A small bell chimed softly, the delicate sound cutting through the hushed atmosphere and pulling me back to the present moment. I lifted my gaze slowly from the infirmary cot where I had been sitting for the past hour, positioned beside an elderly patient who had fallen asleep peacefully while still holding my hand in his weathered grip. The soft, melodic sound belonged, of course, to Jiao. He wore a silver vine-shaped trinket attached to his boots—an ornate piece of craftsmanship with tiny bells that dangled and swayed with each movement, so that every step he took created a gentle, musical melody that announced his presence. Today he was dressed in elegant blue silk Chang'an garments that flowed around him like water, the fabric catching the light beautifully, and he held a carefully folded fan in his hand with practiced ease. At the end of the fan, a golden-thread ornament swayed delicately with each small movement, glinting in the dim infirmary light.
"You'll wake the poor old man!" I whisper-shouted at him urgently, keeping my voice low but making my displeasure clear through my expression and the sharpness of my tone.
In response, Jiao simply froze mid-step, his eyes widening slightly in acknowledgment of his mistake. Then he pointed meaningfully toward the door with his folded fan, indicating that we should take our conversation elsewhere. After that silent communication, he began to tiptoe out of the room with exaggerated slowness—far, far too slowly—moving like a thief attempting to sneak through a palace in the dead of night, his movements so deliberately careful they bordered on comical. His absurd theatrics and the serious expression he wore while performing them made me press my lips together tightly to stifle a giggle that threatened to escape and truly wake the sleeping elder.
Once I had carefully tucked the old man's hand beneath the warm covers, ensuring he remained comfortable, I slipped out of the room as quietly as I possibly could, my feet barely making a sound on the wooden floor. I eased the door shut behind me with painstaking care, wincing at even the softest click of the latch.
Outside in the corridor, I found Jiao waiting for me with infinite patience, leaning casually against the wall. His hair was styled half-up and half-down today, a elegant arrangement that left long black strands flowing freely down his back, the loose hair moving gracefully with even the slightest breeze from the open windows. He looked breathtakingly beautiful standing there bathed in the soft afternoon light—otherworldly, almost ethereal in his appearance. No wonder the Emperor of Chang'an had fallen so desperately in love with him all those years ago. Jiao had once told me, during one of our late-night conversations, that he'd been forced to fake his own death in order to escape to the north, to flee the golden cage that had become his prison. If the Emperor ever learned that we were hiding him here, that his lost love lived and breathed in our northern territory, he would declare war without a moment's hesitation. It was a dangerous secret that had to stay buried, hidden away from the world—at least until the emperor himself passed away and took his obsession to the grave.
I walked up to him, my footsteps echoing softly in the empty corridor.
"He ordered more statues of you," I said quietly, referring to the Dulga's report I'd received. "Dozens more, apparently. The entire palace is being filled with your likeness carved in marble and jade."
"I see," Jiao replied simply, his voice carefully neutral, though I could see something flicker behind his eyes—pain, perhaps, or regret, or some complicated mixture of emotions he couldn't or wouldn't name.
"What happened between you two?" I asked gently, my tone soft and non-judgmental. "Only if you want to share, of course. You don't have to tell me anything you're not ready to speak about."
Jiao was quiet for a long moment, staring out the window at the distant mountains. Then he began to speak, his voice taking on a distant, reminiscent quality.
"Some lovers are doomed from the very start," he began slowly, choosing his words with care. "That was us—doomed lovers, cursed by fate and circumstance. I was born the son of a servant in a noble house, nothing special, no prospects. When I was only three years old, barely old enough to remember, my father died protecting his master during an assassination attempt. Out of filial piety and respect for my father's sacrifice, the noble family decided to raise me as their own child rather than casting me out. They genuinely loved me and treated me no differently than their blood children, and because they were high nobles with considerable wealth and influence, I lived a life of unexpected comfort and privilege. Eventually, as I grew older, I became the designated playmate of one of the imperial princes who needed companionship."
He paused to take a breath, gathering his thoughts and his courage.
"He was the thirteenth prince," Jiao continued, his voice growing softer. "Nowhere near the line of succession, considered insignificant by court standards. His mother was a foreign princess from the Eastern Island called Orilla, which made him an outsider from birth. He had no political allies at court, no faction supporting his interests, and his own mother despised him for simply being born, for existing at all. She blamed him for trapping her in Chang'an, far from her homeland. She even took her own life when he was just seven years old, leaving him completely alone in that vicious palace. I pitied him deeply. He was an unloved child, unwanted and ignored, and I was the only person who stayed consistently by his side through everything."
Jiao's gaze drifted away from me, becoming distant and unfocused with memory, as if he were seeing scenes from long ago playing out before his eyes.
"He grew up clever—too clever, really," Jiao said with a complicated expression. "Evil in some ways, cunning and manipulative in others. But I can't fully blame him for becoming what he became. That palace, that environment, it raised him to survive at any cost, not to be kind or gentle or trusting. The court politics shaped him into something hard and calculating. Still, he inherited striking beauty from his mother—her delicate features and unusual coloring—and he possessed a silver tongue that could convince anyone of anything. As he grew older and more confident, he began to wander freely throughout Chang'an, exploring every district and meeting people from all walks of life, and he gradually gained many loyal followers who were drawn to his charisma. His brothers and the other princes eventually saw him as a serious threat to their own ambitions, which he absolutely was—he was fiercely, dangerously ambitious, with dreams of power that far exceeded his station. I wandered the city with him during those years, always at his side, and somewhere along the way, during those long walks and late-night conversations, I fell in love. Maybe it was the freedom of those journeys together. Maybe it was simply him, the person he was when we were alone. I confessed my feelings one evening under the cherry blossoms, terrified of rejection, and he said he loved me too, that he had loved me for years. We were young and recklessly in love, believing nothing could touch us."
A deep melancholy settled in his dark eyes like an ancient shadow, heavy with old grief.
"But his brothers eventually tried to kill him," Jiao's voice hardened. "Multiple assassination attempts, growing bolder each time. So he made a choice—he rebelled against the entire imperial family. He killed every single one of his brothers, eliminating all rivals systematically and ruthlessly. Even his own father, the aging Emperor of Chang'an, didn't escape his blade. He claimed the Dragon Throne at just eighteen years old, the youngest emperor in Chang'an's history. That's when everything changed between us, when the man I loved began to disappear. Those who had supported his rebellion, the nobles and generals who had risked everything for him, they demanded their rewards. They insisted he take their daughters into his imperial harem as payment for their loyalty. And because we were two men in love, because our relationship violated tradition and couldn't produce heirs, we were scorned by the entire court. The pressure was immense, constant. He filled the harem with beauties from every province, taking in dozens of women. My heart broke watching it happen, feeling myself being replaced and pushed aside. I made the painful decision to leave Chang'an entirely, to disappear and start a new life somewhere far away."
His voice trembled now with suppressed emotion.
"My adoptive family tried desperately to help me escape when they saw how I was suffering," he continued, his hands gripping the fan so tightly his knuckles turned white. "But when the Emperor found out about the escape plan, when he learned I intended to leave him, he was furious beyond reason. He caught me at the northern border just as I thought I'd made it to freedom, and he dragged me back personally to the inner palace like a criminal. I was imprisoned in a tower and tortured—physically and mentally, systematically broken down—all in the name of love. That damned, poisonous love that had turned into something twisted and unrecognizable."
He closed his eyes tightly, as if trying to shut out the memories that haunted him. I reached out and rested a comforting hand on his back, offering silent support, letting him know he wasn't alone.
"My family didn't give up on me, though," Jiao said, his voice thick with tears. "They refused to abandon me even when it became dangerous for them. They staged my death carefully, meticulously planning every detail. They burned down the tower I was being kept in during a moonless night and placed a charred, unrecognizable body inside to be discovered. Then they hid me in a merchant caravan that was headed here to the north, disguising me as a simple servant. After three long, terrifying months of travel, constantly afraid of being discovered and dragged back, I finally arrived here in the north, finally far enough from him to breathe freely."
Tears began streaming down his pale cheeks, leaving glistening trails. I kept quiet, respecting his grief, and continued rubbing his back gently in small, soothing circles.
"I miss my family terribly," he whispered brokenly. "Knowing that I'll never see them again, that I can never return to Chang'an or contact them without putting them in mortal danger, it terrifies me and breaks my heart daily. And despite everything, despite the pain and the torture and the imprisonment, I still miss what we used to be—two young men wandering through Chang'an together, madly in love and believing the world was ours. I miss who he was before the throne corrupted him, before power changed him into someone I couldn't recognize."
"I'm so sorry, sweetheart," I murmured softly and pulled him into my arms without hesitation. He collapsed into my embrace completely and cried hard, his whole body shaking with the force of his sobs, releasing years of pent-up grief and loneliness. He cried until the wind grew noticeably colder around us and the sun began to dip behind the western mountain peaks, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple. When the final golden ray disappeared below the horizon, leaving us in the soft blue light of early evening, he finally began to calm down, his breathing slowly returning to normal. How lonely and isolated he must have been all this time, carrying all of this pain and history in silence, unable to share it with anyone for fear of putting them in danger.
When he finally looked up at me, pulling back slightly, his eyes were swollen and red from crying. I gently wiped his tears away with my handkerchief, dabbing carefully at his face.
"I'll be forever grateful to have found a friend like you," he said hoarsely, his voice rough from crying. "Someone I can trust with the truth, someone who doesn't judge me."
"Me too," I replied softly, meaning every word. "I'm grateful for your friendship, Jiao. You're not alone anymore."
---
The next morning arrived just as I had expected it would: Arvid finally returned from his mission to the Craftsman Village, and he had one of Dulga's many sons in tow, having successfully convinced the young man to join our cause. The boy was the youngest of Dulga's children—the seventeenth among all of the craftsman's offspring, born late in Dulga's life. He was only eighteen years old, barely more than a child really. He appeared slim and somewhat frail, with a delicate build that suggested he spent more time with chisels and stone than with weapons or physical labor. He had soft brown hair that fell into his eyes and bright blue eyes like his father's, intelligent and observant. He carried a large, worn backpack on his shoulders that was stuffed full of his stone-carving tools—chisels of various sizes, hammers, files, and other implements of his craft that clinked softly as he walked. Arvid looked considerably happier and more relaxed now that this important mission was finally accomplished, the tension that had been present in his shoulders for days finally released.
He gathered everyone together and finally announced the news we'd all been anticipating: we would be leaving for the south in exactly three days, giving us time to prepare supplies and say our goodbyes.
"It's better to get going before winter truly arrives and devours us," he said seriously, looking around at the assembled group. "We need to leave while the roads are still passable."
I agreed wholeheartedly with his assessment. Winter in the north was absolutely no season for traveling long distances. Brutal snowstorms brewed in winter's very heart, appearing suddenly and without warning, freezing anyone who dared defy the season's unforgiving rule. People died every year attempting to travel during deep winter, caught in blizzards and buried in snow. Better to leave now, while we still had a chance of reaching our destination safely.