he seventh year of the Former Yuan era, thirtieth day of the twelfth month. The year ends.
Before nightfall, the Eastern Palace was already illuminated. Lanterns of all sizes, red and yellow, hung under the corridors, winding like a fire dragon to the end of the palace gates. Eunuchs and maids hurried by with brisk steps; some carried lacquer boxes, others held bolts of silk, and some bore wine vessels. They came and went, yet there was not a hint of chaos. The air was filled with the aroma of Jiaobai wine (pepper and cypress wine), mixed with the warmth of charcoal fires, making the entire Eastern Palace feel cozy and warm.
I was changing clothes in the workshop. Tonight, for the New Year's Eve banquet, Liu Che had invited me. Not to hide under the corridor and watch, but to sit inside the hall.
Qingxing helped me put on that deep cyan quju robe again, carefully smoothing the embroidery on the collar. She had also changed into new clothes today, a red silk flower pinned in her hair, looking jubilant.
"Lady Lu, today is New Year's Eve. I heard His Majesty the Emperor and Her Majesty the Empress will also come."
My hand paused. "The Emperor and Empress are coming too?"
"Yes. On the last day of the year, the Son of Heaven must stay up with the Crown Prince to welcome the New Year. It is the rule."
I took a deep breath. I had been in the Han Palace for nearly a year, yet I had never seen the Emperor. I looked down at my clothes and touched the jade hairpin in my bun. Qingxing noticed my nervousness and whispered, "Lady Lu, don't be afraid. His Highness is here."
Inside the main hall, the lights were brilliant.
It was my first time entering the inner banquet area of the Eastern Palace's main hall. Over a dozen charcoal basins burned inside, making it as warm as spring. Thick felt carpets covered the floor, silent underfoot. Two rows of low tables were arranged neatly, laden with lacquerware—food trays, wine vessels, ear-cups—all glowing with a dim luster under the candlelight. The dishes had already been served: roasted meat, sliced raw fish, soups, pastries, fruits and melons, filling the tables completely.
I was seated in a position towards the back. Qingxing knelt behind me, quietly introducing the surrounding officials, but I didn't listen. My gaze was fixed on the table at the very front.
Liu Che was already there. He wore a formal black mianfu, but without the crown; instead, he wore a nine-tasseled cap. Compared to the Winter Solstice, his expression today was much softer, the corners of his mouth even curving slightly. Beside him sat Lady Wang, dressed in a deep purple robe, dignified and solemn. Next to her—was the Emperor.
Liu Che's father, Emperor Jing of Han, Liu Qi. He wore a black casual robe. His face was thin, his features somewhat similar to Liu Che's, but marked with more fatigue and authority. He looked unwell, coughing softly from time to time. The candlelight shining on his face revealed a twilight hue more obvious than at any court assembly.
I hadn't expected my first meeting with the Emperor to be in such a setting.
The banquet began. The Emperor raised his wine; the officials raised their cups. I followed suit, lifting my ear-cup and taking a sip of the Jiaobai wine. The spicy liquid slid down my throat, and warmth rose from my stomach.
There were songs and dances during the feast. Musicians played bronze bells and zithers; dancers in colorful robes waved their long sleeves. The Emperor was in high spirits, drinking cup after cup. Lady Wang quietly tried to dissuade him, but he just waved his hand. Liu Che sat beside his father, occasionally refilling his wine and serving him food, his movements natural.
I watched his profile. Under the candlelight, his contours seemed softer, less sharp than usual. In front of his father, he didn't look like a Crown Prince, but more like a son. When the Emperor said something, he leaned in to listen, then smiled. That smile was light, faint, but genuine.
The banquet lasted nearly two hours. By the time the Emperor stood up to return to his palace, it was already very late. He swayed slightly as he stood; Liu Che reached out to support his arm. The Emperor patted his son's hand, said nothing, and turned to leave. The officials knelt to see him off; the hall fell silent.
After seeing his father off, Liu Che turned around, scanned the hall, and his gaze landed on me.
"Let's go."
I paused. "Where?"
The corner of his mouth curved. He didn't answer. He walked over, took my hand, and led me out of the main hall through a side door.
"Your Highness—"
"Shh." He placed a finger to his lips, pulling me through the corridors, around the backyard, to a small gate in the Eastern Palace. Outside waited an inconspicuous carriage, no markings, no attendants. He pulled a token from his sleeve and waved it in front of me. "I have the token and the imperial order. Let's go."
"Get in."
"Your Highness, this is—"
"Taking you out of the palace," he pushed me into the carriage. "Tonight is New Year's Eve. There is no curfew in Chang'an tonight. The common people stay up, ten thousand homes lit with lamps. You've been here so long, yet you haven't seen Chang'an at night."
The carriage moved. Wheels crunched over the snow. I lifted the curtain; Chang'an's streets unfolded in the night.
It was different from what I imagined. No golden splendor like in the palace, no solemnity like in the main hall. Lanterns of all sizes, red and yellow, hung on both sides of the street, illuminating the entire road brightly. There were many pedestrians, in groups of two or three; some carried lanterns, some held children, some supported the elderly. Laughter, chatter, and children's play mingled together, warm and cozy. The accumulated snow glowed with a warm light under the lanterns; stepping on it made a crunch-crunch sound.
"Is it beautiful?" he asked.
"It's beautiful," I said. "More beautiful than the palace."
He smiled. "The palace is too cold."
The carriage stopped at a street corner. Today he wore plain casual clothes, his hair simply tied back, a jade pendant hanging at his waist—he looked just like an ordinary young master from a wealthy family. He got off first and extended his hand to me. I held his hand and jumped down; my boots hit the stone pavement with a clack.
People on the street didn't notice us. No one knew that this youth in plain clothes was the Crown Prince of the current dynasty. No one knelt, no one shouted "Ten thousand years." He was just an ordinary young man of Chang'an, standing on the streets of New Year's Eve.
He held my hand tight. "Hold on, don't get separated."
We walked along the long street. Vendors on the roadside sold malt sugar, masks, and bamboo whistles. An old man was molding dough figures; his fingers flew, and soon he molded a jade rabbit—ears standing tall, looking naive and cute. Liu Che stopped and watched for a long time.
"Do you want it?" he asked.
"I'm not a child."
He chuckled, threw a few coins onto the stall, took a dough figure, and stuffed it into my hand. "Take it."
"What is this?"
"A rabbit. Like you."
"How is it like me?" I looked at the rabbit with its ears standing tall.
"It runs fast," he said. "And timid; gets startled by the slightest noise."
I glared at him. He laughed and walked ahead; the warmth of his palm transmitted through my palm lines.
Reaching a street corner, an old lady was selling soup noodles (tangbing). Steam rose from the pot, white and misty, like a cloud under the lanterns. Seeing us, she smiled and called out, "Young master, young lady, want a bowl of soup noodles? It's New Year's Eve; warm yourselves up."
Liu Che stopped and looked at me. "Hungry?"
"Not hungry."
"Liar. You only ate half a bowl of soup at the banquet."
I said nothing. He pulled me to sit down in front of the stall. The old lady skillfully cooked two bowls of soup noodles and served them. The soup was clear, the noodle sheets thin, floating with chopped green onions and a few drops of sesame oil. I took a bite; the noodles were chewy, the soup so fresh my eyebrows almost fell off.
"Is it good?" he asked.
"Mm."
He lowered his head and ate his own bowl. He ate seriously, drinking even the soup. After finishing, he put down the bowl, looked at the old lady, and suddenly said,
"Granny, add another bowl. My wife hasn't eaten enough yet."
I froze. The old lady smiled and agreed, cooking another bowl. He pushed the bowl in front of me. "Eat."
"Your Highness—"
"Eat," he said. "You are too thin."
I looked into his eyes. The lantern light reflected in them, bright and warm.
"What did you just say?" I asked.
"Said what?"
"You said—'my wife' (wojia niangzi)."
He paused. Then he turned his head away; the roots of his ears turned red. The street was lively; someone was setting off firecrackers—real bamboo sections thrown into the fire, bursting with heat and making crackle-pop sounds. That noise drowned out the latter part of his sentence, but I saw it clearly.
"Sooner or later."
The steam from the soup noodles rose, warming my eyes. I lowered my head and finished the second bowl. He sat opposite, watching me eat, the corners of his mouth curved.
After eating, we walked to an open space. Many commoners gathered around a large bonfire; several people wearing Nuo ceremony masks were performing the exorcism dance. People threw sections of bamboo into the fire; the bamboo burst from the heat, crackling, sending sparks flying.
"Throw one," he said. "Explode away all the bad luck."
He handed me a section of bamboo. I approached the bonfire and threw it in with force.
Crackle-pop!
A crisp bursting sound; sparks flew up, like a fleeting flower in the night sky. The children around cheered, clapping and laughing.
"Make a wish!" he shouted at me. Surrounded by the sound of firecrackers and laughter, his voice was mostly drowned out.
"What?" I turned back and shouted.
"I said—Make a wish!"
I closed my eyes. Amidst the sky-full of firelight and the sound of firecrackers, I made a wish.
I want to stay here. Stay in this Chang'an where he is.
When I opened my eyes, he was looking at me. The firelight reflected on his face, illuminating that young face brightly. In his eyes were fire, light, and the lights of the entire Chang'an street.
"Next year," he said by my ear, his voice cutting through the noise, "we will come again."
"Okay."
"Every year we will come."
I turned to look at him. Fifteen years old, standing at the tail end of the seventh year of the Former Yuan era, his expression was as serious as when worshipping Heaven when he said "every year."
He lowered his head; his lips touched my forehead. Very light, carrying the chill of the winter night and the smoky scent of firecrackers.
In Chang'an two thousand years ago, amidst lights without fireworks, a youth kissed me.
Returning to the palace, it was just past the hour of the Rat (11 PM - 1 AM).
He walked me to the workshop door. Qingxing must have gone somewhere to stay up for the New Year; the workshop was dark.
"Go in," he said.
"Mm."
He didn't leave. Standing at the door, moonlight fell on his face; his eyes were very bright.
"Lu Xingye."
"Mm."
"Sui Sui An Lan." (Peace and tranquility every year.)
I smiled. Not English, not a translation; this was his blessing as a Han Crown Prince. Peace every year, tranquility for the world.
"Your Highness, Sui Sui An Lan."
He reached out, took my hand, and placed it on his chest. Through the fabric, I could feel his heartbeat. Fast, hot.
"Here," he said, "in the future, it will all be yours."
I raised my head and looked at him. Under the moonlight, there was light in the youth's eyes, there was snow, and there were the lights of the entire Chang'an street.
"Okay," I said.
He released my hand, turned, and left. His silhouette disappeared at the end of the corridor.
The wind of the New Year blew from afar, carrying the smoke of firecrackers and the lingering scent of soup noodles. The seventh year of the Former Yuan era had passed.
I pushed open the workshop door and walked in. The bronze mirror was still on the workbench; moonlight streamed in from the window, falling on the mirror surface. The person in the mirror had bright eyes.
The eighth year of the Former Yuan era. New Year.
The gears of history were turning, and I was at the center of those gears, holding the hand of that future emperor.
Warm days lie ahead.
[End of Chapter 14]