress swirling as she returned, her bright eyes twinkling as she noticed the blush creeping up his ears. Laughing, she asked, "What?"

"Nothing, nothing…" he stammered, lowering his head even further, pressing his lips tightly, his brow faintly damp with sweat.

She drew closer, her face delicate and radiant, a sweetness in her gaze that made his breath catch. "I like you, though I don’t require that you feel the same. Just be sure before you speak, for the girls of my family are a little…crazy. If you change your mind, it won’t end well for you."

"And how would that be?" he asked.

"I’d have to kill you." She said it close to his ear, her breath warm and honeyed, her voice sweetly playful. Yet, in the depths of her eyes, a faint sadness flickered, a melancholy he couldn’t miss and which twisted his heart with a strange ache.

In that moment, all he wished was to comfort her, to ease her solitude. Clumsily, he held her hand in his, grasping gently. "It’s frightening, but…I still like you."

"If you hadn’t known I wasn’t your sister, would you still?"

"…No, never. I refuse to become like my father," he said, shivering as he recalled the hollow eyes of the man who wore the imperial robe but seemed to see nothing.

She lowered her gaze with a quiet, wistful smile. "Silly. When you confess your feelings, be sure to look into the other person’s eyes."

With that, she lifted his chin, gazing seriously into his eyes, and then, on tiptoe, pressed her lips softly to his. Roga knew he should have pushed her away, but he didn’t; he let her kiss linger, a brief touch that left a trace of coldness on his flushed skin.

In that fleeting moment, the usual chill in his heart was pierced by an unfamiliar warmth—a strange, bittersweet pleasure in the closeness they shared. Then, she turned and ran, her dark hair dissolving into the night like shadows in the wind.

That year, they were ten.

"Rong! Rong!"

He preferred calling her simply "Rong," never using her family name, unconsciously avoiding what that name represented.

As autumn deepened and yellow leaves carpeted the ground, the hibiscus tree in Liufu Palace’s courtyard stood bare, its once vibrant green now reduced to withered branches. Roga, in his delicate embroidered boots, stepped across the damp grass, pushing open the palace doors that had long been left unused, their hinges groaning with a somber creak. Inside, the hall lay in darkness, thick with the night, and he groped his way forward, nearly stumbling, until he faintly saw Rong curled up in a chair.

"Why haven’t you lit the lamp?"

"Roga, I saw him."

"Who?"

Her voice was soft and muffled, but he didn’t pay it much mind, casually replying while retrieving a flint from his robes, lighting the lamp with a quiet sigh over how meeting her had taught him to carry such things.

"Your father, the man who is my so-called father," she murmured.

Roga, lighting a red candle with slow deliberation, took a seat nearby, showing no trace of emotion. Crossing his legs, he simply watched her in silence.

"Did he ignore you? I’m used to it by now. But he has nothing to do with you; why do you even care?"

Rong, still curled on the chair, buried her face in her arms, and in her voice—though stubborn—there was a faint tremor.

"I thought I was different to him, you know? Every time my father sees him, he leaves heartbroken."

Roga leaned back in the chair, feeling the cold, unyielding wood against his back as he looked at her hunched form. Running a hand through his neatly combed hair, he watched as a few strands fell loose over his pale forehead.

He wanted to say something but, in the end, only managed a faint, detached smile, a humorless curve of his lips.

"My mother also leaves feeling broken every time she sees him. Sometimes I wonder…would it be better if he were dead?"

"No!"

She looked up abruptly, tears still glistening on her cheeks. Gazing at her tear-streaked face, Roga hesitated, then spoke, his usual calm tinged with gritted intensity.

"Why?!"

"Because my father cares for him—because my father would be hurt!"

She cried out, a fervor he had never seen in her before, and Roga felt a strange emotion stir within him—a prick of jealousy—and without thinking, he demanded, "What about me? You adore your father so much; in your heart, who is more important, me or him?"

Rong’s anger dissipated as she met his gaze, her expression softening into a pale, almost amused smile.

"Fool."

Usually, he hated it when she called him that, but today he didn’t object, merely turned away in a silent, pouting defiance.

She didn’t mind. Rising, she slipped away into the inner hall and soon returned, carrying a lacquered tray with a red clay stove and a full tea set, which she set carefully on the table before him.

The golden beast-shaped candlestick above them had burned down, the wax pooling like crimson pearls, and under its glow, her pale blue robe shimmered like waves on water. Rong always wore blue: her gauzy outer robes, her skirts, even the embroidery on her shoes—blue.

This color, though, always made him think of another man, the ruler of Li. And yet, even with that association, he could not restrain his affection for her, dressed as she was in blue, as if under a spell.

While he was lost in thought, the tea’s fragrance began to rise, filling the air with a warm, intoxicating aroma. Her jade-like arm extended the cup to him in silence.

Stolen story; please report.

Taking it, he raised it to his nose, inhaling the familiar scent of her sleeves, which softened the fire within him.

"This is my father’s favorite tea, Da Hong Pao. How is it? He taught me to brew it just a few days ago, and I was eager to come share it with you." Her voice was soft, and though Roga’s brow furrowed in unconscious tension, she laughed, a gentle sound. "Fool, he’s just my father. But you—Roga—you are my future husband."

Roga was taken aback, a faint flicker of fire in his eyes as he looked at her, his lips lifting in a subtle smile.

"So, your father taught you these skills? I had thought..."

"Roga, my father didn’t teach me schemes or introduce me to the Night family’s plans. He said a daughter’s greatest happiness is to find a true match." She looked back at him with a mix of annoyance and affection, a blend of shyness and grace that only deepened her charm. After a pause, she added slowly, "Promise me that when you ascend the throne, you will not harm my father. If you do, it will hurt me—very, very deeply."

"Alright, though I don’t like him."

"Roga, I love you."

The candle burned brightly on the table, the melted wax pooling in silent, mournful trails.

They were thirteen that year.

By October, the world had grown barren, winter’s chill steadily creeping into the imperial city.

That evening, a grand banquet was held in the palace—a feast, though thinly veiled as a matchmaking event. Young women from noble families arrived adorned like blossoms, each seated in ornately decorated sedan chairs, brought to the palace.

Roga, having left the Ningye Palace after paying his respects, walked along the main path, feeling a growing disdain as each lavishly decorated sedan passed by. His attendants, sensing his foul mood, followed in silence, their quiet only amplifying his thoughts.

In that silence, his mind drifted to the girl who always met his gaze directly, who would laugh freely, her voice bright as silver bells. It had been three months since they last met; she had gone with Regent Xie Liulan on a tour of Lingzhou, and during these months, no letters had passed between them.

Lost in thought, he was startled to see another sedan chair approaching. Palace custom dictated that no one block the path of the emperor or the crown prince, and as the bearers recognized Roga, they quickly moved aside, the crystal beads on the front curtain swaying as they did.

In that brief moment, he caught a glimpse of the girl inside, her delicate features half-hidden behind the strands of shimmering crystal.

There she was, clothed in green, her beauty serene as ever. She offered him a gentle smile, though she remained silent, her graceful nod acknowledging his presence with perfect composure.

Their gazes met through the veil of crystal, and Roga paused, a quiet ache stirring in his chest, his breath halting as he took in her image.

Sensing his distraction, the girl’s voice, soft and warm, floated through the curtain.

"Your Highness, please, go ahead."

"You’ve returned? When did you come back?" he asked, unable to conceal the joy in his voice, his breath catching as he drank in the sight of the girl he had missed so dearly, grown more beautiful in her absence.

But Rong only lowered her head, the bejeweled hairpin casting shadows over her downcast eyes.

They stood like that, neither speaking, the unspoken words hovering in the air between them.

Noticing Roga’s distraction, the woman behind the curtain spoke softly, her voice becoming gentle.

“Please, Your Highness, go first.”

“You’re back? When did you return?” Roga asked, his voice betraying his barely contained joy, a thrill catching in his throat as he drank in the sight of the girl who haunted his thoughts, now even more beautiful than he remembered.

Rong did not answer directly but lowered her head slightly, the brilliant pearls on her bejeweled hairpin concealing her downcast eyes. He did not rush her, merely stood by the sedan chair, both of them wrapped in silence.

After a long separation, they each felt they had so much to say, but in this moment, words seemed to evade them. Meanwhile, the sedan bearers, sweating beneath their loads, glanced at each other anxiously.

“Silly, there are people here. Shouldn’t you keep walking?” Rong’s voice, as clear as ice yet warm as spring, broke the silence. Though her gaze was steady, it held a trace of feeling as she peered at him through the crystal beads.

Roga calmed himself, nodded slightly, and walked on. But a few steps later, he turned to find her still watching him, her hand lifting the side curtain of the sedan. She did not shy away from his gaze, nor did she blush; instead, as her fingers loosened, the silk handkerchief she held fluttered into the air. Like spun crystal, it shimmered in the sunlight, casting golden reflections as it drifted into his hands.

As he caught it, she smiled faintly.

That evening, at the Lyngyang Hall banquet hosted by the Empress Dowager, every noblewoman in attendance wore vibrant colors to avoid looking too plain, filling the hall with a kaleidoscope of hues. But for Roga, only the serene figure dressed in pale blue stood out.

And as he watched her, her eyes—like the bright moon—turned to meet his, catching his gaze with a soft shyness he could clearly see. The smile she offered was not a mere formality; it carried a depth of feeling, shared only with him.

In her eyes, he read a silent tenderness that made his heart race. Placing his hand over his chest, he felt the beat quicken, stirred by her gaze alone. And in that glance, he felt all his secrets laid bare.

At midnight, he lay sleepless in the Eastern Palace. The scent of bergamot burned in a purple jade incense burner, mingling with traces of perfumes from the banquet, an intoxicating blend that throbbed through his head.

Suddenly, a faint noise sounded at the window. Turning, he saw Rong perched on the windowsill, her dark hair adorned with a bejeweled hairpin, the crystal strands draping down her shoulders. A vase of plum blossoms beside her bloomed like fire, their radiance matched only by her vibrant smile.

Roga’s lips curved into an unrestrained smile.

“You’re still laughing? Aren’t you going to help me down?” she teased, her voice filled with playful reproach.

With a smile, he approached the window, extending his arm. She placed one hand on his arm, the other in his hand, and gracefully leapt down into the room.

Once steady on her feet, she tried to pull away, but he held her close, drawing her into his embrace.

“How did you get in here so late?” he asked, her warm presence nestled against him.

She looked up at him, gazing at the embroidered golden dragon on his robe, each scale gleaming as though alive in the dim light.

“I climbed the wall, but I fell. My hand hurts,” she pouted, pulling her hands from her sleeves to reveal small cuts, fresh blood darkening her pale skin.

Alarmed, Roga guided her to a low couch, hastily retrieving a healing balm. He tended to her injuries carefully, the corners of his mouth curving in an amused smile as he worked.

“Fool.”

“You’re calling me a fool? I went through all this trouble just to see you,” she replied, reclining on the cushioned couch, her heart filling with a rare contentment.

These past three months had been empty, her heart hollow with longing, now filled to the brim with his presence.

When he finished, he looked at her intently, then drew her back into his arms. Her familiar, sweet fragrance washed over him as he held her close, breathing deeply as he tightened his hold.

“Stop talking about death like it’s nothing. It’s unlucky.”

“You’re starting to sound like my father,” she whispered, resting against him, her fingers brushing over his hair and shoulders with quiet affection.

Finally, she withdrew, tapping his forehead lightly.

“The Empress Dowager hopes you’ll marry her niece, though I think the Grand Chancellor’s daughter suits you better. You two talked the whole night. She’s quite the catch—his only daughter, and worthy of becoming Li’s future empress.”

“She is the Grand Chancellor’s daughter; I couldn’t ignore her. And she is a lovely girl.” Roga’s gaze softened, his eyes twinkling with warmth as he observed her expression. “But I don’t love her.”

“She wouldn’t love you, either,” she replied with a grin, cradling his face, her dark eyes sparkling with a mischievous glint. “Today is my birthday, so of course, I wanted to see you.”

“Of course I remembered. I was just afraid you’d forget to find me.”

“As if I wouldn’t come! You’re the one person I’ll cling to forever. Try to escape me if you dare.”

She leaned back on the couch, her slender fingers picking up a glistening bunch of grapes from a jade plate, not eating them but merely studying them with interest.

As they spoke, a servant lifted the curtain to enter, startled by the presence of a woman in the room but proceeding to bow respectfully.

“Your Highness, here is the poria mushroom soup you requested.”

“Leave it here.”

Roga’s voice was soft, his tone laced with cool detachment that caused the servant to instinctively shrink back before retreating.

Roga ladled some noodles from the clay pot into a fine porcelain bowl painted with golden flowers.

“You knew I’d come? Were you that certain?”

Roga only smiled, wordlessly lifting the silver chopsticks to offer her a bite.

Rong took a bite and wrinkled her delicate brows, saying, “The medicinal taste is too strong—I don’t want it.”

“It’s getting cold, and you’ve been out in the wind. Eat more; it’s good for you.”

Seeing her struggle to swallow with a reluctant pout, he couldn’t help the fondness welling up in his eyes. “Finish this longevity noodles, and you’ll live to a hundred.”

“Then you’ll have to stay with me,” she replied, cheeks puffed as she continued eating, her voice muffled.

“Afraid you’d find me annoying.”

“Then let’s eat together.”

He could never resist her, so he joined her for a few bites, coaxing her with gentle words to sip more of the chicken broth. She pinched her nose, gulped down a few sips, and pressed her lips shut, refusing to take another.

Noticing the drops of broth clinging to her lips, Roga smiled with a mixture of exasperation and amusement. He retrieved a silk handkerchief from his sleeve to wipe her mouth.

“This is mine.” With a gleeful smile, she snatched the handkerchief from him, unfurling it. It was pure white, unadorned by any embroidery.

Her robe sleeves wide and flowing, her delicate, lacquered fingers peeked out from the soft blue folds, grasping the simple cloth. The plain silk against her snow-like skin made her beauty all the more ethereal.

His heart stirred as he reached out, gently taking back the handkerchief, murmuring, “No poems, no rhymes, a simple cloth carries my thoughts; hold it close and you will see—threads both horizontal and vertical carry my longing.”

She paused, surprise giving way to a soft blush spreading over her jade-like cheeks. She knew then that he understood her.

Outside, the cool moonlight bathed everything in silvery hues, and as the breeze stirred, the shadows of trees swayed across the hall, their tranquil beauty undisturbed.

“Look, how lovely the moonlight is tonight. I wonder if it shone just as beautifully on the night I was born in the palace.” She smiled up at the moon, but the smile faltered on her lips.

Roga noticed, saying nothing, only brushing his warm hand over her silken hair.

“I heard that on the night you were born, the golden-threaded epiphyllum bloomed all at once. It must have been a breathtaking sight, just like you.”

She looked at him, eyes bright with the glimmer of stars, feeling as though her very soul lay bare under his gaze.

Resting her chin on his shoulder, she felt the silent understanding between them, as he understood her just as she did him.

“Am I truly beautiful?”

Out of his sight, she bit her lip shyly, her smile unguarded in a way that only he had ever seen—a smile as pure as her youth.

“To me, you’re the most beautiful.”

Gently, Roga cupped her face, his calloused fingers brushing over her features, as if to imprint them in his memory. The warm candlelight flickered between them, an orange glow shimmering like ripples.

She laughed, her delicate frame swaying slightly with the movement.

In that moment, he felt her beauty, draped in the moonlight, surpass even the tender willows of spring.

Under the moonlight and candle’s glow, she watched him, his dark eyes like polished black crystal gazing at her, his hands caressing her face. The warmth in his palms seeped into her very bones.

The heat rose, and her eyes grew misty. All she could do was cling to his shoulders, pulling him closer.

“Fool… Roga, I love you.”

A strange sensation grew in his chest—a faint, aching emptiness, as if happiness were slipping through his fingers even as he held it. Though he couldn’t quite understand it, the feeling lingered, clinging to his heart.

“Promise me, you’ll never make me sad.”

“I promise.”

The bergamot incense in the purple jade burner had long since burned to a soft gray ash, its delicate fragrance lingering in the air.

They were fourteen that year.