The room is thick with the scent of incense and freshly inked scrolls, a quiet tension lingering in the air between Kuan and Yile as they sit across from each other, their attention seemingly focused on the documents spread before them. Hunan watches from the far end of the table, his gaze flicking between the two boys, both absorbed in their work. He doesn't speak, but the weight of his presence is felt in every deliberate stroke of their brushes, in every careful word they commit to paper.
To the outside eye, they appear as model students, diligent and composed. Kuan’s posture is rigid, precise, his brushstrokes graceful but firm as he drafts a response to a missive from the southern provinces. Across from him, Yile works with equal dedication, his expression calm and unbothered, though a slight curve at the corner of his lips betrays what is going in his mind.
In public, they are brothers. In private, they are rivals.
Hunan has seen the signs for years—the small, yet perceptible ways they compete, the glances exchanged when one outdoes the other, the subtle tension that simmers just beneath the surface. He encourages it. The world is not kind to those who grow soft in their comfort. Competition sharpens the mind, hardens the will. Only the strongest will rise to lead, and Hunan knows that neither of these boys will relent without a fight.
Yile finishes first, his brush lifting from the parchment with a final, delicate flick. He glances up, catching Hunan’s eye before he looks toward Kuan, his expression unreadable but satisfied. "I’m done, father," he says, voice smooth and respectful.
Kuan stiffens, not outwardly, but Hunan notices the pause in his brushstrokes. He’s behind—again. Yile never misses a chance to be first, and today is no exception. Kuan suppresses the bitterness that rises in his chest, but the ink feels heavier in his hand now, the weight of failure pressing against his ribs.
Hunan approaches, leaning over Yile’s shoulder to inspect the document. "Impressive," he murmurs, eyes scanning the elegant lines of text. "You’ve captured the tone perfectly."
Kuan grinds his teeth, forcing himself to focus on the words before him. It’s flawless work, just as Hunan has taught him, but that doesn’t matter if it isn’t done first.
"Thank you, father," Yile replies, his voice thick with satisfaction. He stands, leaving the table with a quiet grace that makes Kuan bristle. His steps are slow, deliberate, and as he passes Kuan, he lowers his voice to a whisper. "Try not to keep him waiting."
The words are like a needle under Kuan’s skin, and he grips his brush tighter, the ink blotting on the parchment. Hunan’s gaze shifts to him now, his expression unreadable, but Kuan can feel the silent pressure. He breathes through the frustration, finishing his work with hurried strokes before placing his brush down. Too late. The edge belongs to Yile—again.
Kuan stands, bowing slightly as he presents the finished work. Hunan takes the scroll, his eyes skimming over it quickly. A flicker of approval, but no praise. Not like the praise Yile received.
"It’s well done," Hunan says, but his tone is flat, as though it’s expected rather than earned. He hands the scroll back without further comment, and Kuan feels the familiar sting of being good, but not good enough.
Yile lingers in the doorway, watching with an innocent expression, though Kuan knows better. He can feel Yile’s eyes on him, measuring, judging, reveling in another small victory. Since Yile’s arrival, Kuan’s place as Hunan’s heir—once assured—has become uncertain. Hunan hasn’t spoken of it since, and Kuan understands that nothing is promised anymore. His future is a battlefield now, and every day is a fight to prove his worth, a fight Yile seems more adept at winning.
It gnaws at him, the knowledge that Yile is always one step ahead. Where Kuan had once been comfortable, secure in his father’s favor, Yile thrives in the space of uncertainty, using it to his advantage. He’s slippery, like a snake in the grass, always finding ways to undermine Kuan without being seen. The little things—subtle remarks, small mistakes left in Kuan’s path, false flattery aimed at Hunan—Yile plays the game ruthlessly, and Kuan can’t seem to match his cunning.
"Father," Yile says from the doorway, his voice sweet and deferential. "Shall I prepare the reports for the Northern Bureau? I’ve been studying their recent movements closely, and I think I have a suggestion."
Hunan nods thoughtfully, gesturing for Yile to approach. "Yes, go ahead," he says. "I’d like to hear your thoughts on their dealings."
Kuan’s blood runs cold. It was his task to report on the Northern Bureau, but Yile has swooped in again, taking the opportunity before Kuan even had the chance to present it. He should have seen it coming. He always should.
As Yile steps forward, Kuan watches, his heart pounding with frustration and helplessness. His jaw clenches, but he forces himself to remain calm, his face a mask of neutrality. He knows better than to show his feelings in front of his father.
But Yile knows. And the fleeting smile that crosses Yile’s lips as he moves to Hunan’s side tells Kuan everything.
Kuan stands rigid in the office, Yile's words still hanging in the air, calculated barbs meant to provoke him. The younger boy has become skilled at weaving subtle taunts into every interaction, always pushing just enough to frustrate but never enough for Hunan to notice. At first, Kuan fell for the traps—angry responses, poorly timed outbursts that only made him seem petulant in Hunan’s eyes. But not anymore.
Without a word, Kuan steps away from the table, ignoring Yile’s smug expression. He can feel the tension rolling off his back as he strides out of the office, his movements measured and composed. The door closes quietly behind him, a boundary between himself and the simmering competition he’s grown tired of losing. Let Yile play his little games. Kuan has learned that silence and distance are stronger weapons.
The air outside is cool, carrying the scent of damp earth and fresh blossoms. Kuan takes a deep breath, the tranquility of the garden easing the tightness in his chest. The peonies sway gently in the breeze, their soft petals a contrast to the rigid politics that occupy his mind. Here, in the stillness, it’s easy to forget the weight of expectation that follows him everywhere in the palace. He lets the calm wash over him.
But the peace is short-lived.
A loud, shrill voice shatters the stillness, and Kuan’s head turns instinctively toward the sound. Across the garden, a maid sprints through the courtyard, her robes flaring wildly around her ankles. She’s hurling curses over her shoulder at a pair of eunuchs who are struggling to keep pace with her, their expressions a mix of frustration and exhaustion.
“Back off, you old crows!” she yells, her voice sharp and unrestrained. “You’ve got nothing better to do than chase after a girl?”
The eunuchs sputter, clearly too tired to respond with anything witty, and continue their desperate pursuit. Kuan watches, half-amused by the absurdity of the scene, the maid’s energy a strange contrast to the slow, composed world of palace life. She vaults over a low stone bench, her movements swift and ungraceful, and for a moment, Kuan wonders if she’ll escape them entirely.
Then she sees him.
The maid skids to a halt, chest heaving, her face flushed. Her eyes lock onto Kuan, and before he can react, she’s pointing an accusatory finger straight at him.
“And you!” she shouts, breathless but indignant. “Standing there like a statue while a young maiden’s in distress! Some noble you are!”
Kuan blinks, taken aback. The thought of intervening hadn’t even crossed his mind, and now she’s turning her wrath on him? Before he can even form a response, one of the eunuchs, finally catching up, lets out an exasperated groan.
“Maiden?” he sneers, his patience clearly gone. “You’ve got nothing of a maiden left in you, girl.”
The second eunuch grabs her by the arm, his grip firm but not gentle, and the maid twists in his hold, swearing at him with a creative string of insults that make Kuan raise an eyebrow. The other eunuch joins in, and together they begin dragging her back toward the palace, her feet skidding across the ground as she resists.
“You slimy toads!” she spits, thrashing in their grip. “I hope you rot in the gutters for this!”
The eunuchs exchange a weary glance, clearly used to her antics by now. Kuan watches the scene, still somewhat perplexed, unsure what exactly he’s just witnessed. The maid continues shouting all the way back toward the palace doors, her voice gradually fading as the distance between them grows.
For a brief moment, Kuan considers asking who she was or why the eunuchs were chasing her. But then he dismisses the thought. Whatever drama had just unfolded, it had nothing to do with him. With a small shake of his head, Kuan turns back to the garden, inhaling the cool air once more, letting the brief chaos drift from his mind.
There are more important things to focus on.
…
The night is thick with silence, the only sound the steady rhythm of breathing from the other apprentices sleeping in the room. The moonlight filters through the small window, casting a pale glow across the floor. Kuan lies on his back, eyes closed, but sleep doesn’t come easily.
The quiet is broken by the soft creak of a bed. Kuan’s eyes flicker open, though he doesn’t move. In the dim light, he sees the faint outline of Yile moving, slipping out from beneath his own blanket. There’s no hesitation in his steps, no sound except the soft patter of bare feet against the cold stone floor. He’s coming toward Kuan’s bed. Again.
Kuan isn’t surprised. This has happened before. Many nights like this have passed since Yile was adopted, since they first shared a bed out of necessity. When they were smaller, it was common, almost natural. Two boys, their fates uncertain, seeking warmth and comfort in each other’s presence. Even as their rivalry grew, as the silent competition between them hardened into something sharper, these moments in the night persisted.
He knows Yile’s reasons without needing to ask. Yile, for all his cunning and sharpness during the day, is still a child. A child who lost his mother too young, who never had the luxury of warmth and care. Kuan knows this about him—perhaps more than anyone else. And so, though he’s grown firm, cold even, toward Yile when the sun is up, here in the dark, Kuan forgets himself.
The bed dips slightly as Yile climbs in. There’s no need for words, they’ve always done this. Kuan shifts just enough to make space for him, though Yile doesn’t need much. His body presses against Kuan’s, and though Kuan is still, he can feel the tension in Yile’s limbs, the way his muscles twitch as though still caught in some unseen battle.
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Kuan says nothing. There’s nothing to say. Yile never speaks about his nightmares, but Kuan knows. He’s heard him before, in the deep hours of the night, the whimpering, the quiet cries that break the stillness. Yile would never admit to it in the light of day, never show that vulnerability. But here, with Kuan, he doesn’t need to.
Kuan feels Yile’s breathing, still uneven, as if he’s fighting to shake off the lingering shadows of whatever haunts him. Kuan’s own breath is steady, calm, and as the minutes pass, Yile’s begins to mirror it. The warmth between them grows, and the tension in Yile’s body starts to ebb away, his form relaxing against Kuan’s side.
Kuan shifts slightly, pulling the blanket over both of them. He can feel Yile’s body settle, the last traces of tension fading as sleep takes hold again. Kuan stays awake a little longer, listening to the quiet, to the soft sound of Yile’s breath finally evening out.
The next day, the sun rises, but nothing changes. In the light of day, Kuan and Yile move like strangers, the quiet bond of the night dissolved in the bright reality of their rivalry. They don’t speak, they don’t acknowledge what happens in the dark, as if that closeness was a dream that fades with the dawn. Their silent war continues, every glance between them sharp and calculating, every word a subtle challenge.
But when night falls again, an idea takes root in Kuan’s mind. Lying in his bed, Yile’s steady breathing beside him, Kuan’s thoughts race. He knows there are scrolls in Hunan’s office that neither he nor Yile are allowed to see. Secrets, knowledge that could give him an edge, things Yile could never access. If Kuan could learn something from those scrolls—something that would impress Hunan—it could shift everything.
The plan forms quickly. He waits until the dormitory is silent, each apprentice deep in sleep. Slowly, carefully, Kuan slides out of bed, making sure not to disturb Yile. His heartbeat quickens as he slips through the door, into the cool night air. The palace grounds are quiet, shadows stretching long under the moonlight. Kuan moves with purpose, his steps quiet as he crosses the inner garden, the soft crunch of gravel the only sound.
Ahead, the eastern bureau’s office looms. The window is just slightly ajar, enough for him to slip inside. He’s almost there when—
“Hey, rat! Don’t think I forgot who you are!”
Kuan freezes. The voice is unmistakable—sharp and mocking. He turns slowly, eyes narrowing as he spots the maid from before, standing with arms crossed, a smirk playing on her lips.
"What are you doing here?" she asks, her tone dripping with suspicion. "Sneaking into a building in the middle of the night? You a burglar or something?"
Kuan feels his stomach twist, irritation flaring in his chest. "I’m not a burglar," he snaps, his voice low but tense. "I’m Master Hunan’s apprentice, and this is his office. I just forgot something important inside, that’s all."
The maid raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. "Forgot something, huh? At this hour? What, you leave your bedtime story in there?" She snorts, shaking her head. "What could be so important that you couldn’t wait until morning, apprentice boy?"
Kuan hadn’t expected to be found—especially by this girl of all people—and the fact that she’s questioning him now only adds to his frustration. His pulse quickens, and he feels a sharp edge to his words as he retorts, “What about you, then? What are you doing out here at night? Last time I saw you, you were being chased by eunuchs. Doesn’t exactly make you look ‘immaculate,’ does it?”
Her expression darkens. “I’m not the one trying to sneak into a building like a thief, you little weasel.”
The words strike deeper than Kuan expects. The day’s accumulated frustrations bubble to the surface—Yile, Hunan’s distant approval, this maid standing in his way—and before he can think, his irritation bursts into anger.
"Shut up," he hisses, stepping closer. "You shut up and go back to your place! A foul-mouthed maid like you has no right to be here!"
The maid steps forward too, refusing to back down. "I go where I please, and you are a liar."
That’s all it takes. She swings first—a fist aimed straight at Kuan’s face. He barely has time to react before her knuckles connect with his cheek, the impact sharp and stunning. “This is what you get for not helping me last time!”
For a second, the world blurs, and Kuan feels something snap inside him. Years of suppressed rage—at Yile, at the palace, at the never-ending competition—explode.
He lunges at her, his hands grabbing at her hair, yanking hard. She lets out a yelp of surprise but fights back immediately, clawing at him, kicking, her teeth sinking into his fingers. Kuan grits his teeth against the pain, refusing to let go, every shove and punch fueled by all the bottled-up frustration that’s been simmering for too long.
The maid fights with equal ferocity, her fists pounding against him wherever she can reach. There’s no elegance, no restraint—just raw, desperate violence, each of them intent on winning this chaotic struggle. Kuan’s breath comes in ragged gasps as they grapple on the ground, his head pounding from the mixture of adrenaline and pain. He pulls her down, but she kicks hard, forcing him to stumble back, her nails raking across his arm.
For a moment, it feels like this will never end—until a sharp voice cuts through the chaos like a blade.
“Jia!” The name is shouted with authority, freezing them both in place.
Panting, Kuan looks up to see a head maid standing a few paces away, eyes wide with shock, her hands clenched at her sides. The younger maid—Jia—stops struggling immediately, her breathing as ragged as Kuan’s, her hair disheveled, one side of her face red from the fight.
For a long moment, none of them move. The head maid takes a step forward, her voice low and furious. “What is going on here?”
Kuan and Jia release their grip on each other, slowly stepping apart. Kuan’s heart is still pounding, his face stinging from the blows. He can feel the weight of the head maid’s gaze on them both, but all he can think of is the realization of what just happened.
The head maid’s voice cracks through the air like a whip. “What in the name of the palace do you think you’re doing? Fighting like common street rats!” Her eyes flicker between Kuan and Jia, disgust clear in her gaze.
Kuan’s chest tightens. He says nothing, hands clenched at his sides. He can already picture what would happen if Hunan found out—he’d be ruined. This stupid fight would overshadow everything. He lowers his eyes, hoping to avoid the head maid’s wrath.
“And you!” she snaps, pointing at Kuan. “Who are you?”
Kuan’s throat tightens. He doesn’t move, doesn’t dare to speak. The silence stretches, heavy and dangerous.
Before he can come up with anything, Jia interrupts. “He’s no one. Just a eunuch’s apprentice who got in my way.” Her voice is sharp, but there’s something strange in it. She gives Kuan a quick, almost imperceptible glance, then glares back at the head maid. “He stopped me from running away.”
Kuan feels his pulse quicken, caught off guard by her sudden defense. Why is she covering for him?
The head maid’s eyes narrow, clearly skeptical, but she focuses her fury on Jia. “Get to bed, boy,” she snaps at Kuan, not bothering to ask further. “And you, I don’t want to see you anywhere near this part of the palace again.”
Kuan exhales, relief washing over him. He nods quickly and turns to leave, grateful for the escape. Behind him, he hears the head maid grab Jia by the arm, pulling her away. Her scolding fades as Kuan hurries back to the dormitories, mind still spinning from what just happened.
His hands shake as he slips back into bed, the thin blanket a poor comfort against the unease gnawing at him. Yile doesn’t stir, and Kuan silently thanks the darkness for hiding his face. The plan to infiltrate Hunan’s office is forgotten—he’s too rattled by the night’s events to even think about it. Sleep takes him slowly, pulling him into a restless slumber.
The next day, the palace is buzzing. Servants whisper in corners, their hushed voices carrying snippets of gossip. As Kuan makes his way through the halls, he overhears the words “troublemaker maid” more than once. His mind flashes back to Jia—her biting words, her fists, but most of all, the way she had covered for him.
He hadn’t thanked her. She had taken the blame, and now she was paying for it. A twist of guilt coils in his stomach. Kuan tries to focus on his tasks, but the thought lingers.
That night, after everyone has gone to bed, Kuan slips out of the dormitories once more. The night air is cool on his skin, the moonlight casting long shadows as he retraces his steps to the inner garden. It’s the only place he’s ever seen her. He isn’t even sure if she’ll be there, but it’s his only lead.
He moves quietly through the corridors, his breath steady, his footfalls barely a whisper. But as he rounds a corner, her voice cuts through the quiet.
“You again?! Aren’t we meeting a bit too much?”
Kuan startles, turning to find Jia standing in the shadows, arms crossed and that familiar smirk playing on her lips. Her hair’s disheveled, and she looks as if she’s been running from something—or someone—again.
Kuan hesitates, unsure of how to start. “I... I wanted to thank you,” he says, the words coming out awkwardly. “For last night. For covering for me.”
Jia raises an eyebrow, then laughs, the sound sharp but not unkind. “You? Thank me? Didn’t think you had that in you, apprentice boy.”
Kuan feels a flush creep up his neck. He opens his mouth to say something more, but Jia cuts him off, looking around warily. “Anyway, that’s nice and all, but right now, I need a place to hide. You wouldn’t happen to know somewhere those damned eunuchs or my witch of a head maid can’t find me, would you?”
Kuan glances around the corridor, thinking quickly. There’s really only one place he can think of—the one place no one would think to look. “Follow me,” he says, keeping his voice low.
Without another word, he leads her through the inner garden of the Peacock Palace, their footsteps light as they make their way to Hunan’s office.
Jia’s eyes widen slightly as she realizes where they are. “Here?” she whispers, half in disbelief.
Kuan nods, giving her a hand so she can jump through the window. “No one would look for you in here.”
Jia slips inside, glancing around the dark room. She moves toward the desk, running her fingers over the scrolls and inkstones. “The eastern bureau, huh?” she murmurs, half to herself. “Didn’t take you for someone who’d risk this much just to help me hide.”
Kuan doesn’t respond. He leans against the wall, watching as Jia explores the room, a strange mix of curiosity and relief on her face.
“What are you really trying to escape?” Kuan asks, his voice low, cutting through the stillness. He’s never met anyone like her—so full of energy, so defiant against the structure that defines their lives. He wants to understand.
Jia glances over her shoulder, one hand still resting on the edge of the desk. She studies him for a moment, her eyes narrowing, as if weighing whether or not to trust him. Finally, she sighs and leans back against the table, crossing her arms. “All day, all night, I’m trying to figure out how to get out of here,” she says bluntly, her voice tinged with frustration. “Out of the imperial city. I can’t stay.”
Kuan frowns, puzzled. “Is being a consort’s maid really that bad?”
She shrugs, her tone more resigned than angry. “It’s not terrible, no. It’s comfortable, if that’s what you mean. Good food, decent pay, and no one beats me.” Her eyes flicker with something guarded. “But it’s not about the job. I have... my own reason.”
Kuan narrows his eyes. "So, all that vulgarity and causing trouble—is that just a plan to make them kick you out?"
Jia bursts out laughing, her shoulders shaking with amusement. “Didn’t think anyone would figure that out so easily,” she says, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. “I thought I was being clever.”
Kuan raises an eyebrow, intrigued by her honesty. There’s something about her that makes him want to dig deeper, to understand why she’s so desperate to leave a situation that so many others would envy. “You know,” he says, leaning forward slightly, “I know of a way out of the city. But I’m not going to tell you unless you give me a good reason.”
Jia’s laughter fades, her expression sharpening. “A way out?” she repeats, her eyes searching his face for any sign of a joke. But when she sees he’s serious, her amusement disappears entirely. “Why would you care? I mean, you’ve got no reason to help me.”
Kuan shrugs. “Because I don’t get it. A lot of girls would kill to be in your position. You can’t just throw away that kind of luck without a good reason.”
Jia stares at him, her mouth set in a hard line. For a moment, she’s quiet, clearly considering whether to trust him or not. Her eyes narrow, and she steps closer, her voice lowering to a near-whisper. “Swear you’ll keep this a secret,” she says, her tone deadly serious. “Swear it, or I’ll never say a word.”
Kuan straightens, sensing the weight of what she’s about to tell him. He nods, his voice firm. “I swear. No one will know.”
Jia searches his face for any sign of hesitation, then finally exhales. She takes a step back, her hand absently resting on her stomach as she lowers her gaze. “I’m pregnant.”
The word hangs in the air between them, heavy and undeniable. Kuan’s breath catches for a moment, his mind racing. Of all the things he expected, this wasn’t it. His thoughts tumble over one another—how, who, what does this mean for her? He can see now why she needs to leave, why she can’t stay in the palace where every move is watched, every secret uncovered sooner or later.
Jia lifts her chin, meeting his eyes with a fierce determination. “That’s why I can’t stay. If they find out... well, you know what happens to girls like me.” There’s no need to explain further. He knows the rules—he’s seen the consequences.
Kuan stares at her, his mind still reeling from the confession. The bravado, the fights, the insults—it all makes sense now. She’s not just running for the sake of trouble. She’s running for her life, for the life she’s carrying.
Silently, Kuan nods, the reality of her situation sinking in. He understands now.
“I will lead you out.” He finally says.