Vermilion String

Chapter 7: The Prince Of Dawn

Cold woke him first.

Not the cell. Not the stone. The absence.

Wen Shuyan’s eyes opened to gray light bleeding through the high window. His cheek was on cold stone. His back was fire. Eight lashes, stiffened overnight. And Yichen’s arms — they were gone.

He jolted upright. Pain ripped through him. A hiss escaped before he could bite it back.

“Don’t.”

Yichen’s voice. Close. Rough from sleep.

Shuyan turned. Yichen was still on the floor, but sitting now, back against the wall. His white inner robes were smeared with dust and dried blood. The brown stains at his back had spread. Ten lashes. He looked worse in daylight. Paler. Jaw tight. But his eyes were on Shuyan. Awake. Watching.

“You moved,” Yichen said. “Thought you’d run again.”

Shuyan swallowed. His throat was raw. The rope burn screamed. “I wouldn’t.”

“Good.” Yichen exhaled. Like he’d been holding his breath all night. “Because I meant it. I’m not going anywhere.”

For a moment, it was just them. The Cold Palace was quiet. No guards. No Dowager. Just the sound of their breathing, still shared from the night before. The vermilion string on their wrists caught the morning light. Still one. Still unbroken.

Shuyan looked at it. Then at Yichen. “Your back—”

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing. Ten lashes.” Shuyan shifted, wincing. He reached out before he could stop himself. His fingers hovered over Yichen’s shoulder, not touching. Afraid to hurt him more. “You shouldn’t have come in here.”

Yichen caught his hand. Pressed it flat to his chest instead. Over his heart. It was racing. “I shouldn’t have waited.” His thumb brushed Shuyan’s knuckles. “Hearing you through that wall... I’d take a hundred lashes before I let you suffer alone again.”

Shuyan’s breath caught. He didn’t have words for that. For that kind of devotion. For the way Yichen said it like it was simple. Like it was law.

He opened his mouth. To say something. Anything.

The bolt slammed.

Both of them froze.

The cell door swung open. Not one guard. Six. Head Guard Liang stood at the front, face blank. Behind him, two palace eunuchs in Dowager’s colors. And behind them—

Her.

The Dowager didn’t enter. She stood in the doorway, cane tapping once against the stone. She took in the scene. The open door. Yichen on the floor. Shuyan half-dressed, bandages showing, Yichen’s hand still holding his.

Her eyes went to their wrists. To the vermilion string.

Her expression didn’t change. But the cane stopped tapping.

“Crown Prince,” she said. Her voice was soft. Too soft. “Explain.”

Yichen stood. Slowly. Every movement was a lesson in pain. But he stood. And he stepped in front of Shuyan. Shielding him. Always shielding him.

“He was injured,” Yichen said. His voice was Jade Frost again. Cold. Imperial. “I ensured his safety. As is my right.”

“Your right.” The Dowager repeated it. Like tasting poison. “To defy my direct order? To threaten my guards? To spend the night in a prisoner’s cell?”

“He is not a prisoner,” Yichen said. “He is mine.”

The words hung in the cold air. Mine. Not a claim of ownership like before. Not in anger. This was different. This was fact. This was vow.

The Dowager’s gaze slid past him. To Shuyan. Still on the floor. Still bleeding through his bandages. Still staring up at her with eyes that refused to drop.

“Eight lashes,” she said. “And he still looks at me like that.” She almost sounded amused. Almost. “Wen Shuyan. Did you beg my grandson to come to you?”

Shuyan’s hands curled into fists. “No.”

“Did you seduce him? Use your wounds to make him weak?”

“Grandmother—” Yichen started.

“Silence.” The word cracked like a whip. She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t need to. “I am speaking to him.”

Shuyan pushed himself up. Onto his knees. Then his feet. His legs shook. His back was wet — the bandages had split in the night. But he stood. He met her eyes.

“I did nothing,” he said. His voice was scraped raw from the rope, but it didn’t shake. “The Crown Prince came of his own will. I told him to stop. I told him not here.”

“Yet here you are,” the Dowager said. “Together. On my floor.”

She stepped forward. One step. The eunuchs followed. The guards tensed.

Yichen moved. Just a shift. Putting more of himself between her and Shuyan.

“Do not touch him,” Yichen said. Low. A warning. Not Jade Frost now. Something older. Something dangerous. “You’ve had your eight lashes. You’ve had your ten lashes. You will not have him.”

The Dowager studied him. Her own grandson. The boy she raised. The Emperor she was shaping. And she saw it then. The thing she’d feared since the vermilion string first appeared.

She’d lost him.

“You think this is love,” she said to Yichen. Not unkind. Almost pitying. “This... obsession. This defiance. It will ruin you. It will ruin the throne.”

“It’s already mine,” Yichen said. “So it can’t ruin me.”

A beat of silence. Then the Dowager sighed. Like a teacher with a disappointing student.

“Head Guard Liang,” she said. “Separate them.”

“No!” Yichen’s hand shot out, grabbing Shuyan’s wrist. Right over the vermilion string. “You don’t—”

Two guards moved. Fast. They caught Yichen’s arms. He fought. Even hurt, even stiff from ten lashes, he fought. One guard took an elbow to the jaw. Another stumbled.

“Yichen, stop!” Shuyan gasped. “You’ll tear your back—”

But Yichen wasn’t looking at him. He was looking at the Dowager. Pure, unfiltered hatred. “If you take him from me again, I swear on my father’s grave—”

“You’ll what?” The Dowager cut him off. “Burn the palace down? You can’t even stand straight, child.” She nodded to Liang. “Do it.”

Liang hesitated. Just for a second. The Crown Prince was still the Crown Prince. But the Dowager ruled until the Emperor was crowned.

He nodded. Two more guards joined. They dragged Yichen back. He snarled, thrashing, but four guards and ten lashes were too much. They pulled him away from Shuyan. Inch by inch.

Shuyan reached for him. On instinct. His fingers brushed Yichen’s before they were ripped apart.

“Shuyan!” Yichen roared it. Broken. Desperate. The Jade Frost was gone. The Crown Prince was gone. This was just a man watching his heart get dragged away. “Don’t look away from me! Don’t you dare—”

The guards hauled him through the door. Into the courtyard. Shuyan could still hear him. Still shouting his name. Still fighting.

Then the door slammed. The bolt shot home.

Silence.

Shuyan stood alone in the cell. Chest heaving. The vermilion string on his wrist felt cold. Too cold. Like the other end had gone dark.

The Dowager turned to him. Finally. Really looked at him. Not as a servant. Not as a problem. As something else. Something she couldn’t calculate.

“You love him,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

Shuyan didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His throat was closed. His eyes burned. But he didn’t cry. He wouldn’t give her that.

The Dowager stepped closer. She reached out. For a second, Shuyan thought she’d strike him. Instead, her fingers — dry, cold, ring-heavy — brushed the vermilion string on his wrist. Just a touch. Light. Testing.

“Do you know what this is?” she asked. Soft. Almost gentle. “Do you know what it costs?”

Shuyan jerked his wrist back. Away from her. “It’s ours.”

“Is it?” She tilted her head. “Then let’s see how much you’ll pay to keep it.”

She turned.

_Tap._

Once.

_Tap._

Twice.

The bolt scraped. The guards opened it for her.

She left without another word. The eunuchs followed. Liang followed. The cell door stayed shut.

Shuyan was alone.

He sank to his knees. Not from weakness. Not from pain. From the emptiness. The cell was bigger now. Colder. Yichen’s warmth was gone from the stone. Gone from the air.

He looked at his wrist. At the vermilion string. It was still there. Still red. Still tied.

But his hand was empty.

Across the courtyard, he heard it. Faint. Distant. But there.

“Shuyan!”

Yichen. Still shouting. Still fighting. Still his.

Shuyan closed his eyes. Pressed his forehead to the cold stone. And whispered back. Too quiet for anyone but the vermilion string to hear.

“I’m not looking away. I’m not.”

The Cold Palace wasn’t theirs anymore.

But he was still Yichen’s.

And Yichen was still his.

Mine to keep. Yours to rest.

Even if rest was impossible now.