Chapter 4
1196 Words
Han Jue hooked her arm around Yue’s without waiting for permission. “Come on. I’ll show you your rooms. Then I’ll give you the real tour. Not the official one with all the rules. The one with the shortcut to the kitchens and the servants who will actually talk to you.”
Yue allowed herself to be pulled down the stone hallway, their footsteps echoing softly beneath high ceilings.
“Don’t I need to be escorted like a criminal every time I sneeze?” Yue asked.
“Oh, absolutely,” Han Jue said. “But everyone’s too afraid of the Crown Prince to question anything that involves you right now. You’re a royal physician. Technically, you outrank most of the outer servants.”
“Technically,” Yue repeated, amused.
“You should enjoy the illusion of power while it lasts. Come. This way.”
They walked through three connected courtyards, past koi ponds and trimmed trees sculpted into unnatural perfection. The scent of osmanthus hung thick in the warm air.
Yue’s new quarters were modest but clean—two beds, a table by the window, and a washbasin beside a low dressing cabinet. The bedding was crisp white, stitched with faint gold.
“You’re bunking with me,” Han Jue said, plopping onto the edge of the second bed. “You snore?”
“Only when I’m plotting rebellion,” Yue replied.
Han Jue grinned. “Perfect. You’ll fit right in.”
________________
Yue wasn’t a morning person.
She especially wasn’t a pre-dawn, stiff-uniform, “don’t make a sound as you walk through five echoing courtyards” kind of morning person. But apparently, the Crown Prince trained before the third bell each day like some sort of royal ghost who didn’t believe in sleep or joy.
So here she was.
Standing under a paper parasol with Han Jue by her side, watching Crown Prince Ji An s***h through the air with a wooden training blade like it had personally offended him.
“Does he do this every day?” Yue asked, voice just above a whisper.
“Every day, same hour, same pattern,” Han Jue whispered back. “Even in the rain. Especially in the rain, actually. He likes dramatic weather.”
“Of course he does.”
They stood in the covered walkway that bordered the eastern training yard. The morning mist still clung to the stone tiles, curling around Ji An’s boots as he moved. Three guards stood on the far side, watching—not guarding, exactly, but silently acknowledging his strength. Or maybe bearing witness.
Yue studied him carefully.
His footwork was precise. Weight evenly distributed. But every time he shifted into a wide stance, his left shoulder lifted a little too high. The strike that followed came a fraction late. Barely enough to notice—but enough.
“He’s compensating,” Yue muttered, more to herself than Han Jue.
“For what?” Han Jue asked.
“Old injury. Left scapula or shoulder joint. Scar tissue, probably.”
“You saw that in ten minutes?”
“I saw that in five.”
Han Jue gave her a look that hovered between impressed and slightly afraid. “You are terrifying.”
Yue shrugged. “He’s going to make it worse if he keeps moving like that.”
The prince finished his form and stood still, breathing steadily, eyes on the horizon. One of the guards stepped forward to offer him a cloth, but he waved the man off.
Yue stepped forward slightly, her parasol tilting just enough to cast shadow over the hem of her robe.
Immediately, one of the outer guards moved in front of her, hand lifted—polite, but firm.
She didn’t even blink. “Tell His Highness his left shoulder is dislocated. Again.”
A beat of silence passed. The guard didn’t move.
Yue turned to Han Jue. “Would you mind?”
Han Jue stepped forward, clearly trying not to grin. “I’ll pass it along.”
The message was whispered down the line like an imperial game of “Truth or Die.” It made its way through one attendant, then another, before finally reaching the prince himself. Ji An didn’t look at them. Didn’t respond.
But when he turned to leave the yard, his left arm remained very, very still.
⸻
Later that afternoon, Yue returned to her quarters to find a folded cloth parcel on the low table near her bed. Inside: a sling. Properly knotted. Lightly used.
No note.
No seal.
Just confirmation.
He’d listened.
She smiled to herself, just slightly.
“Progress,” she muttered. “In prince-speak.”
The next morning, Yue stood in the palace infirmary’s brewing chamber — a sun-drenched side room lined with copper kettles and shelves of dried roots, leaves, and resin-stoppered jars. She ran her fingers along the rows until she found what she needed: safflower, ginseng bark, and a pinch of blue gardenia.
“Muscle restoration with just enough bitterness to offend him,” she muttered, weighing the ingredients with the kind of care typically reserved for poisons.
Han Jue leaned against the wall, watching her work with wide eyes.
“You do know he never drinks his tonics, right?”
Yue didn’t look up. “He will drink this one.”
“Bold of you to assume.”
Yue ladled the first steep into a porcelain cup and sniffed it. Then winced.
“Perfect,” she said.
Han Jue peered over her shoulder. “That smells like scorched earth and boiled regret.”
“Exactly what I was going for.”
They delivered the tray through a servant runner—protocol demanded Yue not hand things to the prince directly unless summoned. She watched the boy carry it off with solemn dignity, cringing inside as the door to the prince’s quarters clicked shut behind him.
Five minutes passed.
Ten.
The tray returned.
Cup untouched.
“See?” Han Jue sighed. “He doesn’t even pretend to be polite.”
Yue stared at the full cup, then grabbed it with both hands, returned to the chamber, and dumped the liquid with flair.
“Plan B,” she said darkly.
Plan B included wormwood. And black garlic.
Han Jue backed away slowly. “Should I warn the prince you’re declaring war?”
“No need,” Yue said. “He’ll taste it.”
The second cup was darker. Less fragrant. Stronger.
She scribbled a small note and tucked it under the rim of the saucer:
“You’ll hate this one more.”
That tray went out with a different servant.
This time, it came back thirty minutes later.
The cup was empty.
No message.
No response.
Just a clean, dry cup.
Han Jue whistled. “I’m… weirdly aroused.”
Yue rolled her eyes. “Please don’t be.”
“No, I mean by the mutual spite. It’s very… flirty.”
“It’s medical,” Yue snapped.
“Mmhm.”
Yue folded the note she’d sent, retrieved it from under the empty saucer, and tucked it into her sleeve.
She didn’t smile.
But her eyes sparkled just slightly as she turned back to the brewing table.
- Writer
