Tanglong Year One, November 20th. Luoyang.
Life in the Eastern Palace was quieter than in Chang'an.
Not truly quiet—people came and went in the Crown Prince's residence all day long; civil officials, military generals, eunuchs, and servants never stopped from morning till night. It was a different kind of quiet. It was the quiet of him no longer being able to go out at will; the quiet of no more hoofbeats sounding at the clinic entrance.
He came to my study every day. Sometimes for a dental check-up, sometimes just to sit for a while, saying nothing, leaning back in the chair with his eyes closed. I knew he was tired. Court affairs had increased tenfold compared to before; Princess Taiping's faction opposed him everywhere in the court, spreading rumors that "The Crown Prince is not the eldest and should not be established," courting ministers, and squeezing out his supporters.
He never told me these things. But I knew.
On this day, November 20th, he arrived later than usual. The sky had already darkened; the wind from Luoyang City blew from the Luo River, carrying the chill of ice shards.
"Qingyan." He stood at the study door, wearing a black cloak, the fox fur at the collar ruffled by the wind.
"Your Highness is late today."
"Went out for a walk." He paused. "Stifled in the residence for too long."
I glanced at him. Dark circles under his eyes—not from lack of sleep, but from the gloom of being confined for too long.
"Does Your Highness want to go out for a walk?"
"I do." He looked at me. "But I cannot go out alone."
"Then I will accompany Your Highness."
He paused. "Aren't you afraid?"
"Afraid of what?"
"Afraid of being seen. Afraid of being recognized. Afraid—" He didn't finish.
I knew what he feared. Princess Taiping's people were watching outside the Eastern Palace; his every move was under surveillance. If he went out with a woman, what would those people think? They would investigate the clinic, probe into my origins, and—
"Not afraid," I said. "I am Your Highness's private physician. It is only natural for a private physician to accompany His Highness out."
He looked at me and suddenly smiled.
"Good. Change clothes; I will take you out for a walk."
The Night Market
Luoyang's night market was not as lively as Chang'an's. It was too cold; there were far fewer people on the streets. Only a few scattered vendors still had lanterns lit, shivering inside their cotton-padded jackets. The old man selling Hu cakes kept his stove burning red; steam rose from the stove mouth, condensing into white mist in the cold air. The vendor selling candied hawthorns carried his pole across his shoulders, shouting at the street corner, his voice broken by the wind.
He walked on my left, his cloak billowing slightly in the wind. He wasn't wearing Crown Prince attire, only an ordinary moon-white round-collar robe, his hair tied with a jade hairpin, looking like an ordinary noble young master. But his demeanor could not be hidden. Walking on the street, his back was straight, his steps steady, his gaze alertly scanning every corner.
"How long has it been since Your Highness went out for a walk?"
"Not since coming from Chang'an," he paused. "Almost a month."
A month. From Prince of Linzi to Crown Prince, in just one month, he had transformed from the boy who could steal cherry pastries in the clinic to the heir apparent trapped in the Eastern Palace.
"Qingyan."
"Hmm?"
"There's a vendor selling candied hawthorns over there." He pointed to the street corner. "Want some?"
I paused. "Does Your Highness want something sweet?"
"I won't eat." He looked at me. "You eat."
"...I don't—"
"You've lost weight," he interrupted me. "Thinner than when you were in Chang'an. Eat more sweets to replenish yourself."
I opened my mouth, unable to find words to refute. He had already walked over, bought a skewer of candied hawthorns, and held it out to me.
The candied hawthorn emitted faint white vapor in the cold winter night wind; the hawthorn berries coated in sugar glowed with an amber light under the lanterns.
"Take it."
I took it and took a bite. The sugar coating was crisp, the hawthorn sour; mixed together, it was sweet and sour.
"Is it good?" he asked.
"It's good."
He smiled.
We walked slowly along the market. He on the left, I on the right. He on the outside, I on the inside. His cloak occasionally brushed against the back of my hand when blown by the wind; this time, he didn't pull it back.
"Qingyan."
"Hmm?"
"Do you know why I wanted to come out for a walk?"
"Because you've been stifled in the residence for too long."
"Not just that." He looked ahead. "I wanted to see how the common people of Luoyang are faring."
I turned to look at him. His profile was illuminated dimly and brightly by the lanterns; his jawline was sharp, his nose high and straight. It wasn't the scrutiny of a Crown Prince, but the curiosity of a youth.
"What did Your Highness see?"
"I saw the vendor selling candied hawthorns, the old man selling Hu cakes, the common people shivering in their cotton jackets." He paused. "They don't know what's happening in the court, nor do they care who becomes Crown Prince. They only care if today's Hu cakes are all sold, and if there's enough charcoal for tomorrow's fire."
He turned to look at me.
"I didn't understand these things before. When I was in the Prince of Linzi's residence, I only knew how to read memorials, listen to reports, and make decisions. But the words on memorials and the people on the streets are two different things."
I suddenly felt that the person standing beside me had changed again. Not the change from Prince of Linzi to Crown Prince, but a deeper, softer change, one closer to the ground.
"Your Highness will be a good Crown Prince."
"You said that last time."
"Then I'll say it again."
He laughed.
At the end of the market, he suddenly stopped.
"Qingyan."
"Hmm?"
"Do you feel someone is following us?"
My heart sank sharply. I instinctively wanted to turn around, but he pressed down on my shoulder.
"Don't turn around," his voice was low and calm. "Walk forward."
I gripped the stick of the candied hawthorn tightly. My fingers were trembling—not from cold, but from fear.
"Your Highness—"
"Don't be afraid." His hand moved from my shoulder to my wrist, gripping it lightly. His palm was warm. "I am here."
Undercurrents
We turned into a narrow alley. The alley was very narrow, flanked by high ward walls with no lanterns hanging on them, pitch black. Footsteps echoed in the alley—not just ours, but four others'.
No, five.
His pace quickened, but he didn't run. He held my wrist; the grip wasn't heavy, but steady.
"Your Highness—"
"Don't speak."
The end of the alley led to an even narrower lane—a dead end. The wall was too high to climb over. We were blocked inside.
Footsteps came from behind. Five men in black robes stood at the alley entrance, faces covered, only their eyes visible. They held knives—not daggers, but horizontal blades, as long as those carried by guards. The blade bodies gleamed coldly in the moonlight.
He stepped in front of me, shielding me.
"Qingyan, close your eyes."
"No—"
"Close your eyes."
His tone allowed no argument. Not a suggestion, but a command.
But I didn't close them. I stood behind him, watching him.
He stood before me, a corner of his cloak lifted by the wind. Moonlight shone down from above, falling on his shoulders, hair, and hands. His hands hung by his sides; no knife, no sword, nothing.
"Crown Prince Your Highness," the lead man in black spoke, his voice hoarse. "Come with us."
"With you?" His voice was calm. "Whose people are you?"
"Your Highness need not know."
"Then I need not go with you."
The man in black laughed. "Your Highness, you are alone, we are five. Do you think you can escape?"
He said nothing. He just stood there. Moonlight shone on his profile; his jaw tightened slightly, yet the corners of his mouth curved upward—the same arc as when drawing a bow on the training ground.
"Qingyan."
"Hmm?"
"Stand further back."
He took a step forward.
"Your Highness—"
"Stand further back."
I retreated three steps. He stood there, his moon-white robe glowing silver in the moonlight. The five men in black closed in, their blades carving arcs in the night.
The first man charged. He sidestepped, his left hand grabbing the attacker's wrist holding the knife, his right elbow striking the opponent's ribs. The movement was incredibly fast, so fast I only saw a shadow. The man in black's knife flew from his hand, flipped twice in the air, and landed on the ground with a crisp sound.
He caught the knife.
With the knife in hand, his demeanor changed completely. No longer the patient who obediently opened his mouth on the examination bed, no longer the boy who stole cherry pastries in the clinic. He was the Prince of Linzi. The young war god who shot three arrows in succession on the training ground.
The second man charged. He swung the knife to block; the sound of metal colliding exploded in the alley, sparks flying. He顺势 (following the momentum) stepped in, smashing the knife hilt onto the opponent's wrist. The man in black screamed, dropping his knife.
The third and fourth attacked together. Two knives slashed at him simultaneously; he sidestepped one, blocking the other with his knife. The sound of metal grinding was ear-piercing; he gritted his teeth, blue veins bulging from his neck to his temples—exactly as when I sutured his wound. He exerted force suddenly, pushing the man in black away; the man hit the wall, groaned muffledly, and fell to the ground.
The fifth man in black stood at the alley entrance, unmoving. He was watching. Watching his techniques, his flaws.
He was waiting for him to make a move.
Under the moonlight, he stood there, the knife tip pointing to the ground, blood dripping slowly from the blade. A few drops of blood splattered on his moon-white robe; it was indistinguishable whether it was his or others'. His breathing was somewhat rapid, but his eyes were bright—the same brightness as when he returned from the coup on that rainy night.
"Your Highness's swordsmanship is indeed well-deserved," the man in black spoke. "But Your Highness can fight five alone. Can you fight ten?"
Figures appeared again at the alley entrance. Not five, but ten. No, more. Footsteps surged from all directions like a tide.
My heart sank to the bottom.
He stepped back, retreating to my side.
"Qingyan."
"Hmm?"
"Aren't you afraid?"
"Not afraid."
"Liar," he said. "Your hands are shaking."
I looked down at my hands. Indeed, they were shaking. The stick of the candied hawthorn was still clutched in my hand; the hawthorn berries had fallen off, leaving only a bare bamboo stick.
"Your Highness—"
"Don't be afraid." He switched the knife to his left hand, his right hand gripping my wrist. "Run with me."
"What—"
He gave me no chance to speak.
He took something from his bosom and threw it on the ground. White smoke exploded, instantly filling the entire alley. A smoke bomb—when had he prepared it?
"Run!"
He pulled me, running deep into the alley. It wasn't a dead end—there was a door in the wall, very small, hidden in the shadows, invisible unless looked at closely. He kicked the door open and dragged me through.
Behind the door was another alley. Narrower, darker. Moonlight couldn't reach in; only a sliver of skylight remained at the top of the ward walls on both sides. Footsteps chased behind, getting closer.
He ran very fast. Wind whistled past our ears; his cloak billowed in the wind like a flag. His grip was tight, his palm hot, scalding my wrist through the cold winter air.
Turn left. Turn right. Turn left again. He knew Luoyang's alleys better than I imagined—or rather, he knew escape routes better than I imagined. During his youth imprisoned in the palace, during those years lying low under Empress Wei's nose, he must have walked through such alleys countless times at night.
The footsteps gradually faded. But he didn't stop. He pulled me through one alley after another, like an eagle soaring through the night.
Moonlight finally appeared at the end of the alley.
We burst out of the alley, the view suddenly opening up. It was the Luo River. The river embankment gleamed silver-white under the moonlight; the river had frozen with a thin layer of ice, the ice surface reflecting the moonlight like a road paved with crushed silver.
He finally stopped.
He released my wrist, leaning against the railing of the embankment, gasping for breath. A few drops of blood splattered on his moon-white robe; a corner of his cloak was slashed by a knife; several strands of his hair had come loose, blown onto his forehead by the wind.
But standing there, bathed in moonlight, he was unbearably handsome.
"Qingyan." He turned to look at me, panting, yet the corners of his mouth curved upward. "You run quite fast."
I stood before him, still clutching that bare candied hawthorn stick. My heart beat so fast I couldn't tell if it was from running or from something else.
"Your Highness... when did you prepare the smoke bomb?"
"Prepared it when coming from Chang'an," he leaned against the railing. "I said I keep every promise made to you. I said I would protect you, so I will protect you."
Moonlight fell upon him. Several strands of his hair were blown onto his forehead, covering one eyebrow. His breathing hadn't fully calmed, his chest heaving, yet a smile played on his lips. The knife was lost, discarded in some alley. His hands hung by his sides, fingers trembling slightly—a normal reaction after adrenaline subsided.
But those eyes were bright. Brighter than the moonlight, brighter than the crushed silver of the Luo River, brighter than all the lamps in the Eastern Palace.
"Your Highness—"
"Qingyan." He interrupted me. "Do you know what I was thinking just now?"
"Thinking of what?"
"Thinking that your candied hawthorn fell off." He looked at me. "I still owe you a skewer of candied hawthorns."
I paused. Then I laughed. By the Luo River, under the moonlight, just after being chased by over a dozen people, he said he owed me a skewer of candied hawthorns.
"Your Highness."
"Hmm?"
"You're injured."
I walked over and lifted his hand. There were several shallow cuts on his fingers, probably from the blade; the blood had coagulated, gleaming dark red in the moonlight.
"Minor wounds," he said. "Doesn't hurt."
"Even if it doesn't hurt, it needs treatment."
I took out cotton strips from my sleeve—a habit of carrying a medicine box, unchanged from Chang'an to Luoyang. As I lowered my head to bandage him, he said nothing, just watching me.
Moonlight shone down from above, overlapping our two shadows. The Luo River flowed behind us; the sound of water beneath the ice was faint, like a very slow song.
"Qingyan."
"Hmm?"
"Don't tell anyone about today's events."
"I know."
"And—" He paused. "From now on, I can no longer take you out."
My hand paused.
"Why?"
"Because it's too dangerous." His voice was very light. "I cannot let you take this risk."
I said nothing. I finished wrapping the last loop of cotton and tied a knot.
"Your Highness."
"Hmm?"
"You said I am your patient. For a patient, the doctor's words must be heard."
"Yes."
"But for a doctor, the patient's words must also be heard."
He paused.
"Your Highness needs to go out for regular walks," I said. "Being stifled in the residence for too long is bad for health. Teeth too—if the mood is bad, the gums will swell."
He looked at me and suddenly smiled.
"So?"
"So next time you go out, you must take me with you."
"Qingyan—"
"I am Your Highness's private physician. It is only natural for a private physician to accompany His Highness out."
He looked at me for a long time. So long I thought he would refuse.
"Good," he said. "Next time I will take you."
He stood up straight; moonlight fell on his shoulders, hair, and between his eyebrows. His hair was loose, strands blown onto his forehead; a corner of his cloak was torn; there were bloodstains on his robe; white cotton strips wrapped his fingers. Very disheveled. Yet standing there, he looked like a newly unsheathed blade, sharp and glaring.
"Let's go." He extended his hand. "I will walk you back."
"Your Highness—"
"Afraid you'll get blocked in an alley again." The corners of his mouth curved upward. "My doctor cannot be lost."
I looked at his outstretched hand. Palm facing up, fingers slender, knuckles distinct. Moonlight fell into the palm lines, like a shallow river.
I reached out and placed my hand in his palm. His fingers closed, grasping my hand. His palm was warm.
We walked slowly back along the river embankment. He on the left, I on the right. He on the outside, I on the inside. His grip was tight, as tight as when fleeing, but the rhythm was different—not the urgency of escaping death, but the ease of a stroll.
"Qingyan."
"Hmm?"
"I will repay your candied hawthorns tomorrow."
"Good."
"Hawthorn or date paste?"
"Hawthorn."
"Good." He smiled. "Hawthorn."
The moonlight stretched our two shadows long, overlapping, indistinguishable which was him and which was me.
The Luo River flowed beneath our feet; the sound of water beneath the ice was faint, like a very slow song. The night in Luoyang City was very quiet, so quiet one could hear the footsteps of two people, one after the other, gradually merging into a single rhythm.
(End of Chapter 8)