The night sky stretched above the Riverland Kingdom like a shroud of black silk, sewn through with dying embers. King Shen Zhen stood upon the eastern terrace, his hand resting gently upon the curve of his beloved's belly, where new life stirred beneath layers of embroidered silk. Queen Lucy leaned against him, her silver hair catching the last whispers of starlight, her cheeks flushed with the bloom of impending motherhood.
"The stars are restless tonight," she murmured, her voice carrying a tremor that had nothing to do with the autumn wind.
Shen Zhen drew her closer, pressing his lips to her temple. "They mirror my heart, beloved. Nine moons we have waited for this joy, and still I find no peace."
"You sense it too, then." Lucy's slender fingers intertwined with his. "The wrongness in the air. The silence where there should be night birds singing."
He said nothing, for what words could ease the weight that had settled upon his chest these past weeks? The reports from the borderlands spoke of unrest—Prince Yuan's forces gathering like storm clouds, whispers of discontent among the noble houses who had never accepted a foundling king upon the Dragon Throne. And deeper still, a wound that festered in shadow: the distance that had grown between himself and Wang Tao Zhi, the brother of his heart, who now wore bitterness like a second skin.
The palace bells tolled once. Twice. Three times.
The signal for attack.
"No," Lucy breathed, her hands flying to her swollen belly. "Not now. Not when—"
The crash of splintering gates echoed across the courtyard below. Screams erupted like a murder of crows taking flight. The clash of steel against steel rang through corridors that had known only peace since Shen Zhen had claimed his crown.
"Lucy." Shen Zhen turned to her, cupping her face between calloused palms that had held both sword and empire. In her eyes—those luminous eyes that had chosen him when all the world had stood against it—he saw his entire world. "Listen to me carefully, my queen, my heart. You must go. Now."
"I will not leave you—"
"You must." His voice cracked, and he pressed his forehead to hers, breathing in the scent of jasmine that clung to her hair. "For our child. For the future of everything we have built. General Wei!"
From the shadows, a figure emerged—General Wei Zhao, who had served the late King Zhao before him, whose loyalty was forged in blood and honor. The old soldier's face was grim, his hand already upon his sword.
"Your Majesty."
"Take the queen. The eastern passage, through the merchant's quarter, into the forest beyond the city walls. Protect her. Protect my child." Shen Zhen's voice hardened to steel even as his heart shattered. "This is my final command as your king."
"Shen Zhen, please—" Lucy's tears fell like rain, staining the silk of his robes. "I cannot—I will not survive without you—"
He kissed her then, desperate and tender, tasting salt and sorrow and all the mornings they would never share. When he pulled away, his own eyes gleamed with unshed tears.
"You are stronger than you know, my love. And you carry within you all that I am, all that I could ever be." He placed his hand over her belly one last time, feeling the flutter of movement beneath. "Live. For both of us."
General Wei stepped forward, his weathered face tight with anguish. "My king, if we take the horses—"
"There is no 'we,' old friend. Only her. Only the child." Shen Zhen gripped the general's shoulder. "You alone know the hidden ways. You alone I trust with this sacred duty."
Below, the sounds of battle grew louder. Fires bloomed in the darkness like poisonous flowers.
Lucy reached for him one last time, her fingers trembling. "Find me," she whispered. "When this is over, find me. Promise me."
"I promise," Shen Zhen lied, and kissed her forehead with infinite gentleness. "I will find you beneath every star in heaven."
General Wei wrapped a dark cloak around the queen's shoulders and guided her toward the hidden door in the terrace wall. Lucy looked back once, her face pale as moonlight, her hand pressed to her heart. Then she was gone, swallowed by shadow and stone.
Shen Zhen stood alone beneath the dying stars, listening to his kingdom fall.
He drew his sword.
The throne room of Riverland Kingdom had witnessed coronations, celebrations, the laughter of children playing hide-and-seek among marble pillars. Tonight, it bore witness to the death of brotherhood.
Wang Tao Zhi stood in the center of the hall, his blade dark with blood that was not yet the king's. Beside him, Prince Yuan of the Northern Houses wore a smile like a knife edge, his forces flooding through doorways where loyal guards lay fallen. The air reeked of smoke and copper and betrayal.
Shen Zhen entered through the eastern corridor, his robes torn, a cut bleeding freely above his left eye. He walked with the measured grace of a man who had already accepted his fate, his sword held low, almost reluctant.
"Tao." The name emerged rough, broken. "My brother. Why?"
Tao flinched at the word—brother—as though it were a blade finding the gap in armor. But he recovered quickly, his handsome features hardening into something cruel and beautiful.
"Do not speak to me of brotherhood," Tao said, his voice carrying across the hall like thunder before rain. "You, who took everything I ever wanted. You, who were nothing—a foundling, a beggar's son, found bleeding in the dirt—and yet kings bowed before you. She chose you."
"Lucy loved you as a friend—"
"I did not want her friendship!" The words exploded from Tao like a wound rupturing. "I wanted her eyes to light when she saw me. I wanted her laughter to be mine alone. I wanted the old king to see me as worthy, to name me son instead of— instead of you."
Shen Zhen's grip tightened on his sword, though he made no move to attack. "The king chose based on merit, not bloodlines. He chose based on—"
"On what? Love?" Tao laughed, bitter and sharp. "On the warmth you showed to peasants? On your pretty words and gentle heart?" He advanced, his blade rising. "We fought together, you and I. We bled together. We swore oaths beneath these very stars. And when the time came for reward, for recognition, you took the crown. You took the princess. You took my life and made it yours."
"I never sought the throne, Tao. I never sought to—"
"But you accepted it!" Tao's shout echoed through the hall. "You could have refused. You could have said no, that your brother deserved consideration. But you didn't. You basked in their love while I withered in your shadow."
Prince Yuan stepped forward, his voice oily with satisfaction. "Enough talk, Tao. The queen has fled with the general. If the child is born, your claim remains weak. End this now, and the throne is yours."
Shen Zhen's eyes flickered to the prince, cold and knowing. "So this is your alliance. The jealous friend and the ambitious noble. How long have you plotted this, Tao? Since the wedding? Since Lucy first smiled at me instead of you?"
"Since the beginning," Tao admitted, and there was something terrible in his honesty. "Since the day the old king looked at you with pride I had spent years trying to earn. Since the first time Lucy touched your hand and I saw my future crumble to ash."
"Then I pity you." Shen Zhen raised his sword at last, settling into the familiar stance they had practiced together a thousand times as boys. "For you have won a kingdom but lost yourself."
They fought.
Not as strangers, but as brothers who knew every tell, every weakness, every trick the other possessed. Shen Zhen blocked and parried, his movements defensive, reluctant. He would not strike to kill, even now. Even as his guards lay dead and his kingdom burned.
Tao fought with rage and heartbreak given form. Each strike carried years of jealousy, of watching the woman he loved grow round with another man's child, of standing in the shadow of someone who had once stood beside him as an equal.
"You were my brother," Shen Zhen gasped as their blades locked. Blood ran down his arm from a deep cut. "I would have shared everything with you. I would have—"
"I did not want your charity!" Tao twisted, and his blade found flesh. "I wanted what was mine by right!"
Shen Zhen stumbled, falling to one knee. His sword clattered to the marble floor. He looked up at the man he had called brother, and there was no anger in his eyes—only sorrow.
"There is nothing right about this, Tao. Nothing right about what you've become."
Prince Yuan's soldiers moved forward, a ring of steel and pitiless faces. Tao stood over the fallen king, his blade trembling in his grip, his eyes bright with unshed tears.
"Do it," Prince Yuan urged. "Claim your throne."
For a moment—one heartbeat, one breath—Tao hesitated. The boy who had played in courtyards and shared his dreams flickered behind his eyes. But then he thought of Lucy's smile, of the old king's approval, of every slight and shadow that had poisoned his heart, and the moment passed.
"Forgive me," Tao whispered, so low only Shen Zhen could hear.
"I already have," Shen Zhen replied, and closed his eyes.
The blade fell.
Outside, the stars dimmed, as though heaven itself turned away from what had been done in the name of jealousy and wounded pride. The young king who had ruled with justice and mercy lay still upon the marble floor of his throne room, murdered by the closest friend he had ever known.
Wang Tao Zhi stood over the body, blood dripping from his sword, and felt nothing but the terrible, hollow ache of victory without joy.
He had won.
He had lost everything.
.
.
.
.
.
⭐⭐⭐
The forest path wound like a serpent through ancient trees, their branches clawing at the darkened sky. General Wei Zhao urged his horse forward, one arm wrapped protectively around Queen Lucy as she clung to the saddle, her face twisted in agony.
"Hold on, Your Majesty. Just a little further—"
"I cannot." Lucy's voice broke on a sob that was part pain, part grief. Her waters had broken an hour past, and the contractions came now in waves that stole her breath. "The child—the child comes now—"
The general's weathered face went pale. He was a warrior, trained in strategy and steel, not in the mysteries of birth. But he had sworn an oath, and he would die before he failed his king.
"The cave," he said, remembering. "The old supply cave, where we stored provisions during the border campaign. It's just ahead, sheltered—"
He did not wait for her response. The horse surged forward through the underbrush, and within moments, the mouth of the cave yawned before them like a sanctuary. The general dismounted and lifted the queen with desperate gentleness, carrying her into the darkness.
Inside, the cave was cold but dry. He laid her upon his cloak, spread across the earthen floor, and built a small fire with trembling hands. Behind them, in the distance, he could hear the sounds of pursuit—horses, torches, the shouts of soldiers who served a new king.
"They're coming," Lucy gasped between contractions. "Wei, they're coming for us."
"Let them come." The general drew his sword, placing it within reach. "They will have to cut through me first."
But Lucy was not listening. Her eyes had gone distant, turned inward to the battle her body waged. She gripped the general's hand with surprising strength as another wave of pain crashed over her.
"Tell me," she whispered. "Tell me he fought well. Tell me he—"
She could not finish. The general bowed his head, unable to meet her eyes.
"He fought as he lived, Your Majesty. With honor. With courage. He fought so that you might live."
"Then he is dead." It was not a question. Lucy's beautiful face crumpled, tears streaming down her cheeks even as her body worked to bring forth new life. "Oh, Shen Zhen. My love, my heart—"
The contractions intensified. The general had witnessed battles, had seen men torn apart by blade and arrow, but nothing had prepared him for this—the raw, primal struggle of a woman bringing life into a world that had just stolen her beloved from it.
Hours passed. The fire burned low. Outside, the sounds of pursuit grew closer, then faded, then returned again. The soldiers were sweeping the forest, methodical and thorough.
And then, as the first grey light of dawn crept into the cave, a cry pierced the air.
Not Lucy's cry, but smaller, stronger—the outraged wail of a newborn thrust into existence.
The general's hands shook as he wrapped the child in the cleanest cloth he could find. A boy. Perfect and whole, with a shock of silver hair like his mother's and eyes that, when they fluttered open, were the pale, piercing blue of his father's line.
"A prince," the general breathed. "A son worthy of—"
He looked up, intending to place the child in Lucy's arms, and felt his heart stop.
The queen lay still, her face peaceful, her eyes closed. One hand rested upon her heart; the other reached toward where he knelt with her son. But the terrible stillness—the absence of breath, of the light that had made her radiant—told the story that no words could soften.
She had given everything to ensure her child would live.
"No," the general whispered. "Your Majesty, please. Lucy—"
But she was beyond hearing. Beyond the pain and grief and loss that had broken her heart even as her body labored to preserve the future.
The baby cried, hungry and cold and alone in ways he could not yet comprehend.
General Wei Zhao looked down at the prince—at Shen Xinghui, as his mother had named him in whispered prayers during their flight—and felt the weight of the world settle upon his shoulders. Outside, horses whinnied. Voices called out in the growing light.
"Search there! The general was seen heading toward the eastern ridge!"
The general moved with the swift decisiveness of a lifetime spent in service. He wrapped the prince in his own cloak, pressed a kiss to Queen Lucy's cooling forehead, and spoke a soldier's farewell.
"Rest now, my queen. Your son lives. And by all the gods and stars, I swear he will survive to reclaim what was stolen this night."
He emerged from the cave into dawn's grey light, the baby clutched against his chest. The prince had quieted, as though he understood the need for silence. The general found his horse, mounted with practiced ease despite his precious burden, and turned toward the south—toward the hidden paths only he remembered, toward the village of his childhood where no one would think to look for a lost prince.
Behind him, in the cave, Queen Lucy lay in state among shadows, her sacrifice complete. Above, the stars had fled before the coming sun, leaving only the pale ghost of morning to witness the general's flight.
The village of Qinghe had not changed in the twenty years since Wei Zhao had left it to seek his fortune in the capital. The same crooked roofs, the same stone well in the square, the same mountains rising like the shoulders of sleeping giants against the horizon. It was a place where time moved slowly, where gossip traveled faster than commerce, where a man could disappear if he wished.
Or a prince could hide.
The general rode into the village as the sun reached its zenith, his cloak drawn tight around the bundle in his arms. The baby had slept for much of the journey, but now stirred, making small sounds of distress. He needed milk. Warmth. Things the general had no knowledge of providing.
An old woman emerged from her cottage, squinting against the light. Her face creased with surprise, then recognition.
"Wei Zhao? Little Wei who left to become a soldier?" She shuffled closer, peering at him. "Aiya, look at you. All grown and decorated like a festival banner. And what's this you carry?"
The general dismounted, every muscle in his body screaming with exhaustion. He had not slept since the attack began. Had not eaten. Had not allowed himself to feel anything beyond the singular purpose of survival.
"Auntie Lin." He bowed with as much dignity as he could muster while holding an increasingly fussy infant. "I... I need help."
The old woman's eyes narrowed, flicking from his face to the bundle and back again. She saw too much, this one. Always had.
"That's not your child," she said flatly.
"No."
"Where's the mother?"
"Dead." The word emerged hollow, scraped clean of emotion. "The father too."
Auntie Lin studied him for a long moment, then sighed. "Well, don't just stand there like a statue. Bring the poor mite inside before he catches his death. And you look like you're about to fall over. When did you last eat?"
The general followed her into the cottage, grateful beyond words. Inside, it smelled of herbs and cooking oil and safety. Auntie Lin took the baby with practiced hands, clucking her tongue at his condition.
"Hungry, this one. And needs changing. You soldiers, absolutely useless with babes." She glanced up at the general. "You in trouble, Wei Zhao?"
"The worst kind."
"Politics?"
"Yes."
"Will they come looking?"
"They might. For the child."
Another long pause. Then Auntie Lin nodded, her decision made with the swift practicality of village folk who had survived dynasties and disasters.
"Then he's yours now. Your son, if anyone asks. Where's your wife?"
"I... I have no wife."
"You do now. Or will soon enough." Auntie Lin smiled, showing gaps in her teeth. "Young Mai Lin, the weaver's daughter. Lost her husband to fever last spring, poor thing. Too young to be a widow. She'll help you with the babe, and if fortune smiles, perhaps more."
The general felt the ground shift beneath him, his entire life pivoting on this moment. He looked down at the baby—at Prince Shen Xinghui, heir to a stolen throne, last son of a murdered king—and saw only a helpless child who needed protection.
"His name is Xinghui," he said quietly.
"Good name. Strong name." Auntie Lin began to hum as she tended to the baby's needs. "Welcome home, Wei Zhao. Welcome home, little Xinghui. Qinghe will keep your secrets. She always has."
Outside, the village continued its slow dance of daily life, unaware that royalty had come to hide among them. In the capital, Wang Tao Zhi sat upon a throne won through treachery, searching frantically for a queen who was already dead and an heir whose existence would haunt him.
And in a modest cottage in a forgotten village, General Wei Zhao watched an old woman soothe a crying prince, and felt the weight of his oath settle upon him like armor.
He would raise this child. Train him. Teach him to survive in a world that wanted him dead.
And when the time was right, when Xinghui was strong enough and wise enough, the general would tell him the truth of his birth. Would tell him of the father who had died protecting his future, and the mother who had given her last breath to ensure he would live.
But for now, as afternoon light slanted through the cottage window and the baby finally quieted in the arms of a kind old woman, General Wei Zhao allowed himself one moment of weakness.
He wept for his king. For his queen. For the kingdom lost and the innocence stolen.
And then he dried his tears, straightened his shoulders, and began the long work of keeping his promise.
The prince would live.
And one day, the throne would know its rightful heir.
.
.
.
.
.
⭐⭐⭐
To be continued.