From Zhuge Fei's Perspective
Zhuge Fei was fifteen now.
And although three years had passed since that night when her father — the emperor — had forever changed the course of her life, the torment had not entirely ended.
Her father, apparently, loved her mother too much to break things completely.
He understood his rebellious daughter, yes, but he also understood his wife — the woman who still dreamed of turning Fei into the perfect princess, the symbol of grace and etiquette of the Zhuge bloodline.
And perhaps out of love for that wife, the emperor chose not to shatter that dream entirely.
The result was a strange compromise.
Fei still had to wear dresses.
She still had to attend lessons in etiquette, posture, and manners.
She still had to smile gracefully during visits and pretend to care about fabrics, flowers, and ceremonies.
But fortunately, all that only occupied half of her day.
Mornings were a silk-and-porcelain hell.
Afternoons and nights, however, belonged to her.
It was the unspoken agreement her father had left behind before disappearing.
And within that small window of freedom, Fei found her true reason to exist.
Her father had kept the promise he made in the garden three years earlier.
Not only had he allowed her to train, but he had also hired a teacher — a woman of stern demeanor and steel-gray eyes who taught not through words, but through blows.
Under her supervision, Fei learned the basics: balance, precision, movement, and above all, resilience.
And with that teacher came the daggers — two identical blades, thin, silver, with light black hilts, perfectly balanced.
A gift from her father.
Fei remembered that moment vividly.
He hadn't said a word — he simply handed her the wooden box and watched silently as her eyes lit up the moment she opened it.
It was, without a doubt, the happiest night of her life.
From that day on, the inner gardens of the imperial castle became her battlefield.
There, among frost flowers and white stones, she trained tirelessly.
The servants quickly learned to stay away whenever they heard the sound of blades cutting through air — the rhythmic precision of the daggers spinning in her small but steady hands.
And inevitably, her mother always appeared.
Fei could feel her gaze even before turning — that cold, disapproving stare that came from the window of the main hall, watching her in silence like a shadow that refused to leave.
Her mother said nothing, lips pressed tight, posture flawless, as if merely watching her daughter train were an act of sacrilege.
In the beginning, that hurt.
It hurt more than any physical wound Fei had suffered in training.
But time — with its cruel kindness — taught her an important lesson: to ignore it.
She learned to pretend she didn't see, didn't hear the heavy sighs of reproach from the window.
She learned to focus solely on the blades — on the rhythm of her breathing, on the cold air cutting across her face.
And little by little, her mother's disappointment became nothing more than part of the scenery.
Then time passed.
Shortly after that night of promises, her father vanished.
No warning, no farewell, not even a trace of where or why.
For weeks, the entire castle seemed frozen in place.
Her mother did not cry in public — but Fei knew.
She knew by the silence, by the emptiness in her eyes, by the way her once-perfect clothes began to lose their precision.
And even so, her father's final orders remained.
Fei could continue her training.
And her mother — who once would have fought tooth and nail to stop her — no longer said a word.
She seemed too drained to resist anymore.
Or perhaps she had silently understood that this was the last gift he had left for them both.
Three years passed like that.
Three years of sweat, discipline, and patience.
Fei grew stronger — her movements sharper, her hands steadier.
The daggers that once trembled now moved like extensions of her body.
And with strength came something new.
A desire to prove herself.
She wanted to know if her skill was real — or just the product of her teachers' indulgence.
She wanted to test her speed, her control, her precision — to face others her age, to feel the heat and fear of a real fight, to hear the sound of blade striking blade.
To experience what the castle's golden walls could never provide.
But the gilded bars of the imperial palace held fast.
No matter how many privileges she had earned or concessions she had won, she was still a princess.
And princesses did not walk the streets alone.
Fei could defeat ten soldiers in training, but she was still no match for the one enemy she had never overcome —
her mother's overprotective love.
And as much as she dreamed of freedom, she knew that one wrong step would turn the entire castle back into a prison of silk.
But that afternoon… the world seemed kind again.
The morning had been like any other — long hours of elegant postures, lessons on table manners, endless discussions about fabrics and invitations.
Fei endured it all with the resignation of someone who had learned to divide her time between duty and desire.
But destiny, as always, had a strange habit of rewarding those who knew how to wait.
Shortly after lunch, an unexpected visitor arrived at the main courtyard.
The jade bells rang twice — a sound reserved only for members of the imperial family.
And when Fei and her mother went out to receive the guest, the girl's heart stopped for an instant.
Standing before them was Zhuge Su Lan — the First Princess, the most feared woman in the entire Zhuge bloodline.
Fei had heard many stories about her: the sharpest mind on the island, the administrator of the empire, the heir to their father's wisdom.
Su Lan didn't need to raise her voice to be heard; her presence alone commanded silence.
So the first thing Fei felt was fear.
Her body tensed, and her thoughts raced in panic, imagining the reason for such a visit.
Maybe Su Lan had come to end it all — the training, the daggers, the free afternoons.
She could almost hear the woman's voice in her head, firm and unyielding:
"No more weapons. No more playing with blades. It's time to act like a real princess."
Fei even lowered her gaze, bracing for the sentence.
But, as so often happened in her life, the world decided to surprise her.
Su Lan had not come to destroy anything.
On the contrary.
Her elder sister greeted her with a discreet smile — the rare kind that carried no authority, only warmth.
She brought no lectures, no orders, none of the political coldness people associated with her name.
She brought words that would change everything.
She didn't speak much — but it was enough.
Fei didn't yet know the exact reason for her visit, but the calm tone of her voice and the thoughtful gleam in her eyes were enough to tell her this was no punishment.
No, Su Lan hadn't come to take away her daggers.
She had come for something else — something greater.
And Fei felt it instantly, without needing an explanation:
this woman she had always feared was here to offer her a chance.
A chance to truly live.
To prove herself.
To turn her secret training into something real.
For the first time in a long while, Zhuge Fei's heart beat not with fear — but with excitement.
And when she saw that faint shadow of a smile on her sister's lips, she understood:
the life she had always dreamed of might — just might — be about to begin.