He opened his eyes slowly, aware that he would find himself somewhere foreign.

The fog hung thickly in the air around him, so thick he could see barely a stone throw ahead. Drooping willow trees overlooking the grey water stood along the shore of the lake; snowdrops clustered around the tree bases and spread in swirly patterns into the dewy grass.

He felt neither cold nor warm, and there was no wind despite the gently swaying branches. It was strange, could have been frightening, but he felt only a soothing calm wash over him as he looked across the lake.

He knew without the shadow of doubt that he was in another plane of existence because he distinctly remembered falling asleep just a little while ago. He could be dreaming, but it felt entirely too vivid for a mere dream; perhaps something otherworldly, then? The more he thought about it, the more he looked, the more he felt – the less this seemed like a place for a mortal such as himself.

Who, or perhaps more aptly what, had called him here?

A gentle breeze tugged at his hair, and a voice murmured into his ear, “You catch on fast.”

He dropped to his knees immediately, his forehead pressing against the grass and his hands gathered in front of him in a prayer. The breeze passed him once more, this time bringing with it a tinkle of laughter.

“You may stand, child.”

He rose slowly from his crouch, never taking his eyes off the lake, and said, “You summoned me here?”

The breeze surrounded him. “I did.” It touched his face. “I helped you once. Now I have come to collect what you owe me.”

His eyes slipped closed, and he nodded. “What must I do?”

The memories of him and his sister getting comfortable in their beds came to mind. He heard the ghost of his mother’s voice bringing to life the bedtime stories she told them of heroes and fabled creatures, and of the old gods.

He was an adult by the time he fully grasped the hidden warnings of the stories, but by then it had already been far too late.

“I am sending you away.”

He remained silent; waiting. In the stories, the gods were never straightforward with their intentions. 

“I will help you on the right path, but it is up to you to go in the right direction.”

“Where must I go?”

“Lián.”

That was a daunting prospect. He frowned. “We are at war.”

A sigh so heavy he felt it in his bones sounded off to his side; the willow trees seemed to almost sigh along. “The wars will come to an end, but the peace will not last if no one takes a stand.”

“You want me to stop the wars?”

“Your role is to nudge the pieces. Your fate awaits you in Lián, and he needs your intervention. You must steer him on the right path, as I will steer you.”

He implored, “Tell me what that path is, or I stand no chance!”

“You will know what to do when the time is right, child.”

He opened his mouth to say more, but found there were no words to say. The world was fading from sight, and he resigned himself to the will of the god.

He had known from the start not to strike a deal with a deity, and yet he had done it anyway.

-

The two servants at the doors startled at the sight of the first prince rounding the corner and, upon realising the warpath he was on, scrambled to move the heavy oak doors aside so he could pass through unhindered.

Junmyeon trailed behind the prince in a much calmer manner, which assuaged the servants’ concerns some: If the prince’s esteemed slave was around, chances were Junmyeon would talk him down before he made too big of a mess of his quarters. Tidying up after one of his outbursts was a tedious task, but more nerve-wracking were the noises of ceramics breaking when he threw them at the walls in his anger. 

The prince was and had always been such a caring person, but the Assault at Jade Palace had changed him. It had been subtle at first, hard to gleam at a single glance, but the Imperial Palace had witnessed the quiet princeling adored by everyone steadily growing into a vocal opposition to the emperor. 

The servants sympathised with the prince, but they could do little to help him when his frustrations were with his own father. 

Junmyeon lingered outside long enough to spare them a wan smile. “The prince is in a poor mood this evening. Kindly fetch some of that red tea he favours and leave it outside. I’ll take care of the rest.”

“Yes,” the two servants said in unison and just barely resisted the urge to bow as they did; a slave was lower than a servant, and yet they couldn’t remember a time when Junmyeon had ever had the presence of one.

As the servants went to fetch the tea, Junmyeon calmly closed the doors to the background noise of something – likely one of the expensive ceramic ornaments by the sound of it – shattering against one of the farthest walls. 

Yixing could feel a migraine coming, the throbbing centred right in his forehead. He sighed through his nose and leaned across the desk with his hands flat on the mahogany, eyes shut tight. This feeling of powerlessness as his father refused to listen to him – it drove him up a wall each and every time. It was aggravating (and insulting) to have the title of heir and still be treated like a child at his age.

Meetings with his father were life draining, and the headache was not improving in the slightest.

“Do you still feel inclined to break expensive porcelain?”

“Shut your mouth,” Yixing said, albeit it held not even the slightest hint of a threat. “I am as calm as the pond in my courtyard.”

“Certainly,” Junmyeon said. “As calm as the pond in your courtyard is during a vicious storm.”

Yixing glowered at him, but it was not particularly satisfying when Junmyeon merely met his glare with a cool stare. He arched an eyebrow perhaps a minute into their staring contest, and only then did Yixing close his eyes and pinch the bridge of his nose.

“All right,” he conceded. “I am not calm in the strictest sense, but you have my word that no more vases shall fall victim to my ire tonight.”

Junmyeon dipped his chin. “That will do.”

Yixing’s private study had walls painted in various scenes of nature, wooden flooring, expensive mahogany furniture, extravagant pieces of art, porcelain and other ceramics that sometimes suffered unfortunate fates, and comfy padded seats. 

It was one of those comfy padded seats that Yixing plopped down on. He threw an arm over his face to appear as miserable as possible, and heaved another sigh. “Junmyeon. My dearest Junmyeon – I worry my father shall drive me insane.”

“Nonsense,” Junmyeon said, ever sympathetic. Yixing uttered a pitiful noise at the back of his throat.

Junmyeon left the study and returned shortly after carrying a silver tray. On it was a steaming teapot and a porcelain cup, and a plate with a small variety of the chewy rice cakes that Yixing enjoyed so much with his tea. Junmyeon had never taken a liking to them.

He arranged the items on the table next to Yixing and discarded the tray afterwards. Yixing tried to sneak one of the cakes, but Junmyeon slapped away his hand.

“Allow the tea to steep.”

Yixing sulked. “Why is there only one cup? I do not want to drink tea alone. Find one and sit down with me.”

Junmyeon went to procure a cup from one of the cupboards and then returned to take a seat opposite of Yixing. He folded his hands in his lap and levelled Yixing with an even stare. 

“What did your father do to upset you this time?”

Yixing groaned. “It is not a matter of what he did, but what he might do.” He sat up straight on the couch and ran his hands down his face. “The day he signed the peace treaty is a national day for celebration, and yet all he can think of and all he can talk about is war. Have we not had enough?”

He swung his arm out in frustration, mindful of the porcelain on the table, and said, voice raising in volume after each word, “Four years, Junmyeon. He signed it four years ago, and he is already scheming. As if that’s not enough –!”

He got to his feet, far too restless to sit still as he vented, and began pacing the room while Junmyeon stayed seated. “He is thinking about having Zitao accompany General Weishan. Zitao! Watcher’s bones, my brother has never held a sword in his life, nor has he ever been in a position where he had to fight! Father is well aware of this, and yet he is considering sending Zitao to war.”

“He could die,” Junmyeon said.

“Yes! I told Father this, but he said Zitao would never have to leave General Weishan’s side. He said he just wants Zitao to experience the heat of battle without ever being at risk.” He resisted the urge to kick the desk, well aware it would do more harm to himself than to it. He desperately needed an outlet, but he had promised not to break anything else. “Father refuses to face that we will never be the warmonger he is. Zitao is perfectly content in his tower surveying the vast unknown that is the celestial body. He should never have to don armour or take to arms. I will not allow Father to do this to him.”

“There is time to change his mind,” Junmyeon said. “He signed a peace treaty where he vowed to withdraw his armies and leave their territories untouched for at least five years.”

“That gives him a year to lay down strategies,” Yixing said. “Provided that he intends to uphold the treaty. He does not inspire much faith in that regard.”

“What of General Weishan? Did he have anything to say to this?”

“Yifan swears to me that General Weishan means well and disapproves of my father’s decisions, but orders are orders. He will take Zitao to war if that is what my father wants.”

“Hmm.” Junmyeon leaned forward to pour tea into their cups. “Come and sit down. Does Zitao know?”

“I doubt Father has had the opportunity to mention it,” Yixing said dryly as he returned to the couch. The tea was still much too hot to drink, so he sat back and crossed his arms as he contemplated. “Zitao will surely beg him to change his mind, but if Father cannot be swayed, Zitao will do as told to please him.”

“I wonder,” Junmyeon murmured, “why it must be Zitao. As the first son, ought it not be you?”

Yixing pursed his lips and squinted at the tea. “It could be a ploy,” he said. “He hates that I am no longer the docile son he wanted. Perhaps his intention is to use Zitao to make me comply.”

“Perhaps,” Junmyeon said. “Have you considered the possibility of him naming your brother his official heir to spite you?”

Yixing offered a stiff nod. “I have, and I do not think he will. He would never dream of naming Xiaoqing or Xiaodan his heir, and between Zitao and me, I am the best choice. He hates that, too, but I know he is too smart to not realise the truth of it.”

“You are more inclined to believe it is a thinly veiled threat, then,” Junmyeon said. Yixing nodded again. “What will you do?”

Yixing snatched one of the cakes off the plate, ignored Junmyeon’s disapproving look, and bit into it. It was as delicious as ever, but he could not fully enjoy it when he knew his father was plotting another war. 

“I refuse to bend.”

 

Junmyeon had been a birthday gift from one of the generals who had returned victorious from battle at one of the borders between them and the Kingdom of Mogryeon. To that day Yixing had rejected all offers of slaves he had received, and he had had every intention of also rejecting Junmyeon, well aware that the general hoped to buy his way into their good graces – but his father had silenced him with a stern look before he had had the chance to do so. 

The general spun a grand tale of how they had chased Junmyeon through rough terrains during a dreadful downpour and finally caught up with him right when he had been about to jump off a cliff and into the lashing river far below. 

“My curiosity knows no bounds,” Jianjun said. “Do tell, General, why you would give my son such a troublesome slave.”

“He is demure as a flower now, Emperor, you have my word,” the general said and gestured to the young man kneeling at his side, head bowed and hands cuffed in front of him. “He speaks not a word of our language, but he has proven to be a fast learner and perfectly capable of doing manual labour.”

Jianjun hummed and waved a hand. “Fine. If he acts out of line, my son will see to it that he is dealt with swiftly.”

Yixing tasted bile as he looked at his new slave, loath to hurt another human who had been captured by the enemy, possibly endured torture in an effort to break his spirit, and now faced a future as a slave of the very son of the man who was to blame for these wars.

“Yixing,” his father said lowly, “accept your gift.”

Yixing forced himself to move. “General,” he said and stepped off the dais, “I thank you for your thoughtfulness on my twentieth birthday. It is clear to me that much care went into choosing this slave for me, and for that I am grateful.”

“First Prince, it is I who am grateful,” the general said and bowed deeply as Yixing came to stand before him. “I hope this gift will serve you well.”

“Certainly, General,” Yixing said and accepted the bulky chain he was offered. It connected to an iron collar around his slave’s throat, and though it made Yixing sick to do so, he tugged at it and waited for the man to stumble to his feet. 

“I wish to discuss in private with the general his success at the border,” Jianjun said. “You may take your leave, Yixing. Have your new slave prepared for the celebrations this evening.”

Yixing didn’t know how to prepare a slave who did not speak their language, least of all what his father expected, but he bowed and left for his quarters with the man trailing after him like a shadow on a chain. 

In his study, Yixing gave his new slave a scrutinising look. 

He had a lean, solid build and appeared newly scrubbed with short dark hair that still obscured the upper part of his face from Yixing’s scrutiny. The rags he wore could hardly be considered clothes by any standards. He seemed largely unharmed save a few scrapes around his face and inflamed skin where the cuffs and the collar bit into flesh.

“Slave,” Yixing said, “look at me.”

Junmyeon stayed rooted in his spot, eyes downcast, so Yixing closed the gap between them to lightly grip Junmyeon by the chin and tip his head upwards. Fiery brown eyes stared into his very soul, and Yixing’s brows pulled into a frown.

This was no broken spirit. 

“I am Yixing,” he said, releasing Junmyeon to point at himself. “Yixing. Yi. Xing.” He pointed at Junmyeon and arched a brow in question.

Junmyeon’s eyes lit up in understanding, and he said in a voice that had to come from a bruised throat, “Junmyeon.”

Yixing nodded. “Junmyeon.” He earned a pair of narrowed eyes, so he tried again, recalling the sound of the vowels and consonants that had rolled off Junmyeon’s tongue so smoothly, “Junmyeon.” 

Junmyeon said something in his own language that Yixing didn’t understand, which made him wish more than ever that his father had allowed him lessons in foreign languages instead of insisting he needed only speak their own and to rely on interpreters to translate for him. The glint of approval in Junmyeon’s eyes at least led Yixing to believe he had successfully pronounced his name.

“As First Prince, I consider it my duty to have someone teach you our language,” Yixing said, more to himself than to Junmyeon. “After all, I do not suppose I will have much use of you until you can understand the orders I give.”

Junmyeon was back to staring at him in a way that no mere slave should have stared at his master, not to mention his prince, or anyone at all. Were they still in the throne room in the presence of his father, Yixing would have had no choice but to punish Junmyeon for this blatant disregard of respect and obedience. 

In the privacy of his study, Yixing schooled his expression into something more gentle and said, “You have my word that no harm shall come to you if I can help it.”

Still, Yixing was no fool: A man who had been hauled from his homeland and forced to submit to his enemy, and yet still retained such fire in his eyes, was not someone Yixing could afford to underestimate. Such a man might very well prefer death over a life of slavery, and a man with nothing to lose was a dangerous man indeed. 

If Junmyeon harboured even the slightest murderous intent, Yixing needed to find out so he didn’t end his days at his hand. 

 

That was then. 

Yixing had come to regard Junmyeon as the one stable in his life, the only person he trusted with all his being. 

He loved his brother and he loved his sisters and he loved the second empress, he loved Yifan and he loved Han, and he trusted them – but they would and could never be Junmyeon. 

Zitao did not quite love their father, but he was filial when required and would do as asked without kicking up much of a fuss. Xiaoqing and Xiaodan were still children, Xiaodan not even of marrying age, and Xifeng took great care to never be at the Imperial Palace for longer than was necessary due to her hatred of Jianjun and the wish to protect the girls from him. 

Yifan was goodhearted and studious where Han had always been blunt and sarcastic, but they were his best friends. 

And as he watched Junmyeon sip at the tea, observed the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed, he yearned to touch, to taste, to feel – to have and to hold and to own. Junmyeon didn’t seem to realise that there was a void in Yixing’s ribcage where his heart should have been because Junmyeon held it in his hands. 

A year after Junmyeon became a fixed presence around Yixing, the rumours of him being a eunuch first stirred and spread like a wildfire. Junmyeon had never bothered to correct them, and while a few other servants swore by the Watcher that Junmyeon was well-endowed, Yixing had still overheard a pair of maids whisper about it not two days ago. 

Junmyeon was most definitely not a eunuch. Yixing did not think there was any part of Junmyeon’s body he had not mapped down in his mind; that the rumours even came to exist was practically laughable with how few scruples Junmyeon had about disrobing in front of someone. 

And still – still. Yixing knew of every scar that adorned Junmyeon’s skin; every mole, every freckle, every little imperfection. He knew Junmyeon liked to keep himself clean and neatly shaved everywhere except sometimes his legs. He knew how Junmyeon’s looked in every state between flaccid and solid, could roughly estimate its girth and length, knew which side it favoured – but he didn’t know what expressions might pass across Junmyeon’s face in the throes of passion.

He had never touched his skin beyond the semi-accidental brush of a hand.

But oh, how he wanted to.

If only Junmyeon were not so unflappable. The man might as well be related to a rock and it frustrated Yixing to no end when his advances were met by blank looks or a pat on the shoulder.

Junmyeon was either dense or disinterested, and while it was the cause of many a lonely night with just his own hands and fantasies to keep him company, Yixing prayed it was the former and not the latter that was to blame for his suffering.

“You are staring,” Junmyeon said. “You have been for a while.”

Yixing crossed his legs to hide the situation between them and bent forward slightly. He hummed. “I was wondering if you might ever change your mind about the rice cakes.”

“I would rather die,” Junmyeon said, voice as even as ever, “than try another bite.”

“I thought as much,” Yixing said. “I suppose I should be thrilled. More for me.”

There was only one cake left on the plate, so he snatched it.

He deserved that cake.

 

Growth had touched the empire before Junmyeon had raised a stolen dagger to Yixing’s throat. The steel had scarcely nicked Yixing’s skin before Yixing had shoved him to the floor and pinned him to it with his own weight, the dagger kicked out of his hand and safely out of reach.

“Spilling a prince’s blood is a death sentence,” Yixing hissed, breath fanning across Junmyeon’s resentful face. “Is that truly what you want?”

“I will not live the rest of my days as my enemy’s property,” Junmyeon spat, pronunciation still slightly off in places but otherwise perfectly clear. Despite the general’s questionable judgment in giving Yixing such a volatile slave, he at least had been right about Junmyeon’s intellect. 

“I am not my father,” Yixing said. It had not been the first time he uttered those words, and it would not be the last. “I will never be my father. Once I am emperor, these wars will cease. I want peace.”

Junmyeon narrowed his eyes at him. “People like you will never settle for peace,” he said and spat at Yixing’s face; the blob of saliva landed on Yixing’s cheekbone, which rendered him momentarily speechless with astonishment as Junmyeon continued undeterred, “Your blood is precious, but everyone else’s is not? That’s absurd. We were all born equal.”

Yixing should have called for the guards to take Junmyeon away to be executed, or reached for the dagger to slit his throat himself – but, sometimes, he dared believe in the good in people, and in the best in himself. 

(He needed someone to see that he was more than the quiet prince who bowed his head to his father’s every wish and command.)

Perhaps he was a fool after all.

“Stay by my side and let me prove it to you,” Yixing said. “I will be an emperor more benevolent and kind than my father; I will not leave my people to suffer under a senseless war or be the cause of others’ grief. I swear this by the Watcher: May He strike me down if I fail.”

“You swear to a god that means nothing to me,” Junmyeon said, but the look in his eyes was wary in a way it hadn’t been before. 

“Then I will bare my chest to you,” Yixing said, “and let you wield the blade that pierces my heart if I lie.”

The silence lasted for a while, but then Junmyeon heaved a sigh and dropped his head on the floor, the fight seeping out of his body. “Very well, Prince. Show me your benevolence.”

And Yixing had not given much thought to it then, and would not give much thought to it until several years down the line – but with Junmyeon pliable under him, long lashes stark against his pale blizzard skin, Yixing had felt something stirring within him and instinctively held his wrists tighter.

“I promise.”

-

The Wars, or the Dark Years as certain corners of the empire were prone to call it by in derisive tones, lasted sixteen years before the peace treaty was signed at a formal assembly during year four-hundred-and-nine of the Zhang Dynasty in harvest, Fairday of the third week, by the respective leaders of Mogryeon, Málí, Asagao, Mei, and Lián. 

The actual death toll of the Wars in Lián remained unknown due to the lack of administration in the smaller towns, particularly the ones near the borders, but nearly a year into the peace treaty an estimate of twenty-six-thousand civilian and forty-seven-thousand military lives became the official numbers with possibly several thousands more unaccounted for.

So many lives lost in a senseless war, and still his father could not be content with what he had obtained.

“Our spies in Málí inform us that the queen is sickly,” one of the men assembled in the council chamber said. Yixing knew he was one of the more prominent members in his father’s network of spies, but the name evaded him. “The king’s people are working hard to shut down any rumours, but still we have picked up some regarding the boy she recently gave birth to. They say the babe has some deformity that may make him unfit in the role of heir.”

Jianjun his beard thoughtfully and hummed. “Sickly, you say. Will she survive?”

“The royal doctors are optimistic,” the man said and shrugged. “Complications, however, are not uncommon so soon after birth…” The way he trailed off left little doubt as to what he was suggesting. Yixing’s blood boiled.

Jianjun, however, was nodding slowly to himself. “Should the queen suffer such an unfortunate fate, the king will be in a precarious position. If the rumours as to his son have a grain of truth, it could be a very precarious position indeed.”

“Emperor,” another man called, “an heirless king would cause uncertainty amongst his people, especially during times of war. His son has not seen his first moon yet. Babes born with defects are often more prone to ailment than healthy ones. Should this boy die within a few months, if executed carefully, chances are no one will think it unnatural. Some might say it was divine –”

Yixing slammed his hand down on the table and turned a glare at the man who had dared speak such vile words. “Absolutely not.”

“Quiet, boy,” Jianjun ordered. “Stand down.”

“Will you stop at nothing?” Yixing demanded, glaring first at his father and then around the table. “Not only are you plotting the murder of a queen – you are also giving serious thought to causing an innocent child’s death! An emissary from Málí is a guest at our palace. Emperor, I implore you to have some consideration for our struggling neighbours.”

“Yixing,” Jianjun said, staring at Yixing until he sank back down onto his seat, “you will listen quietly and speak up only if you have something useful to share. Am I understood?”

Yixing’s mouth thinned and he bit out a bitter, “Yes.”

“Marvellous. Now,” Jianjun gestured at the man whom Yixing had interrupted, “please, Lord Qingsheng, proceed. I apologise for the first prince’s insolence.”

“Not at all, Emperor,” the man said and dipped his head. “I understand the prince’s qualms, but for the sake of our empire I believe it is a proposal worthy of your consideration.”

“Indeed, my lord,” Jianjun said. “Jiaolong, are the spies in any position to administer poison to the queen and her child?”

“Not at the moment,” Jiaolong said, “but I believe they can be before the first week of wither. Please understand that it will require time and careful planning to get them in a position that will not incriminate them.”

“Pray tell, then,” Yixing spat, “what might happen if the Málí emissary catches wind of this and informs his regnants. It would be a disaster.”

Jiaolong met Yixing’s glare and lifted an eyebrow. He even had the audacity to smile wanly as he said, “Why, you assume the emissary will get away with his life if such… delicate knowledge should come into his possession.”

Yixing massaged his temples and said through clenched teeth, “The Málí rulers would not send a dimwitted emissary to us in these times. He is as much a spy as he is a political pawn, and any spy worth his position has enough wits to not let on that he has acquired delicate knowledge. If he hears of your intentions, he will get the information to his regnants without you knowing.”

Jiaolong hummed. He was a brusque man with a long beard and unusual grey eyes with little empathy left in them; Yixing hated him. “First Prince, are you recommending we get rid of this emissary before he can become a problem?”

“Do not mock me,” Yixing hissed. “An emissary who disappears without a trace from his position on foreign soil will raise questions, and those questions will turn into accusations.”

Jiaolong offered a shrug. “An unfortunate accident, then. A passionate affair with someone below his station. Perhaps a jealous mistress?” He rested his elbows on the table and leaned forward, the corner of his mouth tilted upwards. “Blizzard always demands lives, does it not? He could catch his death on the way back from a nice evening out.”

“The way you take for granted human life ought to bar you from this position,” Yixing said. “What this empire needs from its council are men of level minds and empathy. Not you.”

“Council,” Jianjun cut in, “I believe it is in everyone’s best interest that I postpone this assembly until further notice. I need to have words with the first prince in private.”

“Of course, Emperor,” Jiaolong said and stood from his seat. The other members of the council followed his lead, murmuring their understanding and thanking Jianjun for his time. Yixing stayed in his seat and eyed the men with contempt as they slipped out one by one.

“Yixing,” Jianjun said once they were alone. “I allow you in these meetings because I deem it an important step in preparing you for the role of emperor. I will not sit idly by as you disrespect and insult the noble men of my council.”

Yixing gritted his teeth and said, “And I will not sit idly by as you lot plot to murder everyone standing in your way. When will enough be enough? You are to blame for so much despair and hatred!”

Jianjun sighed. “You used to be so obedient. Why do you insist on this nonsense?”

Yixing sprung from the chair and crossed his arms as he stared hard at his father. “Your wars took away my mother and Zhilan, just as they took away the loved ones of your enemies – of your own people. Does that not touch you at all?”

“Our wars, boy,” Jianjun said and moved to stand in front of Yixing. “This is your birthright; our legacy. And you would throw all of that away for a misled fantasy of peace?”

Jianjun was not much taller than Yixing himself – that he was taller at all irked Yixing each time they were face to face such as this time – but carried himself with an imposing presence and authority, the vibrant red fabrics of his garments combined with gold embroidery and the finest jewellery of jades and rubies a testament to his station and might. He had a habit of his beard whenever he was deep in thoughts and preferred his hair in a ponytail at the top of his head to keep it out of his face.

His nearly-black eyes were steely as he looked down at Yixing. “War demands sacrifice.” He briefly closed his eyes, the stern expression on his face slackening some. “Xuilan and Zhilan’s deaths were regrettable. Had I been in a position to save them, I would have – but Xiulan understood what it takes to be at war. She never once wavered from my side. So why do you?”

“These wars will tear our empire apart!” Why did he refuse to see that?

The disappointment in Jianjun’s gaze would have sent Zitao away with his tail between his legs, but Yixing would not bend. 

“No, boy,” Jianjun said quietly. “It seems you are yet too young to understand. I thought I had taught you better. These wars are what will secure your children and their futures; their grandchildren, their great-grandchildren – all of them will get to lead comfortable lives because of our actions now. Everyone must recognise the might of our empire.”

“Father, everyone already does!” Yixing implored, desperate, “Everyone knows these past years of precarious peace is for our sake rather than theirs. This is for our people to relax and rebuild what has been lost, but your enemies cannot breathe. They know you signed the peace treaty for show rather than any real intent on upholding it.”

“Nonsense.” Jianjun scoffed. “I shall keep my word and uphold the treaty for the five years they begged for.”

“That is just it, isn’t it? Five years.” He wanted to pull out his hair, so he fisted his hands to keep them still. “That’s a laughable number. Five years is not enough time for them to recuperate in the wake of the wars; it is not nearly enough time to restore their cities or mourn the deaths of their people. Formally you signed a peace treaty, but you may as well have signed their undoing.”

“I showed them mercy, Yixing,” Jianjun said, and the amusement in the shadow of a smile and the haughty look in his eyes made Yixing furious. “They came to me begging for peace, for time, and I gave it to them. What awaits them once the treaty reaches its last days, well.” He shrugged. “If they are wise, they will cede before they lose whatever they have left.”

“These people you are toying with are human beings!” Yixing cried. “They are terrified of what awaits them on the other side of the treaty because you took away everything from them!”

“Enough!” Jianjun slammed his hands down on the table. Yixing flinched. “That is the future that awaits your children if you do not grow up and instead allow all that I have worked for to slip between your fingers. It is them or us.”

“Why?” Yixing asked. “Why? Why can it not be all of us? Why must there be a divide?”

“Peace is not an option, boy,” Jianjun said harshly. “Everyone covets power. If you do not take it, someone else will, and then you will find yourself submitting to them or relinquishing your life.”

He stepped forward, crowding Yixing as he grabbed him by the shoulders hard enough to bruise. Yixing winced but did not move away. “This empire was built on blood and ashe. If you truly believe that your utopian fantasies could ever truly become reality, then you are unfit to rule. Your brother may be too taken by the unreachable in the sky, but mark my words, I will name another heir if you do not cease this nonsense. It has gone on for far too long, and I will hear no more of it!”

“I just want you to listen to me for once,” Yixing said. “Our control over our new territories is dangerously close to slipping in places because famine and illness rages after our armies burned down the fields and their homes to force them into surrender. We should be funding the restorations of our capital instead of the army and help our new territories settle under your rule. We have more than enough coin in the royal treasure to –”

“I already installed lords in those areas to help assure our control,” Jianjun cut in. “They will punish everyone foolish enough to revolt and hang them out to serve as a warning for anyone else with such treacherous notions.”

“No,” Yixing groaned. “We should not punish violence with more violence. Fear will never beat loyalty. If we teach these people to fear us, they will never truly be ours. We must show them compassion and understanding – that is the only way to gain their fealty.”

“If we show them the slightest weakness, they will pounce on it,” Jianjun said. “They will rip us apart if we do not teach them their place.”

“Father,” Yixing said, but Jianjun forcefully released his shoulders.

“No. No more.” He straightened his back and looked at Yixing. “I am rescinding your invitation to the council for the rest of the month. You have until last Fairday to prove to me that you deserve a seat in the meetings or you will be barred from partaking until next year.”

Yixing hardly felt the sting of his nails boring into his palms as he said, “I am your heir. It is within my rights to partake in those meetings!” 

“And now I revoke those rights,” Jianjun said coolly. “Careful, Yixing. You are testing my patience as it is. Spend your newly-acquired idleness wisely. I eagerly await hearing why you think I should allow you back.”

Yixing, fearing he would strike out at his father in anger if he stayed any longer, his heels and stormed off.

-

Junmyeon was nowhere to be found, so Yixing left to find his brother. He desperately needed someone to vent to, and his second choice was split between Yifan, Han, and Zitao. As it just so happened, Yifan was away visiting his mother at their family estate to celebrate his twenty-eighth birthday, and Yixing hadn’t seen the shadow of Han since Moonday. That left him with Zitao, who would almost certainly be in his tower.

One of Zitao’s attendants greeted Yixing upon arrival and accompanied him inside and up the many flights of stairs. The walk through the numerous hallways and courtyards had cooled Yixing’s head enough to not scare away the servant, so he listened with half an ear as the girl excitedly told him about Zitao’s latest observations and theories. It was endearing to see someone as enthusiastic about Zitao’s work as Zitao himself, and Yixing tried to smile and seem attentive, but the council meeting weighed heavily on his mind as well as the threat of his brother being sent to war.

“Ah!” The girl cut herself off mid-chatter as they finally found Zitao. “Prince Zitao, First Prince Yixing is here to see you.”

Zitao’s quarters were closer to Yixing’s own, but he spent most of the time at the tower. The room they were in, one Yixing had come to recognise as Zitao’s study outside his own quarters, had walls of brick with maps and parchments filled with messy scrawls that reeked of Zitao’s handwriting fastened to them at seemingly random, or at least it appeared that way to Yixing’s inexperienced eyes. The flooring was made of smoother brick and covered by rugs.

Surrounding the desk Zitao was sitting at – and as a matter of fact also obscuring a good portion of the floor – were books and parchments, and instruments and tools half of which Yixing had never seen before and couldn’t even begin to guess the purpose of. 

Zitao looked up from whatever he was poring over and lit up in a smile at the sight of Yixing. He left the desk to greet Yixing with a hug. “Brother! I did not expect to see you today.” 

To the servant girl, he arched a brow and asked, “Did my brother distract you from getting those books, Huifen?”

The girl startled, eyes wide. “Oh! I forgot! I will get right to it, Prince Zitao!”

She had scurried off before Yixing could blink. Instead he looked questioningly at Zitao, who merely shrugged and gestured at the book he had been reading.

“I vividly recall seeing more volumes in the library, so I sent her to find them.” He offered another shrug and grinned. “She must have forgotten all about it when she met you on the way.”

“My apologies,” Yixing said dryly.

Zitao was Xifeng’s son and inherited her genes; he was taller than Yixing and their father by quite a margin despite being nearly four years younger than Yixing, but that was all right: Zitao never used his superior height to make Yixing feel small like Jianjun so often did when he was getting fed up by Yixing’s defiance. 

Zitao favoured loose and practical clothes in earthy colours and simple jewellery. Today’s attire was mostly reddish brown and forest green with splashes of gold and topped off with a ruby earstick in each lobe and red satin bracelets hugging his wrists. His hair was longer than Yixing’s but shorter than their father’s, and much like their father he liked to keep it away from his face in a high ponytail with ornamental hairpins. 

Keen eyes were looking over Yixing, a frown appearing between a pair of thin eyebrows. “Seems to me the council did not go well,” he mused. 

“Father has forbidden me from attending another council until next month,” Yixing bit out. “He said he would only allow me back if I can convince him it will be worth his while. In other words, I must be just another shell of a body with neither heart nor head.”

The frown on Zitao’s face deepened. “Surely he will not keep you out that long. You are his heir.”

Yixing snorted derisively. “What good does that do anyone when I cannot even convince him not to poison an innocent child?”

Zitao visibly sagged. Pained, he said, “A child?”

The tower was one of the most clandestine places to talk if one were afraid of eavesdroppers, but still Yixing kept his voice low as he said, “The Málí heir. Father adjourned the meeting before they came to a decision, but one of Father’s men suggested we off the infant. I was led to believe the relations between the regnants and their people are strained, and with the queen sickly and an infant heir…” 

“Father intends to strike while they’re vulnerable,” Zitao murmured, “so as to weaken them before he sends his armies. Is that it?”

“Yes,” said Yixing darkly. “And to think they would give thought to such vile deeds with an emissary at the palace in times of peace!”

“Yes, Emissary Nitchakhun,” Zitao said, because Zitao somehow remembered the names of every palace staff and guest and visitor despite spending most of his time in a tower. He hummed thoughtfully. “If he catches wind of this…” 

“Nobleman Jiaolong hinted at arranging his demise, too,” Yixing said. “As though the deaths of a queen and an heir will not be enough to rouse suspicion, they also dangle the emissary’s fate without a care. We might as well send a messenger to Málí ourselves to inform them of the forthcoming assassination of their queen and their heir and hang up posters in the city centre proclaiming our guilt at the pace we are going.”

“Father would know not to kill the emissary,” Zitao said, but he sounded more like he was trying to convince himself that was the case.

“No,” Yixing said through gritted teeth, “Father would know to make his death seem like an accident. Perhaps he would even go so far as to arrange for an imposter to replace Emissary Nitchakhun until no one will think to connect the dots. Or perhaps he will make it look like suicide in the wake of his queen’s passing.”

Zitao tilted his head and pursed his lips. “Emissary Nitchakhun is close with Emissary Shuhua,” he said. “It would be a dangerous move to remove him from court.”

Yixing squinted at the floor as he tried to remember which kingdom Shuhua was from. “She is the emissary from Mei?”

Zitao nodded. “They may be close, but that is not to say Emissary Nitchakhun is not friendly with the others. The four of them are pretty tight. I don’t think even Father would risk it.”

Yixing greeted the emissaries whenever he came across them in the palace, but he had never exchanged many words with any of them. He knew the kingdoms of Mogryeon and Asagao were friendly – so friendly indeed that sometime last blizzard, in one of the reports he had acquired from one of his father’s personal spies by means of Junmyeon’s nifty fingers, he had learned that the regnants were discussing the prospect of a wedding between Crown Prince Minseok and Crown Princess Sana – and had several trade routes already established. In the wake of the Wars, where specifically Mei and Málí had warred among themselves and Mogryeon, Mei’s relationship with its neighbours was as strained as Lián’s.

He would have thought the enmity between their respective kingdoms might have made the two emissaries’ association less amiable, but it appeared he had thought wrong. Perhaps being on Lián soil, the territory of their common enemy, had inspired a bond between equals – or perhaps the emissaries had simply chosen to overlook the past in the hopes of a united future. 

“We can hope,” Yixing said. He made a mental note to look into the emissaries and their relationships later. “Still, Emissary Nitchakhun may be safe so long as he has the other emissaries, but if Father decides to rid himself of the queen and the heir, there is little I can do to stop it. He will not listen to anything I have to say.”

Zitao smiled sadly. “Keep trying, Brother. I have faith you will get through to him one day.”

“I do not.” Yixing despaired and began to pace the room, which was made difficult by the clutter on the floor. It was, however, all he could do to soothe the restless energy in him. “The last time you sat in on the meetings was just after your twentieth birthday and a few days shy of the peace treaty being signed. You have never stood up to him like I do.”

“We cannot give up,” Zitao insisted. “He will listen no more to me than he will to you. I am but a thorn in his side, a son he ignores most days. He cannot ignore you.”

“Zitao.” Yixing took three long steps to come face to face with Zitao and grabbed his hands. “Please. He is thinking of sending you to war under General Weishan’s protection.”

Zitao was quiet for a while, a frown marring his face. He squeezed Yixing’s hands. “Well,” he said softly, “I did not think he hated me that much.”

“It is not you he hates,” Yixing said. “It is me. The more vocal I am with my complaints, the more vexed he becomes. I think this is him threatening me through you.”

“Hmm.” Zitao pursed his lips. “I suppose I will have to go to war, then.”

“Absolutely not.”

“You mustn’t let him win, Brother,” Zitao said. “If he knows he can threaten you with me, he will do it every time you stand up to him until you cease entirely or I am dead. If I die, he will find someone else you love and use them against you.”

Yixing’s eyes widened when it dawned on him. “Xiaoqing and Xiaodan,” he whispered.

Zitao softened and turned Yixing’s hands palms-up. He traced the lines in his palm with his thumb and murmured, “He must under no circumstances turn his attention to them. Zhilan gave up her life to protect them; we cannot let her death be in vain. You will have to walk a thin line between fighting him and protecting them.”

“I will not send you off to war,” Yixing hissed. “You will not return. General Weishan is a good man and the men and women under his command are capable soldiers, but you are not a fighter. If the enemy learns that the prince of the Lián Empire is among the ranks, they will stop at nothing to get to you. Death will be a mercy.”

Zitao sighed and dropped his hands. “I know, Yixing.”

“I will not allow it,” Yixing said. “There is still a year left of the treaty; we have time yet. I promise I will find a way to protect you.”

“The first four passed by fast,” Zitao said, a sad little smile gracing his face that Yixing wanted so dearly to replace with one of happiness.

He moved to stand by Zitao’s desk and skimmed through the open pages of the book. Were it not for the odd word here and there, it might as well have been written in a foreign language. There were scientific terms he had never stumbled upon before and words he didn’t even dare try to pronounce. 

“Tell me what you have been studying,” he said. He had had his time to vent, so now he owed it to Zitao to settle down and hear him talk about the constellations and the strange planets in the sky that had held his fascination since he was a child. Besides, a change of topic was in order. He had had enough discussions of death to last the day, if not the rest of the week.

As expected, Zitao lit up like one of his beloved stars and hurried to Yixing’s side to patiently attempt to teach him the meaning of some of the words in the book and share his theories of what humanity might find if they were able to travel to the stars. 

No, Yixing thought as he watched Zitao leaf through the book in search of a drawing he wanted to show him, Zitao would not go to war.

A queen and her infant son could die, but Zitao would remain right here in the palace until love or the stars took him somewhere else. 

Yixing would make sure of it.

-

Yixing liked to indulge in the nearly-tender moments he had with Junmyeon.

He couldn’t treat Junmyeon as anything other than a loyal servant outside his own quarters or people would start whispering about it. Everyone already knew he treated his servants fairly, and it was no different with his slave – but social norms dictated that as someone whose station was essentially lower than that of a stray mutt, Junmyeon had to tread carefully or certain people would point out any little misdemeanour or oversight and call for swift discipline. 

Junmyeon’s role as Yixing’s personal slave certainly had its benefits; everyone at the palace knew that damaging something of the first prince’s was frowned heavily upon, and in many cases corporeally penalised. Yixing had been quick to make it commonly known that if Junmyeon were to come to any harm that was not approved by Yixing himself, the offenders would be held accountable and punished.

Palace staff knew well that Yixing looked out for Junmyeon’s wellbeing, and indeed also every other man and woman in his personal entourage, but Yixing took great care to make sure no one knew just how much he cared. 

Trifling with a servant was not straight-up condemned so much as it was cause for gossip and perhaps even slight ridicule, and Yixing had flirted with a maid during his seventeenth year until the excitement wore off, but a slave was another matter. As the first prince in particular, if such rumours were to spread, Junmyeon might very well be accused of harbouring darkness within his heart and using his tainted blood to contaminate Yixing’s soul and ensnare his mind.

It would mean certain death for Junmyeon, and Yixing would be powerless to stop it. If they believed Junmyeon had such a hold over him, his pleas would fall on deaf ears and sympathetic faces.

But oh – he wanted so badly to coax out sighs and moans from Junmyeon’s mouth and swallow them; savour them.

Night had claimed the lands, and scented candles had been lit and left around his bedroom at seemingly random but, knowing Junmyeon, probably very likely the opposite. 

His bed was a four-poster with several pillows and soft sheets and big enough to comfortably fit in three adults. Red, brown, orange, and black hues dominated his room, large paintings hanging along the walls and sizeable chests taking up a good portion of the floor. 

Yixing sat at his dressing table and stared at Junmyeon’s reflection in the mirror as Junmyeon gently combed his hair. Junmyeon’s face was set in neutral folds and he was humming softly to himself. Yixing was at risk of lulling off where he sat, partially due to a weary day but mostly because Junmyeon was prone to using his fingers instead of the comb. Yixing rarely felt as much at ease as he did in evenings like this one.

“Do you want me to braid it for the night?” Junmyeon asked.

“Please.”

It was quiet between them while Junmyeon’s fingers deftly tied his hair into a loose braid. Yixing watched those fingers through half-lidded eyes and wondered if they would be as nimble across his skin if ever given the chance.

He closed his eyes fully, not entirely sure if it were an attempt at ridding himself of the sight or to allow his imagination to run wild.

“When would you like to wake up tomorrow now that you are barred from attending the council?” Junmyeon asked.

Yixing harrumphed, his mood instantly soured at the memory. “The usual time. There is no reason to sleep in when there are other things I must see to.”

“Such as proving to your father that you belong in the meetings?”

Yixing grimaced. “Yes. I do not know how to convince him.”

“Perhaps you will know tomorrow,” Junmyeon said and stepped back. “Stand up.”

Yixing did as bid and held out his arms to allow Junmyeon better access to undo the ribbons and ropes and brooches keeping the fabrics together. While he didn’t mind in the slightest, he still did not understand why Junmyeon, who at first had been so vehemently opposed to do the tasks that befell him as a slave, dutifully insisted on doing them years later. Yixing had told him several times that he was perfectly capable of doing these things himself, but Junmyeon had told him to shut up, so Yixing eventually had.

Besides, the weight of Junmyeon’s hands as they ran across his shoulders to slide off the layers of fabrics sent barely-suppressed shivers down his spine. 

Yixing was a weak man where Junmyeon was concerned. 

As often as he had seen Junmyeon , Junmyeon had seen Yixing more. Every night for seven years, in fact, and counting. 

Junmyeon undressed him down to the last ribbon, and once that was done, he hummed and folded the fabrics of Yixing’s undergarments in his hands neatly. “Is there anything else you require of me?”

“No, thank you,” Yixing said instead of the Let me worship you that he caught on his tongue and forcibly swallowed until the words dropped to the void in his ribcage. “That is all. Get some rest, Junmyeon.”

Junmyeon gave him a small smile that threatened to send Yixing to an early grave; any genuine smiles from Junmyeon were sacred. Yixing wanted to draw each of them in meticulous detail and decorate his walls with them. “You as well, Yixing.”

Yixing had arranged for Junmyeon to have his own bed in the room adjacent to Yixing’s. Sometimes in recent years Yixing cursed himself for doing that; he liked knowing Junmyeon was nearby should he need him, but it also meant Junmyeon could hear every moan of pleasure that escaped Yixing’s lips when he did not catch it in time. 

Dense or disinterested: Yixing had no choice but to suffer through the nights until he found out which one it was.

 

---

 

#1: I love Mandarin names, man. Especially female ones; they’re so pretty! Jianjun is not the name I would have gone for, to be truthful, but according to this one site I looked at, it means "building the army", and, well, how was I supposed to resist?

#2: I started out with different words for week, month, and year, namely septet, moon, and tetrad. It came from experiencing with previous medieval-esque fics that it felt off to write actual modern-feeling words for it, but… I changed my mind with this fic ‘cause it’s set in a… slightly more 'modern' world (err, think maybe 1700s?) while still aspiring to be fantasy-esque and historical. That, and it seemed even more off to change some of the words while others, such as night and day, stayed the same. So, there’s that. I’ll save the alternative names for another fic.