The Foolish Emperor

The Gentle Brother

The palace halls buzzed with hushed voices. Alexis walked quietly, catching pieces of whispered gossip as servants slipped past with lowered eyes.

“…the magician… found dead in his cell…”

“…His Majesty is furious, says there’s a traitor among us…”

“…even the dungeons aren’t safe anymore…”

The words gnawed at her. Since that night at the dining table, when Empress Jia’s mocking smile had cut deeper than any blade, Alexis had felt the weight of unseen shadows pressing closer. Now the whispers of blood and dark magic thickened the air of the palace until it was hard to breathe.

Seeking escape, Alexis slipped away to the stables. The smell of hay, the soft rustle of horses, the steady warmth of her favorite stallion Charles—it was the only place where she could still feel safe.

“You still remember me, don’t you, Charles?” she whispered, stroking his nose.

“You’ve always been his favorite,” a calm voice said from the far side of the stable.

Startled, Alexis turned. A tall figure stepped from the shadows, blond hair catching the last light of evening. The First Prince.

Her face brightened. “Brother!” she greeted, the title coming naturally despite no blood between them.

He smiled, approaching with the easy gentleness that set him apart from the rest of the court. “It’s been some time since I saw you here. Still as proud a rider as ever?”

Alexis flushed slightly. “Not as proud as I was when I was younger. Do you remember? I insisted I could ride without help and nearly fell.”

A laugh escaped him, soft and warm. “I remember. You sat there on Charles’s back as if you were a knight already, chin raised, daring anyone to tell you otherwise. You’ve always had the spirit of your mother.”

Her heart ached at the mention, but his words were gentle, not cruel. For the first time in days, she managed a small smile. “Thank you.”

The prince placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “You are like a sister to me, Alexis. Always remember that. No matter how cold the palace grows, you are not alone.”

To Alexis, he was the perfect older brother—gentle, dependable, someone who saw her for who she was, not just as the daughter of a dead empress. What she did not see was the weight he carried: in the court, he had no true power. His voice meant nothing in the council chambers, and every decision he made was crushed beneath his mother’s will.

So he obeyed. He played the dutiful son of Empress Jia, bowing his head, enduring her scolding, following her commands. To the empire, he was nothing more than a tool for her ambitions.

But here, in the quiet of the stables, he could be himself—kind, gentle, free for just a moment. And in those moments, he cherished Alexis as the beloved child of the late empress, wishing silently that she could inherit the crown he himself did not even desire.