By sunset, the palace had resumed its rhythm, though nothing felt the same.
Golden light spilled across the vermilion eaves like lacquered blood, warm and heavy, yet unable to chase away the chill that clung beneath the corridors. Shadows stretched long against the carved columns.
Servants moved with lowered heads and careful steps, their silence measured, rehearsed, as though even the floors might betray them if they walked too loudly.
The throne room, once a place of proclamation and command, now echoed with a strange hollowness.
The dragon banners still hung where they always had, untouched, immaculate, yet everyone knew they no longer belonged to the man who had vanished without farewell.
Incense lingered in the air, faint and cloying, like grief that refused to dissipate.
Certain hallways were avoided. The garden near the former Emperor's quarters remained untouched.
At night, when the wind slipped through the high lattice windows, it carried whispers no one dared give voice to.
The moon rose pale and distant, silvering the palace rooftops. From the outer walkways came the soft rustle of robes, the sudden hush when paths crossed, the murmured exchanges of maids who knew too much and said too little.
No one spoke of the former Emperor.
No one asked where he had gone. Order had returned, but only in appearance. Fear now held tighter than loyalty ever had.
Beyond the walls, the capital continued its bustle. Within them, time stood still.
Five days passed, but to Empress Sui Xian Ku, they did not pass, they dragged.
Each morning she rose before dawn, listening to the soft rustle of handmaidens drawing back silken drapes. She took her meals in silence and never finished them.
The palace kitchens grew uneasy, unsure whether to prepare soothing broths or hearty congee. It mattered little. Her appetite had vanished with her firstborn son.
In the Moon Courtyard, where plum trees bloomed in defiant white, she paced, back and forth. Her hands clutched her sleeves tight against her chest, as if trying to keep her heart from slipping loose.
Her gaze lingered on the distant gates, searching every passing figure. Soldier, servant, messenger, only to turn away again.
"Has there been a word?" she asked on the second day.
"No, Your Majesty."
She asked again on the third. By the fourth, her voice had begun to fray.
"He's never been gone this long," she said quietly.
"Not without words."
She turned to her husband, who sat beneath the plum blossoms, their pale petals falling soundlessly onto the stone path at his feet.
Emperor Mao, who is the former general, did not answer at once. His eyes followed a single blossom as it drifted down, settling near his boot.
At last, he spoke so softly it seemed meant only for himself.
"Let him be."
Empress Sui blinked.
"Let him be?"
"He is my son. My blood." Emperor Mao's voice remained calm, steady.
"If he wishes to vanish, even the stars will fail to find him."
"But he wouldn't abandon Mei," Empress Sui said, her voice breaking.
"He promised-"
"Sui." The emperor reached for her hand, enclosing it in his own, calloused, warm, and familiar.
"He came from us. But he does not fully belong to us. His life is his own. His choices must be as well."
The empress swallowed her protest. Her eyes glistened, but she said nothing.
At that moment, their younger son, Alhan, entered the courtyard, worry etched plainly across his face.
"Father," he said,
"Let me search for him. I can ride by night, ask around-"
"No." Emperor Mao's voice was gentle, but unyielding.
"You have duties here. He chose this path. Let him walk it."
"But-"
"No more." His tone left no room for argument.
"Your brother must return of his own will. If we chase him, he will only run farther."
Empress Sui turned away, her grip tightening on Emperor Mao's hand.
"And Mei?" she whispered.
"She still waits."
A faint smile touched the emperor Mao's lips, not unkind, but knowing.
"Then do what any good future mother-in-law would do."
She looked at him, confused.
"And that is?"
"Prepare the wedding chamber," he said.
"Whether Khan returns tomorrow or in winter, he must know his place remains here. As a son. As a future husband."
That night, the moon hung low over the imperial capital, bathing the palace rooftops in pale silver.
A cool wind stirred the leaves around a secluded garden pavilion, carrying with it the faint scent of blooming white tulips and freshly brewed jasmine tea.
Lanterns flickered softly, their warm light pooling across polished wood. Beyond the palace walls, the city had settled into quiet. Families gathered for supper, friends whispered stories beneath the stars, unaware of how fragile the peace truly was.
Inside someone's pavilion, steam curled lazily from a porcelain teapot resting on a carved nara wood table. A plate of still-warm mooncakes sat untouched beside it.
A soft whisper of movement broke the stillness.
A tall figure landed soundlessly on the stone path, boots making no noise at all, but still noticed by the former general.
"You're finally back," Emperor Mao said without turning.
"Did you find him?" His voice remained calm as he poured tea into two cups.
The man behind him; tall, broad-shouldered, clad in a red ceremonial hanfu meant for a wedding, stood rigid. Exhaustion clung to him like a second skin. His eyes were rimmed red from days without rest, his posture held together by will alone.
It was his eldest son, Khan Chi.
"Where is he?" Khan Chi asked.
Emperor Mao set the teapot down, deliberately avoiding the question.
"You've been riding for five days," he said calmly.
"Didn't stop to eat, I imagine. Always in a hurry. Just like your old man. Your mother's been worried sick."
"I asked you a question."
Khan Chi's voice cracked, hoarse and brittle, stretched thin by fatigue and something far deeper.
"Where is he?"
He took a breath, and continued.
"Where did you hide him? Answer me!"
Emperor Mao finally turned.
In the silence that followed, father and son faced one another. Anger colliding with restraint, love buried beneath grief.