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Emperor Ren
The capital appears on the horizon, and I find that I am not ready for it.
Three weeks on mountain roads. Three weeks of small inns and shared meals and something that felt, dangerously, like ordinary life.
Now the palace rises in the distance, its rooftops catching the morning light, and the weight of the empire settles back across my shoulders like a cloak I had briefly forgotten I was wearing.
Beside me, Lián shifts in her saddle. She has been doing this more frequently as the pregnancy progresses—small adjustments, unconscious redistributions of weight. The child makes her uncomfortable. She does not complain. I have learned to read the signs anyway.
She catches me watching her. The corner of her mouth curves—not quite a smile, but something adjacent to one. Between us, unspoken, hangs the memory of last night.
You are brooding.
Tianlong’s voice curls through my thoughts, dry as autumn leaves.
I am transitioning.
You are brooding about transitioning. This is still brooding.
Your support is overwhelming.
I am not here to support. I am here to observe. Your brooding is noted. Continue.
The honeymoon is over. The Emperor is required again.
I allow myself one more glance at Lián. She is watching the city too, her expression unreadable. But her hand rests on the swell of her belly, and something about the gesture—protective, unconscious—makes my chest tighten in a way I do not examine.
“Ready?” she asks.
“No.”
She almost smiles. “Good. Honesty suits you.”
We ride toward the gates.
We are perhaps only an hour from the city when the rider finds us.
He wears the colors of Mei’s network—discreet grays that blend with any road—and carries himself with the contained urgency of someone bearing news that cannot wait.
I pull my horse to a halt and accept the sealed message, noting that it bears three separate wax impressions.
Mei does not waste effort on redundant security.
“Your Majesty.” The rider bows from his saddle. “Lady Mei instructed me to find you before you reached the gates. She said you would want this information before you arrived.”
I break the seals and scan the contents. Mei’s handwriting is as precise as her intelligence network—economical, unhurried, devastating in its clarity.
Tomor in custody. Evidence secured. Awaiting your return for formal sentencing.
Both agents arrived. Ailun seventeen minutes ahead of Tairui. Tairui disputes the methodology. I have offered to show him my documentation. He has declined. Repeatedly.
They remain effective despite their mutual hostility. Or possibly because of it. I have not determined which.
There is a postscript. I read it twice to ensure I am understanding correctly.
P.S. A traveling monk arrived yesterday with a composition he calls “The Ballad of the Yearning Hearts.” It concerns our agents.
He claims it is a tragic love story of rivals who cannot admit their feelings.
The junior archivists are already singing it.
Brother Feng has genuine talent. I am investigating how to make it stop. Wei is no help. He finds it amusing.
“What is it?” Lián has guided her horse alongside mine and is reading over my shoulder without apology. I have long since stopped objecting to this habit. “A ballad?”
“Apparently.”
“How many verses?”
“It does not say.”
“I need to hear this ballad.”
“No.”
“For historical purposes.”
“No.”
“You cannot suppress art, Ren. It is undignified.”
“Watch me.”
This is going to be magnificent, Tianlong observes. I can feel it. The chaos is already assembling itself.
I dismiss the messenger with a nod of thanks and fold the letter carefully into my sleeve. Some information requires processing before action.
Lián is smiling now—not the careful curve she deploys as weapon, but something genuine and sharp with anticipation. “The palace is going to be interesting.”
“The palace is always interesting.”
“More interesting than usual.”
She is not wrong. I find that I do not mind as much as I should.
We enter through the eastern gate, where the guards straighten at the sight of imperial colors and the word spreads outward like ripples in still water.
The Emperor has returned. I can trace the information’s path through the palace by watching postures shift, conversations halt, and eyes turn toward us with varying degrees of curiosity and calculation.
I expect the usual reception—advisors with urgent matters, reports requiring immediate attention, the accumulated weight of decisions deferred in my absence.
What I get is whispers. Glances. Poorly concealed smiles.
Two serving girls pass us in the main corridor. One hums something under her breath—a melody I do not recognize but which makes her companion dissolve into silent giggles. They see me watching and scatter like startled birds, their laughter echoing off the stone walls.
Near the stables, a groom is singing softly as he works. The words drift toward us: something about moonlight and confession and eyes that speak across a crowded room. He notices our approach and falls silent so abruptly that his voice cracks on the final note.
“Your Majesty.” He bows so low his forehead nearly touches the ground. “I was not—that is to say—”
“Continue your work,” I tell him, and pretend not to notice the relief that floods his face.
By the time we reach the inner courtyard, I have heard fragments of the ballad from no fewer than six separate sources.
The melody is catchy—I will grant Brother Feng that much.
The lyrics, from what I can piece together, concern two men of opposing natures whose rivalry masks a deeper truth.
There is something about duty and denial.
Something about speaking what cannot be spoken.
Something, apparently, about a third verse that reduces the kitchen staff to tears.
It is, objectively, a well-constructed ballad. Brother Feng has genuine talent.
Brother Feng is going to be transferred to a very remote temple.
“It has nine verses,” Lián reports. She has been questioning passing servants with the subtle skill of someone extracting military intelligence. “Apparently the sixth one is particularly devastating. Something about watching someone walk away and not being able to follow.”
“They hate each other.”
“Yes, I gathered that was part of the appeal.”
I find the agents in the training yard.
They are standing approximately as far apart as two people can stand while still technically occupying the same space—Ailun near the weapons rack, Tairui by the water barrel, each maintaining a precise distance that speaks of long practice in mutual avoidance.
The afternoon light catches the dust of their earlier sparring session, still settling in the air between them.
Tairui sees us first. Something in his expression shifts from professional readiness to barely contained desperation. Dark circles shadow his eyes. He has not been sleeping well.
“Your Majesty.” He bows. “I need to address something.”
“The ballad.”
“It is not TRUE.” The words come out with more force than he perhaps intended. “Whatever those monks think they heard, whatever that traveling singer has been performing in every common room from here to the northern provinces—it is not true. We hate each other.”
Ailun has drifted closer, drawn by the conversation. “What is not true?”
Tairui closes his eyes. Takes a breath. Opens them. “The ballad.”
“What ballad?”
“The ballad about us. The one the entire palace has been singing.”
“There’s a ballad about us?”
“How do you not—” Tairui stops. Breathes again. His jaw is doing something complicated. “It has nine verses, Ailun. NINE VERSES. It includes a moonlit confession scene.”
“A what?”
“A MOONLIT CONFESSION. They think one of us confessed our feelings by moonlight.”
“Confessed what feelings?”
Tairui makes a sound that might charitably be called words. It is not. It is the noise of a man watching his sanity retreat over the horizon.
“The kitchen staff want a spring wedding,” Lián offers helpfully. “They’ve already picked flowers.”
“Whose wedding?” Ailun asks.
The sound Tairui makes this time is definitely not words at all.
Lián steps forward, and I recognize the particular angle of her shoulders. She is about to make this significantly worse. I should stop her. I do not stop her.
“So,” she says, addressing Ailun with perfect, lethal innocence, “the moonlit confession. Which one of you confessed first?”
“There was no—”
“Was it mutual? A simultaneous realization? Those are rare. I have seen a few over the centuries. Very romantic.”
“We were arguing about SUPPLY ROUTES.”
“Is that what you call it?”
“I—” Tairui’s hands have curled into fists at his sides. “Your Majesty. Permission to request reassignment.”
“Denied.”
“Your Majesty—”
“You work well together. The mission was successful. Whatever the palace believes about your personal lives is irrelevant to your professional effectiveness.”
“But we HATE each other.”
“Yes,” Lián says, “that’s what makes it so compelling. The tension. The unspoken words. The way you watch him when you think no one’s looking.”
“I watch him because he’s OBLIVIOUS. To EVERYTHING. Someone has to make sure he doesn’t accidentally walk into a wall because a serving girl smiled at him and he thought she was having a muscle spasm.”
“Situational awareness,” Lián says, nodding sagely. “That’s beautiful.”
Do not, Tianlong warns. If you laugh, you will never recover your authority.
I am not going to laugh.
You are dangerously close. I can feel it.
I keep my face neutral through what I can only describe as significant effort. Beside me, Lián continues her campaign.
“The ballad mentions the third verse, you know. The one that makes the kitchen staff cry. Something about unspoken words at a crossroads.”
“There were no UNSPOKEN WORDS—”
“Also,” Ailun interrupts, frowning slightly, “why would a serving girl smile at me? Did I do something wrong?”
The noise Tairui makes is almost musical in its despair.