Li Yanqing had fully recovered.
The fever that had once weakened his body was gone, and the mornings felt light again. Sunlight filtered through the pavilion windows, touching the warm, clean wooden floor. The last physician had taken his leave the day before, and palace life had returned to its usual rhythm.
Yet something felt amiss.
Yanqing sat by the window, gazing out at the wide palace courtyard. Without realizing it, he was waiting—waiting for the figure who usually stood there, half a step away, silent yet always present.
Shen Zhiyuan was nowhere to be seen.
At first, Yanqing assumed it was mere coincidence. Perhaps Zhiyuan had been assigned elsewhere, or stationed at a different pavilion. But as the sun climbed higher and the shadows in the courtyard shifted, that spot remained empty.
The first day passed without his presence.
On the second day, Yanqing began to ask.
"Is Shen Zhiyuan on duty elsewhere?" he asked a servant who was pouring tea.
The servant bowed respectfully. "This servant has not seen Young Master Shen for several days, Your Highness."
Yanqing nodded faintly.
He asked the pavilion guards, the senior attendants who managed schedules, even the elderly eunuch who often passed through the courtyard. The answer was always the same—no one truly knew.
Days passed, and the hollow feeling did not fade.
Yanqing resumed his routine: studying, copying texts, listening to palace instruction. Yet for the first time, the tutor's voice felt distant, and the characters before him refused to settle into meaning.
The brush in his hand stopped midway through a line.
He stared at the slanted, uneven strokes, then let out a slow breath.
Usually, when his head dipped for too long, there would be the soft sound of footsteps near the window. Or at least a quiet presence that reminded him to straighten without a word.
That day, there was nothing.
Yanqing closed his book carefully.
His chest felt empty, in a way he could not explain.
A few days later, when the unease refused to ease, Yanqing summoned a senior servant who had served the palace for many years.
"Do you know where Shen Zhiyuan is now?" he asked.
The servant hesitated before answering cautiously. "Your Highness… this servant has heard that Young Master Shen was summoned back to his clan residence for training."
Training.
Yanqing fell silent.
He knew Zhiyuan trained regularly. But never to the point of disappearing for so long without word.
That night, Yanqing found it difficult to sleep.
___
The next morning, after careful consideration, he finally sought an audience with his father.
Li Yanqing brought his personal concern before the Emperor, framing it with the restraint and language befitting a crown prince.
The Emperor listened without interruption. He asked few questions, simply regarding his son with a calm, contemplative gaze.
"You wish to visit the Shen Clan residence?" he asked at last.
Yanqing nodded slightly. "I only wish to make sure he is well, Father."
The Emperor paused, then nodded slowly. "Very well. I will send palace guards to accompany you. Go properly—as the crown prince."
"Thank you, Father."
With official permission and a light escort, the small group made its way to the Shen Clan residence. There was no fanfare, no excessive announcement. The visit was private, yet remained within the bounds of etiquette.
The gates of the Shen Clan residence were guarded by clan soldiers in simple uniforms.
A military attendant stepped forward when the group halted.
"Your Highness, the Crown Prince," he said in surprise before bowing deeply. "Please wait a moment. This servant will announce your arrival."
Yanqing nodded.
Before long, the head of the Shen Clan himself came out to receive him. His steps were brisk yet composed, his expression serious and cautious.
"Your Highness," he said, bowing deeply. "Your presence honors our residence. May I ask what brings you here today?"
His tone was courteous and controlled.
Yanqing returned the bow calmly.
"I have not come on official business," he said honestly. "I only wish to see whether Shen Zhiyuan is well."
The head of the Shen Clan paused, then nodded slowly.
"Zhiyuan is undergoing intensive training. He is in good health, though his schedule is demanding. If Your Highness permits, I can escort you to the training hall."
Yanqing nodded.
As they walked toward the hall, the sound of wooden swords striking rang out—rhythmic, forceful, relentless.
At the center of the hall stood Shen Zhiyuan, a wooden sword in his hands.
His body glistened with sweat, his breathing heavy, his movements far more refined than the last time Yanqing had seen him. Every strike was deliberate, without hesitation.
Zhiyuan did not notice Yanqing at once.
Until, in the midst of a swing, his eyes caught sight of a figure standing at the edge of the hall.
His movement faltered for a brief moment.
Not from exhaustion—but from shock.
Yanqing watched him in silence.
The hum of the sword still lingered in the air when the head of the Shen Clan stepped forward, his gaze sharp as it fixed on his son.
"Zhiyuan," he said firmly. "Stop your training."
The wooden sword froze midair, then slowly lowered. Zhiyuan drew in a deep breath, his chest rising and falling as sweat slid down his temples. He turned fully toward Li Yanqing.
At once, Zhiyuan knelt, bowing his head with practiced precision despite his unsteady breath.
"This servant greets His Highness the Crown Prince."
Yanqing startled slightly and stepped forward without thinking.
"There's no need to be so formal," he said quickly, then paused as he remembered his own position. "You may rise."
Zhiyuan obeyed. As he stood, their gazes met—only for a fraction of a second, yet enough to quicken the heartbeat.
The head of the Shen Clan glanced at them, then bowed.
"Zhiyuan, His Highness has come specifically to see you. Take a short rest."
"Yes, Father," Zhiyuan replied.
The clan head then turned to Yanqing.
"If Your Highness wishes, you may use this hall. This servant will wait outside."
"Thank you," Yanqing said briefly.
Once Zhiyuan's father departed, the training hall felt much quieter. Zhiyuan's uneven breathing was suddenly very clear.
Yanqing opened his mouth—then closed it again.
Zhiyuan stood stiffly, both hands still gripping the wooden sword, as if unsure where to set it down.
"Your…" Yanqing finally spoke, hesitating. "Your training looks demanding."
"It is my duty," Zhiyuan replied shortly.
Yanqing nodded and stepped a little closer—not too close, but enough for Zhiyuan to be fully aware of him.
"I heard," Yanqing said softly, choosing his words with care, "that when I was ill… you stood guard outside my pavilion."
Zhiyuan fell silent. His fingers tightened around the sword hilt.
"It was only briefly," he said at last. "And it was my responsibility."
"Responsibility?" Yanqing echoed. "Then why didn't you come in? Or at least appear afterward?"
Zhiyuan lowered his head. The sweat dripping onto the floor now was not solely from exertion.
"I was summoned back before Your Highness regained consciousness," he said quietly. "After that… I was not given permission to return."
Yanqing fell silent.
The answer made sense—yet it still left an empty space in his chest.
"Oh," he said finally.
Several seconds passed without sound.
"I thought," Yanqing said softly, almost to himself, "that you were avoiding me."
Zhiyuan looked up sharply. "No."
The answer came too quickly, too firmly.
Yanqing met his gaze—not as crown prince and clan guard, but as two youths equally unskilled at hiding their feelings.
"Then," he said quietly, "I'm glad you're well."
Zhiyuan nodded slightly. "This servant… is also glad that Your Highness has recovered."
Silence settled again.
But this time, it was not entirely empty.
Yanqing stood with his hands hidden within his sleeves. His gaze flicked briefly toward a wooden bench at the side of the hall—a simple bench meant for resting trainees—then returned to Zhiyuan.
"You…" Yanqing began, then paused. "You don't need to keep standing."
Zhiyuan startled. "Ah, I—"
His body moved reflexively to kneel, but he caught himself midway, realizing the mistake. He froze awkwardly, then hurriedly straightened again.
Yanqing blinked, then quickly said, "I mean… sit. Just sit."
"Oh." Zhiyuan nodded. "Yes."
He walked to the bench, then stopped again. "Would… Your Highness like to sit first?" he asked hesitantly.
Yanqing shook his head at once. "No. You."
That answer only made Zhiyuan more uncertain. He sat slowly on the edge of the bench, back stiff and straight. He kept the wooden sword across his lap, as though afraid it would be improper to place it on the floor.
Yanqing watched him for a moment. After hesitating, he sat down at the same bench, leaving only a narrow space between them.
Zhiyuan stared straight ahead. Yanqing looked down at the floor. Neither spoke.
A moment passed.
"Your sweat…" Yanqing began, then stopped abruptly, frowning as if regretting his words. "I mean… you should rest."
Zhiyuan nodded. After a brief pause, he added, "I usually rest after a hundred sword swings."
Yanqing turned. "Then… have you reached a hundred?"
Zhiyuan thought for a moment. "Not yet. Ninety-seven."
Yanqing went quiet. "…Oh."
Three swings left. He wasn't sure whether that made him feel relieved—or more unsettled.
Without realizing it, Yanqing shifted slightly, moving a finger's width closer. Zhiyuan noticed at once and reflexively shifted as well… in the same direction.
As a result, the distance between them did not change at all.
Yanqing realized it a moment later. He quickly turned his head away, ears warming.
Zhiyuan lowered his head too, staring at the wooden sword in his lap as if it were the most fascinating thing in the world.
"Your Highness," he said suddenly, his voice lower than usual, "was my presence at the palace before… troublesome?"
Yanqing startled. "What?"
"My father said," Zhiyuan continued haltingly, "that… perhaps it would be better if I focused on training for a time. So as not to… be distracted."
Yanqing's fingers clenched inside his sleeves.
"When you're not there," he said quietly, almost as if speaking to himself, "the palace feels much more silent."
Zhiyuan turned to him quickly.
Yanqing realized what he had said. He cleared his throat, his face warming. "I don't mean that the palace is truly empty. It's just—"
"No," Zhiyuan interrupted quickly, then stopped, as if afraid he had overstepped. He took a breath. "I… understand."
He did not explain what he understood.
But his grip on the sword gradually loosened, and the stiffness in his shoulders eased just a little.
Silence settled over the hall once more.
Yet this time, it was filled with things left unsaid—and because of that, it felt closer than before.