Of course, Zhao Han couldn't afford to show his true intentions. He couldn't ruin his plan by admitting that Aoi was just a pawn to be used. He needed to keep up the act, to pretend he cared for her, at least until the moment his father's power was restored.
As they walked through the grand corridors of the palace, their footsteps echoing off the marble floor, Aoi's sharp eyes scanned the intricate details of her surroundings. The grandness of the palace — towering columns, majestic tapestries, and golden accents — almost felt suffocating. The space was too much, too… regal, as though it were designed to remind anyone who entered of the vast, oppressive power that resided within these walls.
Zhao Han noticed her studying everything carefully, but he didn't think much of it. She was strong-willed, independent, and keen on her surroundings. But then, just as they passed under an arched doorway, Aoi's foot caught the edge of a raised tile.
"Dammit," she muttered under her breath, as she stumbled, the momentum too much for her to correct.
Instinctively, Zhao Han's hand shot out. His grip on her arm was firm and swift, pulling her back to steady herself. But even as she regained her balance, Aoi's face shifted into a brief grimace. The sharp twist in her ankle was impossible to hide.
"Careful," Zhao Han said, his voice more restrained than he intended. He looked down at her foot, then back to her face, where a flash of frustration danced across her eyes.
"I'm fine," Aoi snapped, though her voice was strained. She pushed away from him, trying to stand tall despite the discomfort. She took a step forward, wincing slightly.
"Let me help you." Zhao Han's words were calm, though his expression was unreadable.
Aoi narrowed her eyes at him but didn't protest. "I'm not some fragile doll, Zhao Han. You don't have to 'help' me."
He almost smirked. There was the Aoi he knew — tough, independent, not one to let even a small injury slow her down. But still, she was human. And in this world, humans were fragile, no matter how fierce they seemed.
"I'm not treating you like one," he said smoothly, keeping his tone light. "But we can't have you limping through the palace, can we?"
Aoi hesitated, her eyes scanning him for any trace of insincerity. Finding none — or perhaps unwilling to waste time on skepticism — she reluctantly nodded. He extended his hand toward her, not waiting for permission. It wasn't a gesture of romance; it was one of convenience, but it worked. She took his hand, letting him support her weight.
Zhao Han noticed how tense her grip was. She was always so confident, so self-sufficient. He couldn't help but feel a flicker of admiration for her, even though his mind constantly reminded him that she was just a stepping stone in his larger scheme.
The palace halls stretched endlessly in front of them. They passed sculptures, fountains, and rows of guards — each of them regal and dignified, nothing like Aoi. But it wasn't just her presence that stood out; it was her resilience. She had never let herself fall prey to the comforts of this palace, even when her own body clearly ached.
As they neared her room, Zhao Han's hand remained lightly on her back, guiding her along.
"You're stubborn," he remarked, watching her try to ignore the limp in her step.
Aoi looked up at him, her lips curling into a half-smile, but her gaze was still sharp. "You'd be surprised what I'm capable of."
Zhao Han's eyes darkened with the weight of the truth he was keeping from her. She had no idea what she was truly capable of — or how her abilities would one day be the key to his father's restoration. But it wasn't time to tell her that, not yet.
When they reached her room, Zhao Han opened the door for her, guiding her inside. The room was lavish, every detail carefully chosen. Silk drapes hung from the windows, flowing in the breeze. Plush cushions sat neatly on the floor, a porcelain vase filled with fresh flowers occupying a corner.
Zhao Han gently helped her sit on the edge of the bed. Her foot was still throbbing, though she wouldn't admit it aloud. She moved to remove her shoes, but he stopped her.
"Let me," he said, his voice low and careful. He crouched down, his hands carefully unlacing her shoe. The intimacy of the moment wasn't lost on him, though he forced himself not to feel anything. He couldn't.
Her eyes watched him for a moment before she sighed. "I told you, I can handle this." But she didn't pull her foot away, letting him finish his task.
Zhao Han placed the shoe aside and gently lifted her ankle, his touch deliberate but not overly tender. He wanted to seem concerned, but it was a necessity. "Rest here," he said, his voice soft. "I'll have someone bring a salve for your injury."
He stood, watching her settle back into the pillows. There was a fleeting moment where he almost wished he could be someone else. But no. He couldn't afford such weaknesses.
"Rest well, my lady," Zhao Han said, stepping toward the door.
But before he left, his gaze lingered on her. His mind was a storm of conflicting thoughts. He had come to the palace with one goal in mind: to restore his father's power. That meant using Aoi, leveraging her rare medicinal talents. But Aoi was more than just a tool. He'd seen it in the way she held her ground, in the way her spirit had never wavered.
His thoughts darkened as he turned away, but his resolve remained. A royal could never have love. He couldn't afford to care about her, no matter how difficult it was to suppress his growing guilt.
Aoi's life would be the price for his father's resurrection, and that price was far too high.