Thirty-second day on the road, dawn mist still clinging to grass like spilled milk
The prefect, eager to erase the shame of last night's assassination plot, had arranged a ceremonial hunt in the princes' honour.
Courtiers from neighbouring counties arrived in lacquered wagons; local gentry brought falcons on velvet wrists.
A temporary camp of silk pavilions bloomed on the meadow, bright as spring crocus.
Lan Yue received an invitation by default—"Imperial Archer-Cadet to accompany for safety"—and reported in utilitarian leather, bow unstrung, quiver only half-full: she preferred to retrieve arrows, not waste them on show.
The Hunting Party
Shen rode a black gelding so polished it reflected clouds; Yuan chose a chestnut mare with more speed than sense.
Both wore court-hunting green: short jackets, gilt embroidery, feathered caps that looked absurdly fragile.
Yue's mare, tethered beside them, seemed to smirk at the pageantry.
Shen leaned sideways.
"Remember, today is theatre.
But theatre sometimes kills its actors."
His eyes flicked to the ridge-line where scrub gave way to dark pines—prime ground for ridge-cats, big as ponies, known to stalk men for sport.
A tremor of anticipation ran through the column: half fear, half boast.
The Uninvited Guest
Mid-morning, beaters flushed boar and pheasant; nobles loosed arrows with more enthusiasm than aim.
Yuan bagged a young stag, then forfeited credit so a shy baron's son could claim it—politics in antler form.
Yue stayed rear-guard, watching wind patterns, noting how ridge birds scattered in a fan shape—something moving above them, parallel to the hunt.
She signalled Shen with two fingers: danger ridge-left.
He nodded, drifted casually toward the slope, apparently chasing a white fox.
The Ridge-Cat Appears
They found its prints near a spring—paw wide as a man's palm, claws extended, no dew-claw drag: adult male, not running, stalking.
A beater's horn sounded frantic; screams followed.
Through brush Yue saw the cat—smoke-grey, shoulders rolling like river boulders—crouched above a fallen noblewoman whose horse had bolted.
Guards froze; bows wavered: the angle was steep, nobles in the line of fire.
Shen shouted for calm, but the cat twitched, preparing to spring.
FL's Moment of Brilliance
Yue assessed in heartbeats: distance forty paces, uphill, cross-wind gusting left.
Ordinary shot would glance on shoulder-blade; she needed the soft hollow behind the fore-leg while the beast crouched.
She dropped her peace-tie, nocked a bodkin arrow, then did what no textbook allowed—ran downhill toward the cat, drawing its gaze.
Predator instinct locked on motion; the cat shifted, exposing the kill-spot.
She slid to one knee, loosed.
The arrow hissed, struck true; the cat convulsed, rolled, came up snarling—wounded but not dead, now enraged.
Before it could charge, Yue had already nocked a second shaft—this one barbed—but she held, shouting at guards to form a wall of spears instead.
The beast, confused by pain and barriers, faltered; Shen galloped across its flank, slashed the hamstring with a hunting sword—mercy cut.
The ridge-cat collapsed, chest heaving; Yue approached, placed a third arrow point-blank behind the ear.
One low growl, then stillness.
Aftermath – Silence and Awe
Nobles stared as if the world had tilted.
The rescued lady—a countess from the capital—wept openly, clutching Yue's boots in gratitude until Yue gently lifted her.
Shen dismounted, wiped blood from his blade, but his eyes never left Yue.
Around them men began to cheer, but he raised a hand; quiet fell.
He spoke formally, voice carrying:
"Let it be remembered: courage is not the absence of fear, but the arrow loosed despite it."
He turned to Yue, saluted fist-to-heart—a prince honouring a cadet in front of every gossip-hungry courtier.
The cheer that followed shook pine needles from branches.
Private Exchange
When the crowd drifted to safer boasting, Shen found her checking the cat's teeth—old male, canines cracked, starving hence the man-stalking.
He stood silent until she straightened.
"You ran toward it," he said, almost wonder.
"Textbook says prey runs away."
She shrugged, wiping blood on moss.
"Textbook assumes the prey fears death more than dishonour."
His breath hitched—a small, involuntary sound.
For a heartbeat she thought he would embrace her; instead he settled a hand on her bow-sleeve, light as resting hawk.
"Lan Yue, you are—" He stopped, swallowed the rest, replaced it with:
"—an officer I would follow into any dark."
The words rang formal, but his fingers trembled against the leather, betraying heat beneath armour.
Yuan's Teasing
Later, while field-dressers hauled the carcass, Yuan rode up flourishing a flask of plum spirit.
"To the archer who makes lions look like house-cats," he toasted.
He drank, then grew uncharacteristically solemn.
"My brother's hand shook when he wiped his blade.
I have never seen that, not even when we were seven and he severed a viper's head beside my sleeping mat."
He nudged her shoulder.
"Careful, Lan.
He is prince before he is man; princes fall harder, and break louder."
She pretended to inspect her arrow-shaft, but the warning lodged like a splinter beneath skin.
The Long Ride Back
Evening sun smeared gold across the meadow; courtiers sang hunting songs slightly off-key.
Shen dropped back to ride beside her, ostensibly to discuss patrol routes.
They spoke of wind patterns, of ridge-cat territories, of whether autumn cubs would survive if the old male was gone.
Each topic harmless, yet every sentence felt like stepping-stones across deeper water.
When their knees brushed by accident both fell silent, letting hoof-beats speak until words felt safe again.
She noticed he kept his reins shorter than usual—hands needing occupation, needing not to reach for something—or someone—beside him.
Campfire Crowning
That night the prefect staged an informal ceremony: a circlet of mountain laurel for "First Blood of the Hunt."
He tried to place it on Shen's brow; Shen redirected it to Yue.
Nobles applauded, some genuinely, some through gritted teeth—a commoner wearing laurel beside a prince upset every hierarchy they cherished.
Yue accepted, but when the prefect turned she quietly set the circlet on the countess's lap—the woman whose life had hung on an arrow's flight.
Shen watched, expression unreadable, then lifted his cup in silent toast—not to laurel, but to the hand that refused it.
Night Watch Alone
She volunteered for second watch, needing sky and silence.
The meadow smelled of crushed clover and distant pine-smoke.
Footsteps approached; she knew his gait before he spoke.
Shen carried two tin cups of warm honey-milk.
"For the watch that kept the prince alive," he said.
They sipped, leaning on the rail of a makeshift corral.
Stars glittered like frost.
He spoke softly, almost to himself:
"I have been taught to master kingdoms, yet today I could not master my own heartbeat when you ran downhill."
She answered with the only truth she owned:
"Heartbeat is proof we still own the life we gamble.
Let it race; it means the wager matters."
He turned toward her; moonlight caught the tremor in his jaw.
For a breath the world narrowed to the space between their shoulders—close enough to feel shared warmth, far enough to pretend distance still existed.
Then hoof-beats sounded on the perimeter—sentry changing post—and the moment folded back into duty.
He left first, fingers brushing hers in passing—a promise, or a question, or both.
Sleep – Dreams of Hoof-Beats
She lay in her bedroll, laurel scent clinging to her hair where others had touched it.
Across the low embers she could see Shen's silhouette against his pavilion canvas—still pacing, still arguing with gravity.
She closed her eyes, heard again the ridge-cat's death-rattle, then his voice:
I could not master my own heartbeat.
Sleep took her slowly, carrying her across a meadow where cats of smoke and starlight prowled, and every arrow she loosed turned mid-air to follow the rhythm of two hearts running—not away, but toward.