Chapter 3
1174 Words
She was led behind a screen and asked to remove her outer robe and boots. A palace matron examined her belongings with gloved hands, sniffing vials and uncapping jars. Yue watched the whole thing with detached amusement. When one jar of powdered ginger was flagged suspiciously, Yue quipped, “Be careful. That’s extremely spicy treason.”
The matron didn’t even flinch.
Once cleared, Yue was given back her things and led in silence through a long hallway paved with polished jade. Their footsteps echoed like a warning bell. She passed murals of past emperors, floor-to-ceiling silk screens, and flower arrangements so carefully composed they looked painted.
She also noticed the lack of sound. No laughter. No conversation. Just footsteps and wind through chimes.
By the time they reached the third inner wall, Yue was beginning to feel it — the subtle pressure of eyes. The invisible weight of protocol, watching from every arch and corner.
The palace wasn’t loud.
But it was loudly silent.
At last, they stopped in front of a pair of tall carved doors — not yet the prince’s inner chamber, but the outer reception room connected to his quarters. A man in blue robes bowed and motioned her forward.
“His Highness will see you now.”
Yue adjusted her robe, checked the knot of her sash, and stepped inside.
The doors clicked shut behind her.
The air inside the prince’s receiving room was cooler than the outer halls, with the faintest scent of sandalwood and old cedar in the air. The walls were lined with scrolls and calligraphy — no portraits, no distractions. The furniture was low and minimal. Every object was placed with intention.
Linh Yue was alone.
She glanced once at the silk screen in the corner, behind which shadowed figures moved in quiet patterns. Attendants. Guards, maybe. Not for her.
She stood in the center of the room on the embroidered lotus bloom stitched into the rug and clasped her hands behind her back. Her heartbeat was even. Her posture perfect. She knew how to be quiet when it mattered.
The silence stretched.
She let her eyes wander.
The calligraphy scroll nearest the right wall read:
A ruler speaks not with his voice, but his stillness.
She raised a brow. “Wow,” she muttered. “Sounds exhausting.”
Just then, a set of footsteps approached from the inner chamber.
She straightened, chin up, gaze slightly lowered. But not too low. She wasn’t a servant. She was here on appointment.
The Crown Prince entered.
He was taller than she expected. Slender, built like a sword rather than a wall. His dark hair was tied into a single, flawless knot, not a strand out of place. His robes were ink black with silver lining — severe, quiet elegance. His face was expressionless.
No, not expressionless — carefully void.
His eyes were colder than the room. Sharp, deep-set, unreadable. Not curious. Not hostile. Simply… uninterested.
He didn’t speak as he approached. Didn’t bow. Didn’t sit.
He stood directly before her, glancing once at the physician’s insignia on her belt.
Then, at last, he said, “Don’t waste time.”
His voice was low, smooth, and glacial.
Linh Yue bowed, low and crisp, then rose.
“I’m already bored,” she replied automatically—then immediately flinched and coughed into her sleeve. “I-I mean—honored. Deeply. Honored.”
The silence that followed was the kind that drew blood from pride.
He didn’t blink. Didn’t react.
For a long moment, they stood like that.
Finally, he turned.
And walked past her, toward the inner door.
She remained in place, back straight, heart pounding — not from fear, but the deep, infuriating urge to laugh.
He paused at the threshold.
Without looking at her, he said, “A physician who speaks too much is harder to replace.”
Then he disappeared through the door.
She stared at the spot he’d just been, lips twitching.
“Oh,” she murmured. “I’m going to have fun with you.”
Linh Yue sat with both legs curled beneath her on a stiff bamboo mat, barely pretending to look interested as a very tall, very pale steward droned on about palace protocol with the soul-deep weariness of a man who had spent the last three decades folding napkins and enforcing silence.
“You are not to address His Highness unless spoken to. Do not initiate eye contact. Do not turn your back on him unless dismissed. You will enter from the eastern corridor at the third bell each morning, and you will bring no more than one satchel of tools or treatment items unless expressly permitted. Do not attempt to cross into the inner audience room unannounced. Do not…”
Yue blinked slowly.
She hadn’t even stepped into her new quarters yet, and already she wanted to throw herself out a window. If she had to hear one more rule—
“…and under no circumstance are you to ask questions regarding His Highness’s personal habits, condition, or schedule. Physicians are seen, not heard.”
“Excellent,” Yue said brightly, cutting him off mid-scroll. “That matches my natural desire to speak to no one and be left alone to die in peace.”
The steward blinked.
He did not smile.
He rolled the scroll shut with the kind of dignity reserved for grandfathers and funerals, then motioned to a side door.
“You will be shown to your quarters now. Your assistant will brief you on daily coordination.” He paused. “She is…
The steward paused, mouth thinning slightly, as if the next words offended his sensibilities.
“…she is one of His Highness’s personal attendants. She will assist you as assigned by the Inner Quarters.”
“Does she speak in complete sentences?” Yue asked sweetly.
He did not dignify that with a reply.
He gestured stiffly, then turned and left without another word, his robes swishing like a disapproving curtain as he vanished down the corridor.
Yue stood, rolling her shoulders. “Well, that was warm,” she muttered.
The side door slid open.
In stepped a young woman with bright almond-shaped eyes, two neat buns pinned on either side of her head, and the unmistakable air of someone who knew exactly how ridiculous court formality was and had decided to survive it with sarcasm and snacks.
“You must be the sarcastic miracle worker,” the woman said, grinning.
Yue blinked. “You must be the assistant who’s going to get us both fired.”
“Han Jue,” the girl said, offering a small, mostly ceremonial bow. “And you’re Yue. Or, according to the gossip three halls over, ‘that head physician’s terrifying favorite with the loose tongue and unmatched diagnostic precision.’”
Yue tilted her head. “Terrifying favorite? That’s new.”
“You make people nervous,” Han Jue said cheerfully. “It’s a gift.”
“I prefer to think of it as a natural side effect of competence.”
- Writer
