Chapter Text
Lan Wangji sat within the carriage, the corset at his waist doing little to ease the tightness in his chest. His face, however, remained as impassive as stone. Across from him, Lan Xichen gazed serenely out the window, unbothered by the subtle sighs his younger brother released—a quiet protest against the path chosen for him. If Lan Xichen heard them, he gave no sign, calm as always. Too calm, as he had ever been.
The wheels struck uneven ground, jolting the carriage, and Lan Wangji found each breath more difficult than the last. He could not tell if the constriction came from the corset, drawn cruelly close against his ribs, or from the weight of uncertainty and dread that pressed upon him. It clung to him like a second skin, sharp and unyielding, as if with one false move it might pierce through him and end his life before he even set foot in the palace.
At last, he turned his gaze outward, away from the silence of his brother and toward the world beyond the glass. Perhaps the view there was kinder. Perhaps it was easier for Lan Xichen to lose himself in the passing scenery than to look upon a younger brother whose fate had been sealed without his counsel. Beyond the window stretched a road scorched black beneath the sun. The sight nearly drew a scoff from Lan Wangji’s lips—but dignity held him still.
“Stop giving me that look, Wangji,” Lan Xichen spoke at last, his voice measured as he slowly turned to face his younger brother. Lan Wangji’s eyes narrowed, but he held his tongue.
Lan Xichen drew a deep breath, weary as though he had already explained these matters far too many times. Indeed, it was the third time today. The third time, because Lan Wangji refused to accept it. The third time, because disbelief still clouded his heart. The third time, because rage burned within him at the revelation that he—barely twenty—was to be wed to the Emperor, and that the decision had been delivered to him only this morning.
When the envoys of the Emperor first arrived at the Cloud Recesses, Lan Wangji had thought their tidings would be joyous. He had believed they carried honors for Lan Xichen, perhaps a promotion, perhaps the conferring of a greater noble title. He had thought their journey to the capital was in celebration of his brother’s elevation. He had not thought—could not have imagined—that it was he who would be married away. And to the Emperor himself, no less.
Lan Xichen had told him that he was chosen by the Great Dowager Empress herself. Lan Wangji did not know whether he ought to feel honored—but horror was the only thing that stirred in his chest. To marry into the royal family was to shoulder expectations as vast as the heavens and standards higher than the peaks of Gusu. He had not even known his name had been placed among the list of Yiling’s most eligible candidates—until this moment. It was, of course, his brother’s doing. Lan Xichen had submitted his name after his eighteenth birthday, without his consent.
Thus Lan Wangji had every right to look upon his brother with disdain. He had every right to sulk, to feel betrayed, to believe—if only in bitterness—that his family sought to be rid of him. After all, Shufu and his Xiongzhang had always made decisions in his stead, choosing what they deemed best for him, never asking what he desired. What pleased them, they imposed upon him. What secured the Lan family’s standing, they carried out. And now—this.
It was not they who would be sent away. It was not they who would be bound to an unfamiliar house, an unfamiliar court, an unfamiliar husband. It was him.
“You know it is for the best,” Lan Xichen spoke again, breaking the heavy silence that hung between them.
Lan Wangji turned his gaze upon his brother, blinking once in sheer incredulity at such a statement.
“I know,” he answered at last, his tone cold, each word bitten off with bitterness. “It is my duty.” The words tasted sharp, like iron upon his tongue.
“The Emperor’s family sought alliance,” Lan Xichen continued gently, as if persuasion might soften the blow. “They desired a consort who could bear the Emperor an heir. It seems the court has set their eyes upon you.”
But rather than ease his mind, the words only deepened Lan Wangji’s unease.
The court—always watching, always whispering. It was said that behind the Emperor’s throne, true power rested in the House of Lords, in the Queen Dowager, and in the circle of elders who cloaked their commands in the guise of imperial decree. Lan Wangji had never given credence to such rumors. In Gusu, gossip was forbidden; idle tongues were silenced by the clan’s strict discipline. Yet now, faced with his brother’s words, he could not help but wonder.
And the thought of becoming the court’s next subject of scrutiny was terrifying. Lan Wangji loathed the weight of attention. To be watched, measured, and dissected—like a hawk circling its prey—filled him with dread. He abhorred the notion of strangers reading him like an open scroll, laying bare his thoughts, his vulnerabilities, before their cold and unfeeling eyes. To appear weak before them was unbearable.
Thus he had built his mask of stoicism long ago, the day his mother fell in the snow and left him behind. Beneath its still surface, the child within him had never ceased trembling.
Lan Wangji knew he was beautiful. He was aware of it, for he had received no small number of marriage proposals in the past. It was a fact not only of his bearing, but of his blood—he was a carrier, capable of pregnancy, capable of bearing an heir. And above all, he was his mother’s son.
From her, he had inherited his long, silken hair, now gathered into a half topknot, secured with a guan, his forehead ribbon lying cool and steady across his brow. Yet even that ribbon filled him with unease. For once married into the royal house, would they not demand he cast it aside? The thought chilled him—that he might be forced to abandon the very customs he had lived by, the symbols that bound him to who he was.
From her, too, came his golden eyes, luminous beneath long lashes, and the pale complexion so often praised in idle poems. He had read, much to his dismay, accounts that lauded him as a figure of peerless beauty—skin unmarred, as if shaped from snow itself, flawless as the first fall of winter.
But to Lan Wangji, this beauty was no blessing. It was a chain, gilded and inescapable, drawing him toward a fate he had never chosen.
As he often reminded himself—he was his mother’s son. And in that, he saw the cruel irony. She, too, had been forced into marriage, bound to the Marquis of the Lan clan, Lan Wangji’s father. Now he found himself walking the same path, shackled as she once was. Bound, controlled.
And Lan Wangji feared shackles above all else. He feared chains that stripped away choice, that silenced desire, that smothered love before it could ever take root.
“Wangji, you must understand,” Lan Xichen spoke gently, yet firmly, his words measured as though rehearsed. “The Lan clan lags behind the other noble houses. Our trade suffers. The royal family’s proposal—this marriage—will strengthen both sides. It is an alliance that will bring stability, benefit, and honor.”
Lan Wangji remained silent.
Benefit for them, yes. For the family, for the clan, for the court. But not for him. Certainly not for him.
Lan Wangji wanted to ask—was he truly worth so much? Worth the dowry, the gold, the wealth that would pour into the Lan family once the marriage was sealed? Was he nothing more than a body to be offered, a consort for the Emperor’s bed, a vessel to bear his heirs?
The question burned on his tongue, yet he did not speak it aloud. As the Second Young Master of the Lan clan, he had no right to challenge the will of the clan head. But as Lan Xichen’s younger brother, he longed to ask—not out of duty, but out of pain. Once more, silence weighed heavily upon the carriage.
Lan Xichen watched as Lan Wangji shifted restlessly at his robes, his movements uncharacteristically careless. A sigh escaped him, long and weary, as though his younger brother had been testing his patience from the very moment the decree arrived that morning and the royal carriage came to fetch them.
The garments had been commissioned from the Jin family’s tailor, crafted solely for Lan Wangji. Fitting him had never been the issue—his form was slender enough to wear them—but the cut was narrow, perhaps too narrow, and Lan Xichen had noticed his brother’s discomfort. Still, he thought it was for the better.
The pale blue robe shimmered faintly in the light, flecked with golden threads that caught like sunlight on water. Cloud motifs unfurled in delicate embroidery along the sleeve edges, spilling like drifting mists. The forearms were sheathed in gauzy silk, translucent enough to reveal the slender wrists beneath. The corset drew his waist tightly, cruelly narrow, its shape held firm by strips of animal bone. Lan Wangji could feel every ridge pressing into him.
“One more reckless movement,” Lan Xichen reprimanded, his voice calm but sharp, “and you will pierce yourself before we arrive to meet your husband.”
True to his contrary spirit, Lan Wangji shifted deliberately, only to wince as a sharp point dug against his ribs. Lan Xichen gave him a pointed look, and Lan Wangji stilled, exhaling softly. Straightening his posture, he assumed once more the regal bearing expected of the Second Jade of Lan.
His voice was low when he spoke, so soft it might have been mistaken for the whisper of silk, but Lan Xichen heard every word.
“Perhaps that would be preferable… to marrying a stranger.”
Lan Xichen’s brows furrowed. “I thought we had long since spoken of this, Wangji. This marriage is for your own good.”
Lan Wangji’s jaw tightened, his teeth sinking into the inside of his cheek. When he answered, his voice was cool, level, yet laced with something brittle beneath the restraint. “For my own good… or for your benefit?”
For the briefest moment, Lan Xichen’s expression hardened, as though he wished he could summon a whip and strike his younger brother into obedience then and there. Such insolence—against his elder, against the sect leader seated before him—was intolerable. And yet, he could not forget that this was Wangji: the brother he had raised, the one who had once been encouraged to speak his mind, to be honest in the privacy of family.
But honesty, now, seemed to bring nothing but strife.
Lan Wangji turned his face toward him, golden eyes unflinching. His voice, quiet and even, carried an edge that could cut through silence.
“Have you ever considered that I am not merely the Second Young Master of the Lan clan, but also your brother? The brother you would send into a house of wolves?”
“Wangji,” Lan Xichen warned, his tone low, intended to quell him.
But Lan Wangji did not stop. He pressed forward, his words precise, cold, but weighted with a restrained anguish.
“Am I no more than an ornament to be bartered away? Do I hold no right to my own choice—to love, to seek the life I desire? Xiongzhang… you consign me to a court we know nothing of, a union whose future lies in shadows, and you call it duty. But tell me—duty for whom? For the clan? For our name? Or for me?”
The carriage rocked gently over the stones of the road, but within, the air was taut as a bowstring.
“Have you ever thought,” Lan Wangji began, his voice low but steady, “that what you are doing to me now… is no different from what Father once did to Mother—”
“Wangji!”
Lan Xichen’s voice rang out, sharp as a crack of thunder. His eyes, always so calm, flared with anger as though a nerve had been struck. The patience that had carried him through countless storms faltered at last.
“Do not speak of Mother in this way!” His words lashed through the air, cutting and stern. “The circumstances are not the same. The Lans must safeguard our lineage. Would you see us stripped of our titles? Cast aside into ruin? Would you disregard the sacrifices of our forebears, who labored generation upon generation to raise this house? Shall all that wither away because you cannot endure one duty?”
Lan Wangji fell silent, his face unreadable, though his chest rose and fell with quiet breaths.
“Accept it, Wangji,” Lan Xichen pressed on, his tone sharp and unyielding. “To be joined with the royal house is no disgrace—it is privilege. Not only for the Lan clan, but for you, and for the children you will bear. Stop being obstinate. Have I not given you freedom in all else? Allowed you to walk your own path, indulged every whim? Now, when the clan asks something of you—one sacrifice—you would refuse?”
Lan Wangji’s hands curled against the fine fabric of his robe, hidden beneath the folds of pale silk. He knew his brother’s words—how they pressed upon his heart, how they twisted guilt into the shape of duty, how easily they could make him feel the unfilial son, the selfish brother. Lan Xichen had always known how to wield words, how to strike at weakness without raising a hand.
Lowering his gaze, Lan Wangji swallowed the retort that burned on his tongue. In the tense stillness of the carriage, he could hear the uneven cadence of his brother’s breath—loud, heavy, as if Lan Xichen restrained himself from striking him then and there.
The ride in the carriage stretched on in painful silence. Lan Wangji kept his gaze lowered, refusing to meet his brother’s eyes. His chest ached, not from the corset, but from hurt. For a fleeting moment, he longed to be little A-Zhan again—the child who could run weeping into his mother’s arms when the world seemed cruel, or who could cry against his brother’s shoulder without fear of expectation or judgment. But those days were gone. Now, all was like this—distance, duty, and silence.
Whether Lan Xichen regretted his words, Lan Wangji did not know. He did not ask. By the time the carriage halted, the afternoon sun had already dipped low over the city gates. Servants hurried forward to open the doors, their movements crisp and practiced. Lan Xichen reached out a hand, as if in apology, but Lan Wangji did not take it. Instead, he accepted the arm of one of the palace knights, stepping down with careful precision so as not to disturb the robes constraining his form. At the quiet sigh that escaped his brother, Lan Wangji only tightened his lips. If it was pettiness, then so be it.
The palace rose before him exactly as the texts had described, yet infinitely more vivid, more alive. Servants lined the paths, bowing low, their voices ringing out in greeting for the Emperor’s future consort. The gates loomed tall, their spiked edges stark against the sky. Statues of past sovereigns guarded the entrance, murals and paintings marking the weight of dynasties gone by.
Lan Wangji kept his gaze steady, though he searched for no familiar face. He had never troubled himself with politics; he had never cared to look upon portraits or accounts of the Emperor. And so he entered blind, not knowing even the face of the man he was bound to wed.
Lan Xichen excused himself, words formal, and Lan Wangji gave only a silent nod. His body was weary, but more than that, his spirit was exhausted. He wished for nothing more than to rid himself of the corset, to loosen the weight of brocade upon his shoulders, to sit quietly with his guqin beneath the stillness of Jingshi and let his emotions spill into melody. He longed to compose, to play—yet he knew, with grim certainty, that soon he would belong to politics, entangled in matters that left no space for music. Perhaps even his guqin would grow silent, dust settling where his hands once coaxed sound.
The colors of the palace struck him next: red and black. The hues of the imperial house, just as his teachers in Yunmeng had spoken of in their histories. He was led by servants through vast corridors into a chamber larger than Jingshi itself. Every corner gleamed with extravagance—walls adorned with gilding, furnishings inlaid with gold, every surface shouting wealth and power. To others it might seem glorious.
But Lan Wangji disliked it. He had always preferred simplicity, quiet elegance unadorned by needless excess. This glittering display reminded him of the Jin clan and their obsession with luxury, ostentation for its own sake. Such things left a bitter taste in his mouth.
“If His Majesty requires anything, simply ring the bell,” the servants said with utmost courtesy, bowing low before departing as one. Their footsteps faded swiftly, leaving Lan Wangji alone—alone in a chamber that was to be his new prison.
He let his gaze wander over the room. It was spotless, every surface polished, not a speck of dust remaining. In the center stood a bed—vast, draped with curtains of crimson silk that shimmered faintly in the light. It was far too large for one person. A chill threaded down his spine at the thought that, soon, he might be expected to share it with his husband. That such intimacy might be demanded of him—unwilling, unready—terrified him.
The marriage was set in three days. Already, the palace bustled with preparations, servants scurrying about in ceaseless activity. Lan Xichen had been lodged in the guest chambers; yet though Lan Wangji’s heart ached for his brother’s familiar presence, his soothing voice, his gentleness, he did not seek him out. Pride and hurt kept him still. He was not yet ready to forgive, not when the memory of their quarrel still cut like glass. He sulked, though he knew it was childish, nursing the wound of being silenced when all he had wished was to be heard.
He had not expected to meet his future husband before the ceremony—such was against tradition. But what he had not anticipated were the endless summons: fittings for his wedding robes, rehearsals of ritual, and—most dreadful of all—inspections.
On the second day, after long, wearisome hours of being measured and prodded by tailors, Lan Wangji was informed that the inspection would be overseen by none other than the Empress Dowager herself.
Horror gripped him at the thought, but he masked it well. He straightened his back, composed his bearing. Whatever his unwillingness, this was still the Empress Dowager—one he must honor, one he must fear.
The Empress Dowager, Cangse Sanren, stood at the center of the chamber as though the palace itself bent around her presence. She wore imperial red, the silks glimmering faintly with gold thread in the torchlight. Her hair, still lustrous, was bound high with a crimson ribbon, and her eyes—piercing silver, bright and calculating—were the same eyes that had unsettled Lan Wangji as a child.
He had seen her before, years ago, when the late Emperor yet lived. Then she had seemed untouchable, a woman carved from brilliance and fire. Now, standing before him, she appeared unchanged, as though time itself had dared not touch her beauty. She smiled at him, but that smile brought no comfort. It was not warmth but something sharper, like the gleam of a blade hidden behind silk.
Lan Wangji bent at the waist in a formal bow. “Your Majesty,” he said quietly, his voice calm though his pulse was quick.
The Empress Dowager inclined her head. Her eyes swept over him slowly, deliberately, from the crown of his head down to his feet, as though appraising an object. Lan Wangji’s stomach tightened under that gaze. He prayed—futilely—that he looked plain enough, unremarkable enough, to displease her. If he had known she would preside over this inspection herself, he would have worn the simplest robes he owned, left his hair unbound, made himself appear unworthy for her son.
Instead, here he stood, dressed in ceremonial silks, polished and pressed like some offering.
“Undress,” she commanded suddenly, her tone as casual as if she had asked for a cup of tea.
Lan Wangji blinked, his composure faltering for a fraction of a second. Surely he had misheard. “…Your Majesty?” His voice was polite, seeking clarification, though his brows furrowed.
Her silver gaze caught his golden one, unyielding, and her smile deepened. “Undress,” she repeated, softer this time, but with a weight that brooked no disobedience.
The room seemed to still around them. Lan Wangji’s eyes flickered toward the servants and guards stationed at the edges of the chamber. The thought of baring himself under so many watching eyes made his skin crawl.
The Empress Dowager noticed. She snapped her fingers, sharp as a whipcrack. “Leave us.”
At once, the servants bowed low and withdrew. The knights followed in silence. The heavy double doors closed with a resonant thud that seemed to echo far too long, leaving the chamber vast and suffocating.
Now it was only Lan Wangji and his future mother-in-law.
His hands tightened briefly on the sash at his waist. Pride warred with shame, with fear, with a duty drilled into him since birth. His ears burned as he loosened the knot, fingers working with deliberate slowness.
The Empress Dowager clicked her tongue, the sound sharp with impatience. “Do not dawdle.”
Lan Wangji bit the inside of his cheek and forced his hands to move faster. Yet before he could finish, she stepped forward. The rustle of her silks was soft, but the authority in her presence loomed. With startling familiarity, she brushed aside his hesitant hands and untied the remaining folds herself.
His breath caught in his throat. Horror rooted him to the ground, but he stood still—he could not resist her, not without consequences.
Layer by layer, the heavy robes fell away until he stood bare under her eyes. He lowered his gaze, shoulders tense, the tips of his ears crimson though his face remained otherwise unreadable.
The Empress Dowager moved around him slowly, circling as though examining a sculpture. She lifted his arms with practiced hands, testing their span. Her fingers pressed against his ribs, traced the line of his hips, the curve of his thighs.
Lan Wangji stood rigid, his breath steady only through force of will.
At last, she hummed, a sound of satisfaction. “Good,” she murmured. Her hand brushed across his lower back, then lingered—too long—at his hips. “You have wide hips. Excellent for childbearing.”
Her fingers slid downward, tapping lightly against the firm curve of his backside. “Small, yet shapely. Perky.” Her smile widened. “A fine form. The Emperor will not be disappointed.”
Lan Wangji’s cheeks burned scarlet though his posture never faltered.
“Tell me,” she continued, voice smooth, clinical in its cruelty. “Do you see the physicians regularly? To ensure your body’s readiness? We cannot risk weakness in the womb. Some carriers are… unreliable.”
Her words were laced with false sweetness, as though she were inquiring about his diet rather than the future of his body.
Lan Wangji’s throat tightened. Still, he answered evenly, “Yes, Your Majesty. It is tradition within the Lan sect that carriers undergo examination twice a month.”
“Ah,” she exhaled, nodding with approval, as though he were a prized horse being assessed for purchase. “Dutiful. That pleases me.”
He wished, fiercely, to disappear into the floor.
Lan Wangji let out a quiet breath he had not realized he was holding when the Empress Dowager finally gestured for him to dress. The relief came swiftly, though he schooled his expression into calm. He gathered his robes back onto his body with careful, measured movements, grateful for the thin barrier they provided between himself and her silver gaze.
He had not known—how could he have known?—that there was such a tradition in the imperial court. To be summoned, stripped, inspected by the Empress Dowager herself, his body measured and judged as though it belonged not to him, but to the throne. A vessel, nothing more. His ability to bring forth heirs laid bare under her scrutiny.
When he was fully robed once more, the Empress Dowager smiled at him, the kind of smile that revealed nothing yet seemed to conceal everything. “Do you have any problem at the palace, Lan Wangji?”
Lan Wangji paused. He had stayed here for two days, long enough to note the palace rhythm, long enough to be attended on every side. The people around him—maids, eunuchs, guards, chamberlains—were unfailingly polite. They bowed low when he passed, offered respectful greetings, and moved with quick efficiency to fulfill his needs. Whether it was fear, respect, or the heavy weight of duty that motivated them, he did not know. Perhaps all three.
He was bathed, though he preferred cold water and the palace insisted upon steaming baths. He endured them without complaint; it was their tradition, and soon, it would be his. He was fed delicacies, though his tastes were simple. He was offered massages, fans to cool him, shaded pavilions to rest in during ceremonies. Even yesterday, when they had visited the ancestral hall, attendants had rushed forward to shield him with parasols and guide him to a seat of honor.
Every detail of his comfort was accounted for. And yet—none of it eased him. The thought that such careful attention was temporary lingered in his mind. It was not kindness, but obligation. The moment he faltered, the moment he displeased… would it all vanish?
And what of the man he was meant to marry? The Emperor—an unfamiliar figure, a stranger whose presence he would soon be bound to for life. No ritual bath, no silken robe, no bow of a servant could soothe the unease in his heart at that truth.
“No, Your Majesty. I do not have concerns,” Lan Wangji said at last, his voice as calm and steady as ever.
The Empress Dowager hummed in response, as though she had expected that answer. Then she inclined her head, regal and composed. “Good. Then you may rest. If your body aches, I recommend the Yiling hot springs in the back gardens. They are old, older than this palace, and said to ease the bones and nerves alike.”
Lan Wangji bowed deeply. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
When he left the chamber, accompanied once more by his usual attendants, he found himself dwelling on her words. Rest. Ease. As though his body were already a possession of the imperial clan, something to be preserved and tended like fine porcelain.
That evening, he did consider it—the Yiling hot springs she had mentioned. The thought lingered as he walked through the winding corridors, the memory of her inspection still fresh in his mind. Bewilderment sat heavy in his chest. She had approved of him—of his body. But even then… should they not have warned him? Should he not have been told what awaited him before he stood bare before the Empress Dowager’s eyes?
He closed his hand over his sleeve, fingers curling into the silk as he breathed slowly, steadying himself.
Lan Wangji halted in his steps. The attendants, startled, stopped behind him in perfect unison. He turned his head slightly, gaze fixed on the back gardens where steam curled faintly in the evening air.
“Your Majesty?” one of them ventured carefully, unsure why he had stopped.
“I wish to go to the hot spring,” Lan Wangji said.
The attendants exchanged glances—quick, uncertain looks they tried to hide. They began to step forward to accompany him when his voice, soft but firm, cut across the stone path.
“I wish to have some privacy.”
That gave them pause. It was against their instincts—against their duty, even—to leave the future consort of the empire alone. Perhaps they feared he would drown, or flee, or worse. But Lan Wangji was not a reckless man, nor a weak one. He could handle himself.
At last, they bowed, though their eyes lingered on his back as he walked away, as though reluctant to let him out of their sight.
The garden path was quiet, lined with lanterns that glowed faintly in the evening mist. The Yiling hot spring lay ahead, steam rising lazily from its surface. Lan Wangji shed his outer robe, folding it with care, until only the thin, nearly translucent under-robe remained. It clung to his frame as he stepped into the water, the heat embracing him, seeping slowly into his stiff shoulders and aching muscles.
For a moment, he allowed himself a sigh—quiet, almost soundless—and let his eyes drift closed.
Yet peace did not follow.
His body relaxed, but his mind did not. Thoughts pressed against him, heavy and unwelcome. What kind of man would his husband be? Sweet, perhaps, gentle and affectionate? Or would he prove to be ruthless, cold, cruel—as his father had been to his mother? He could not know. And the not knowing gnawed at him.
He thought of his mother—locked away in the Cloud Recesses, reduced to a vessel with no right but to give birth. Her laughter silenced, her freedom denied. Would his life in this palace be any different?
The hot water could not ease the ache in his chest. He wanted to weep, but he could not. His face remained expressionless, but beneath the still surface, his heart throbbed with something sharp and unnameable.
Rumors whispered through his mind. The Emperor, people said, had once frequented brothels. Lan Wangji had not cared to listen before. He had thought himself above gossip, uninterested in the indulgences of a man he would never meet. But now… now he could not ignore it. He was about to marry that man. He was about to be bound to him.
The tales were contradictory. Some spoke of the Emperor’s brilliance—his unmatched swordsmanship, his sharp mind, the prosperity Yiling had seen under his reign. Others painted him as handsome beyond compare, with a charm that drew countless admirers. And yet, he had no concubines. Not a single one.
“You are the first,” a maid had murmured earlier, laughter soft as she arranged jade pins in his hair. “The first consort of His Majesty. No wonder the Empress Dowager chose you. You are so beautiful.”
Lan Wangji had given her a look then—cool, measured, enough to silence her giggle. But her words had lingered.
Beautiful. That was all anyone ever said. Beautiful face, beautiful body. An ornament. A vessel. Nothing more.
Perhaps the Emperor would be kind. Perhaps he would be cruel. Perhaps he would be affectionate, and yet betray him in secret. Perhaps he would not even care enough to hide it. Either way, Lan Wangji could not imagine happiness.
He lowered his head, the steam curling around him like ghostly hands.
After all, he thought bitterly, what was he? A dull man, plain and quiet. He had no humor, no liveliness, nothing bright enough to hold a man’s gaze. Only beauty, and a womb fit for heirs.
And if that was all the Emperor wanted, then that was all he would ever be.
Lan Wangji’s thoughts snapped at the sound of whistling. His eyes flew open, sharp and alert, but the thick mist coiled over the spring, shrouding the intruder in a veil of white. He could not make out the man’s figure, only the steady echo of footsteps drawing closer, cutting through the stillness.
Lan Wangji’s body tensed as he rose abruptly, heart quickening against his will. Who could it be? A stalker? A trespasser? A threat? The palace was heavily guarded—no one should have been able to enter the hot spring without his attendants noticing. Yet here this man was, as if the mist itself had delivered him.
He moved too quickly, his foot slipping on the slick stone beneath the water. Lan Wangji stumbled, his composure shattering as he plunged forward. His face broke the surface with a splash, and hot water surged into his mouth and throat. He coughed violently, struggling to find breath as his body convulsed against the burn of the spring.
Behind him, he felt it—a presence. Broad, imposing, closing in. The warmth of another’s breath brushed against the back of his neck just as he broke the surface again, gasping. His face flushed crimson, more from humiliation than heat, strands of dark hair plastering against his cheeks and brow. In a flurry, he pushed them aside, his hands trembling as he fought to restore the dignified bearing befitting a Lan.
“Careful.”
The man’s voice reverberated low, carried through the mist like ripples across the spring. Deep, resonant—yet gentle, almost reverent. A voice that promised no harm, as though the speaker would sooner wound himself than so much as bruise the one before him.
Lan Wangji did not answer. His silence was taut, broken only by the ragged coughs tearing from his chest. He pressed a palm lightly against his sternum, steadying his breath, while his other hand clenched at the edge of the stone.
The man lingered above him, a shadow in the haze. Even without turning, Lan Wangji could sense the difference in stature: the man was taller, broader, his very presence filling the space with an aura that felt at once commanding and suffocating. The air seemed to shift with him, the mist clinging to his form as if reluctant to let him go.
Lan Wangji lifted his gaze at last. Though the stranger’s features remained blurred by steam, he could feel those eyes upon him—unwavering, unyielding—and his breath caught anew, not from water this time, but from the sheer weight of being seen.
“Are you well?” the man asked, his footsteps drawing nearer through the veil of mist.
Lan Wangji drew in a sharp breath, shifting away as if scorched by proximity. His tone was cold when he answered, though still ragged from coughing. “Do not come near me.”
The man’s reply was a low, rich chuckle, a sound that rolled through the steam and brushed over Lan Wangji’s skin like an unwelcome caress. “I am merely concerned that you nearly drowned,” he murmured, his voice dropping so close it seemed to curl against Lan Wangji’s ear.
Heat rushed to Lan Wangji’s face, though not from the spring. Shame burned through him at the thought of this stranger witnessing his graceless fall—his dignity scattered like ripples on water. He longed to turn, to see who dared speak with such shamelessness, yet his pride restrained him. He wanted only to leave, to retreat before his embarrassment deepened further.
“I do not require your concern,” he said sharply, each syllable clipped like a blade’s edge.
“Yet I insist,” the man countered softly, his tone unyielding. “The stones beneath the water are uneven. Will you truly manage to walk out alone?”
Lan Wangji’s lips pressed into a hard line. He refused to look at him, his gaze fixed firmly ahead, as though he could glare holes into the mist itself. “Are you attempting to flirt with me? I told you—do not come near.”
“I have not moved closer,” the man replied simply, as if stating fact rather than defending himself.
“Then do not speak, either,” Lan Wangji retorted, the words cool, almost cruel.
A pause—and then, lightly amused: “You’re mean.” His laughter lingered in the mist, warm and low.
Lan Wangji’s ears burned. He straightened his spine, his voice steady, resolute. “I am engaged to the Emperor.” The words were firm, an oath to himself as much as to the stranger. He may not have desired the marriage, but loyalty, once given, was not so easily broken. “To flirt with the future imperial consort is treason,” he added, hoping the weight of the title would finally silence such insolence.
The man merely breathed out a soft, “Oh.” Then, instead of retreating, he chuckled again. Not mocking, not teasing—but warm, genuine, as if he found Lan Wangji’s steadfastness strangely endearing. “Then I shall keep my distance,” he said at last. “But I am leaving as well. Allow me to follow your lead.”
Lan Wangji’s composure cracked for a heartbeat. His lips parted—and then he snapped, “Five steps away.”
A beat of silence. Then the man’s voice, tinged with confusion: “What?”
“You must remain five steps away from me. That is the proper distance for one who is already promised.” His words were curt, but beneath them was the faintest tremor of flustered urgency.
The man laughed aloud, this time unrestrained, his voice reverberating through the mist, echoing against stone and water until the whole spring seemed to join his mirth.
Lan Wangji’s ears flushed scarlet. He refused to grant the man another glance. With a huff, he turned sharply, water splashing at his steps as he strode toward the bank. He snatched up his discarded outer robe with stiff movements, draping it over his shoulders, every line of his body rigid with wounded dignity. Without so much as a backward look, he departed the spring, the stranger’s laughter still lingering behind him.
He told himself, this was but a fleeting encounter. A single moment of humiliation in the mist. He would never see that shameless man again.
The attendants rushed forward the moment they saw Lan Wangji emerging from the hot spring. Startled by his sudden departure, they bowed deeply as he swept past, the train of his robe darkened by water, droplets trailing in his wake. None dared question him, they merely followed at a respectful distance as he strode with measured urgency through the mist-veiled corridors. Even in haste, his movements carried the poised elegance expected of the Lan clan, though his silence was heavy with warning.
Inside his chambers, the door shut behind him with quiet finality. Alone, Lan Wangji turned toward the great bronze mirror standing in the corner. His reflection met him with a merciless clarity.
His long hair, heavy with water, clung to his pale skin in dark, damp strands. At the ends, it curled slightly, weighed down by the heat of the spring. Droplets beaded along his lashes, catching the light before sliding down his cheeks. His face remained composed, every line of it disciplined into calm, yet the faint flush betraying his control spoke not of the water’s warmth, but of humiliation still burning in his veins.
He looked nothing like the serene future consort of the Emperor. He looked—he thought bitterly—like a bedraggled chick that had been drenched and left trembling in the rain.
He did not call for his attendants. He did not speak a word of what had transpired. Lan Wangji would not permit his name to be the source of scandal, nor would he see the palace stirred to punish the shameless intruder who had witnessed him falter. Better silence than the storm such a revelation might bring.
Yet as he shed his damp robe, his hands faltered. Against his will, his mind returned to the stranger: the timbre of that voice, low and steady, carrying warmth beneath its teasing cadence. The laughter that had rolled through the steam, unrestrained yet sincere—it lingered in his memory, as unwelcome as it was alluring.
Lan Wangji despised him for it. Despised the way his own body had responded, a tremor of awareness sparking where there should have been only disdain. And worse, beneath that disdain lay a sliver of something he dared not name—a part of him that wanted, for the briefest of moments, to hear that voice again.
He crushed the thought swiftly. It was not longing. No—it was nothing more than the result of years of isolation, of being untouched, unseen, starved of even the simplest affections. A weakness. Nothing more. He was still a virgin, his life untouched by intimacy of any kind. The only men he had ever known were his brother, his shufu, and his cousins within the Lan clan. Romance had never found a foothold in his heart; he had been too consumed by the endless pursuit of discipline and music, content in his reputation as the untouchable prodigy.
Only once had another dared breach that boundary. Wen Xu.
The memory tightened in his chest like a shadow of old poison. Wen Xu had been insistent, his pursuit brash, his temper dangerous. Lan Wangji had never returned the man’s interest, yet the threat of it had lingered like smoke in the halls. It had been Lan Xichen, in his gentleness and foresight, who had intervened. His gege had declared Wen Xu unworthy, declaring with quiet conviction that he would never allow his younger brother to fall into hands that would harm him.
How ironic, then, that the same brother had now placed him in the path of the Emperor himself—a man whose power alone could crush him without warning. A man he was bound to marry, regardless of his will.
Lan Wangji lowered his gaze in the mirror, the weight of that truth pressing down on him. His reflection looked back—composed, yes, but fragile beneath the stillness, as though his entire being were balancing on the thinnest of strings.
**
“Is it too tight?”
Lan Xichen’s voice echoed softly through the chamber, smooth and gentle, yet it carried clearly even against the faint rustle of silk as the tailors worked. The lanterns glowed warmly, their light reflected in polished wood and gilded carvings, painting the room in amber hues. The faint scent of sandalwood incense drifted through the air, a fragrance chosen to calm the nerves of the bridegroom-to-be.
Lan Wangji stood still as the attendants tugged and adjusted the crimson folds of his ceremonial robes. The fabric was heavy, laden with gold thread and phoenix embroidery—too splendid, too foreign. The weight pressed against his shoulders, suffocating in its grandeur.
He lifted his eyes and met his brother’s gaze. Lan Xichen was smiling, that same calm, reassuring smile he had worn for as long as Lan Wangji could remember. And for the briefest moment, Lan Wangji felt a yearning rise within him—an urge to step forward, to collapse into his brother’s arms as he had in childhood, when comfort had been so simple to seek. But he stopped himself.
He remembered his anger. Not the sharp, blazing kind, but a muted, stubborn ember he kept alive because it was easier to be angry at someone than to accept helplessness. He knew he had not done well by his brother in his outbursts, yet he clung to it all the same. Anger gave him something to hold on to, when everything else seemed to be slipping from his grasp.
He had almost forgotten about the shameless man in the hot spring. Almost. But the memory would not fully leave him, lingering like a single discordant note in the middle of a song. He forced it away. Tomorrow, he reminded himself, he would be married. To the Emperor. His chest tightened around the thought. The word marriage itself felt jagged in his throat, like something his voice had never been meant to shape.
“No,” he answered at last, his voice level. His gaze remained fixed forward as the servants tightened the sash at his waist, smoothing the last of the heavy fabric into place.
Lan Xichen exhaled, his sigh soft but laden with things unspoken. He waited patiently until the attendants had finished their task. With practiced bows, they slipped from the room, the door sliding shut behind them. But both brothers knew the truth—privacy was an illusion here. In the palace, there were always ears pressed to walls, always footsteps echoing where they should not. Whatever was said would find its way to the Emperor or the Dowager soon enough.
Still, the chamber was quieter now, and Lan Xichen stepped forward. He bent slightly, his long fingers adjusting the fall of the robe at Lan Wangji’s shoulder. His touch was gentle, deliberate, and achingly familiar. It was the same touch that had once straightened a child’s hair ribbons, that had soothed scraped knees and wiped away silent tears.
Something inside Lan Wangji loosened. The anger he had forced himself to hold began to crumble. He had always been too soft where his brother was concerned. For all his aloofness, for all his silence, his xiongzhang and Shufu remained the only things he could not harden his heart against.
“I must apologize for my outburst that day,” Lan Xichen said. His tone was calm, but there was weight in it. He met his brother’s gaze, eyes so alike they seemed to reflect each other. “I know my words were sharp. But I only wanted you to understand duty.”
Always those words. I want you to understand.
Lan Xichen’s voice softened further. “Even I did not wish for this. To see you wed to someone you have never met, to see you forced into such a role. I promised Mother I would protect you from such things.” His fingers brushed over the intricate embroidery, smoothing it, as though the gesture could soften the heaviness of fate itself. “But the circumstances left us no choice. We could not refuse.”
Lan Wangji’s lips tightened. His heart beat painfully at the mention of their mother, at the reminder of promises spoken in her memory.
“I would never give you to a man who could harm you, A-Zhan,” Lan Xichen murmured, the old childhood name slipping past his lips with tenderness.
Lan Wangji’s throat ached. The nickname struck him with a force he had not expected, unraveling his composure. For a fleeting moment, tears threatened, but he forced them down with the discipline of years. He did not trust himself to speak.
Instead, he allowed his brother to rest a comforting hand upon his shoulder. The grip was firm, steady. It anchored him.
“I have met the Emperor many times,” Lan Xichen continued, his voice earnest. “At councils, during gatherings with the nobility. He is wise. Brilliant. And kind. He will not hurt you, A-Zhan. On this, I give you my word.”
Lan Wangji wanted to ask, ‘How can you be certain?’ He wanted to challenge, to press, to demand an answer that could truly soothe the unease within him. But the words stuck in his throat, heavy and bitter. In the end, he only lowered his gaze, biting his tongue until the sharp taste of copper grounded him in silence. At last, he gave a small nod, surrendering quietly to what was already sealed.
Lan Xichen smiled faintly, as though that single nod was enough. “Then give me one smile as well, A-Zhan,” he said gently. He reached out, tapping his younger brother’s chin with the same playful gesture he had once used when Lan Wangji was three. “Your husband will fall for you if you smile.”
“Ridiculous,” Lan Wangji muttered, turning his face aside. But his lips twitched—an involuntary movement, not quite a smile, but not its opposite either. Something fragile, caught between resistance and surrender.
On the morning of the wedding, the rituals began before the sun had fully risen.
Lan Wangji was led into the inner chamber, where steam curled from basins of heated water perfumed with lotus and chrysanthemum. The maids moved with practiced efficiency, their hands gentle yet firm as they bathed him, scrubbing away every trace of yesterday until his skin was smooth as polished jade. He sat still throughout, neither resisting nor yielding more than necessary, his posture erect, his gaze lowered. It was as though he were no more than a statue set in their hands to be polished and adorned.
After the bathing came the oils—lightly scented, brushed across his skin until it gleamed faintly beneath the lamplight. His hair was washed, combed, and gathered, the maids’ fingers weaving through the long strands with meticulous care. They painted his lips with the barest tint of color, dusted his face with a whisper of powder, touched the corners of his eyes with kohl to deepen the clarity of his gaze. The mirror reflected back a figure too refined, too delicate—an image crafted for the role of a consort rather than the self he knew.
The final touch was the veil. Silk as thin as mist was draped across his head, falling lightly over his features, softening them, concealing them. His vision blurred, narrowed to the faintest outlines of what lay ahead. The world beyond the veil seemed distant, muted, as though he were already being cut away from it.
Lan Wangji’s heart stuttered. This was the day. The day he would be bound, in name and in body, to a man whose face he had never seen, whose voice he had never heard. A stranger. And yet that stranger would hold claim to him, eternally, until death parted them.
His throat tightened. He swallowed, but it did nothing to ease the weight pressing at his chest. He told himself he had accepted this. That he had prepared for this. That this was duty, inevitable as the turn of the seasons. But in that moment, as the veil settled over his face, acceptance shattered.
Anxiety clawed at him. Fear brewed like a storm inside his chest. The uncertainty was suffocating, wrapping tighter around him with every passing breath.
What if I cannot do this?
The thought rose unbidden, sharp and dangerous.
What if I falter? What if I shame my clan? What if—what if I lose my head before the whole empire if I couldn't give heir to the Emperor?
The image of it struck him suddenly, so vivid it made him pale. His body dragged to the executioner’s block, his neck bared, his disgrace proclaimed to the masses.
He wanted to run.
The urge surged through him with terrifying clarity. To tear off the veil, to flee the chamber barefoot and barefaced, to vanish into the quiet corners of the world where duty and titles could never follow. To hide, to live untouched, unseen.
For a single heartbeat, Lan Wangji’s stillness cracked. His fingers twitched against the embroidered silk of his sleeves, the faintest betrayal of the turmoil beneath.
But the maids were already bowing, murmuring blessings as they stepped aside. The doors opened. The procession awaited. There was no room left for hesitation.
Lan Wangji drew in a slow, steadying breath. He forced his spine straight, his lips pressed into a firm line beneath the veil. He was a Lan. He was the future consort. And no matter how much his heart trembled, no one would see it.
**
So perhaps Lan Wangji was lying to himself.
He told himself he was calm. He told himself he was resigned. But his body betrayed him now, breath ragged, robes in disarray, as he stumbled ungracefully into the secluded backyard of the palace grounds. His veil had been torn away somewhere along the path, left discarded like a shed skin. The heavy outer layer of his ceremonial robes lay abandoned in the dirt, too cumbersome for running. He pressed his palms against the rough stone wall, teeth gritted, forcing himself to climb.
Somewhere beyond those walls, the nobles were waiting. Perhaps the Emperor himself sat in expectation, ready to claim his spouse. Lan Wangji should have been standing there beneath the gaze of thousands. Instead, he was here—scraping his palms raw, his heart pounding with the desperate thought of escape.
The lie had begun earlier, in the ceremonial hall. He had excused himself with the barest murmur, claiming an urgent need to pee. The attendants had blanched in horror, bowing frantically, uncertain if it was proper for the future imperial consort to speak so bluntly. But Lan Wangji had silenced them with a single look. He was a Lan—polite, dutiful, the embodiment of discipline. None of them imagined that beneath that controlled exterior beat a heart terrified of chains.
They had trusted him too much. And now, he betrayed that trust.
The ceremony would already be in chaos, the attendants scurrying through the palace in search of him. He was late—far too late—and his absence would not go unnoticed. Still, Lan Wangji did not care. He pressed forward, stumbling as he landed awkwardly on the ground. His knees ached, but he forced himself up, eyes scanning the courtyard.
There. Against the wall, half-forgotten, leaned a wooden ladder. Small, narrow, hardly fit for the grandeur of the palace, but it was enough. Panting, he dragged it into place, the wood biting into his palms. It was too short; the top of the wall still towered above him. He would need to jump—risk slipping, risk falling—but he did not hesitate.
He had already imagined the punishment awaiting him should he be caught. Running from the Emperor’s hand was no simple defiance; it was treason. The sentence would be death, swift and merciless. His head rolling in the dust, his family shamed for generations.
But Lan Wangji had never feared death.
No, what he feared was chains. The silken kind, woven in duty and gilded in titles. The kind that bound him to a stranger’s side, stripping away his freedom, his music, his very self. Death, at least, was an ending. Chains were a lifetime.
So he climbed. His muscles strained, his breath shallow, his mind already reaching beyond the wall. He imagined it clearly: once free, he would flee to the river, steal a boat, and let it carry him far from Yiling. He would cast away his name, cut every tie to the Lan clan, and live as a commoner in some distant fishing village or quiet island. A life of obscurity, of solitude, was better than a life in gilded captivity.
Luxury meant nothing. Duty meant nothing. Not if it cost him himself.
“Need a hand?”
The voice came out of nowhere—warm, lilting, and far too familiar. Lan Wangji’s grip faltered on the rung of the ladder. For a breathless instant he nearly slipped, his pulse hammering in his ears. Of all the things he expected—attendants finding him, soldiers dragging him back in chains—this was not it.
He hadn’t thought he would hear that voice again.
Yet it struck him now with frightening clarity, as if no time had passed since their first encounter. His body remembered before his mind did—the way that sound had unsettled him, as though it had left a mark etched beneath his skin. Of course he remembered. How could he ever forget such a voice?
Lan Wangji turned sharply, lips already parting to scold, to cut the shameless man down with the sharpness of Lan discipline. But the words faltered, died in his throat.
For what met his gaze was not some leering, unpleasant noble, but a man who smiled at him as though the sun had descended into the courtyard. Too bright. Too open. Lan Wangji had to squint against it, as if the brilliance might scorch him if he looked too long.
The man stood tall, dressed in deep red silk embroidered with gold thread—garments that spoke of rank and privilege, perhaps a Duke, perhaps someone even higher. Lan Wangji’s eyes traveled down the lines of his robes before flicking back up, unwilling yet unable to linger.
Beautiful.
The thought struck him like a blow.
The man was beautiful in a way that was almost unfair, so startling that Lan Wangji’s composure threatened to slip. Sinful, Lan Wangji thought. Dangerous. This was the face that had haunted him since that humiliating night at the hot spring, slipping into his thoughts when he least expected.
Silver eyes, bright with amusement, locked on him—eyes Lan Wangji was certain he had seen before, though memory refused to give him where. High cheekbones sharpened the elegance of his features, while full lips curved into an easy smile, a single mole resting just beneath, drawing the eye like a secret. His long hair was swept back, tied with a vivid red ribbon, not tamed but accentuated, like fire bound loosely at the crown.
Charming. Attractive. Effortlessly so, in the dangerous way that promised countless hearts had already fallen before him. Girls, women, perhaps even men—all who laid eyes on him must have faltered as Lan Wangji did now.
And he smiled at him—smiled as if Lan Wangji’s frantic escape, his ladder, his desperation, were the most amusing sight in the world.
Lan Wangji cleared his throat, ears betraying him with a flush of red. Why—why was it always this man? Why did he have the uncanny ability to appear precisely when Lan Wangji was at his lowest, most humiliating moments? First in the spring, now scrambling down a ladder like a thief in his own wedding robes. Always undignified. Always caught.
He forced his composure back into place and began stepping down from the ladder, movements stiff, deliberate. Did the man recognize him? Was he perhaps one of the Emperor’s nobles, sent to intercept the runaway consort before scandal spread too far?
But no—the man did not look like one who came to bind or punish. He stood at ease, his presence more curious than condemning, his silver eyes fixed upon Lan Wangji with a kind of depth that made him restless. It was not the calculating stare of courtiers, nor the mocking leer of men with too much power. There was warmth in it. Interest. Something dangerously close to fondness.
Lan Wangji’s throat worked as he swallowed, gaze shifting aside. He would not assume. He must not assume. Yet the longer that stare lingered, the more unsettled his heart grew.
The man seemed familiar with the palace grounds—he walked it as though it belonged to him, as though no guard would ever dare question his presence. If anyone knew a route unseen by guards, it would be him. Perhaps, just perhaps, he could be Lan Wangji’s way out.
“What are you doing, climbing walls?” The man’s tone was light, gently scolding. “If you managed to succeed, you’d break your head on the other side.”
Lan Wangji exhaled sharply through his nose, averting his eyes. Trust him to turn his escape into something ridiculous.
“I heard the consort is missing,” Lan Wangji said smoothly, too quickly. The lie burned on his tongue the instant it left his lips, and guilt coiled in his chest. Lying was a shameful thing, a thing that violated every Lan precept—yet desperation drove him past propriety. He could only swallow the urge to chastise himself.
“The ceremony is starting, and it is… tedious,” he added stiffly, blinking up at the man before him. His voice lowered, almost reluctant. “I wish to leave. Can you help me?”
The man’s lips curved upward, amused, as though he had been waiting for this.
“Oh?” His voice carried a teasing lilt, silver eyes bright with mischief. “The consort is missing, you say?” He glanced about dramatically, as though searching the empty courtyard for the vanished figure. “How careless of him.”
Lan Wangji’s eyes narrowed at the performance, his patience thinning.
“Yes. He is missing,” he repeated, clipped, the faintest edge of irritation sharpening his tone. “I heard from… passing servants.” His throat tightened as he cleared it, forcing himself back into calm. “I am new in the palace. Can you show me a way out?”
The man studied him in silence for a beat, head tilting slightly, as though savoring every word, every slip. Then he hummed low in his throat, contemplative, the sound curling in the air like smoke.
The man nodded suddenly, as if reaching a decision, and Lan Wangji released the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Relief flooded his chest—perhaps, at last, someone willing to aid him.
The stranger lingered a moment, though, eyes fixed on him with quiet amusement, as if waiting for Lan Wangji to compose himself. Every motion—the straightening of his robes, the smoothing of his sleeves—was observed under that molten silver gaze. Lan Wangji’s skin prickled, and he fought the urge to squirm.
At last, the man turned, leading the way with long, unhurried strides. He walked with a kind of careless arrogance, shoulders relaxed, his posture speaking of a man who feared nothing, bowed to nothing. He moved lazily, yet somehow with purpose—like the world itself was his to wander as he pleased.
Lan Wangji followed, eyes betraying him again as they lingered on the man’s back. His robe swayed with each step, broad shoulders tapering down to long, straight limbs. His stride was smooth, unbothered. Infuriatingly confident.
Lan Wangji was still caught in that scrutiny when he walked straight into the man’s back as he stopped short.
“What?” Lan Wangji asked, frowning. “Why are we stopping?”
The man half-turned, and once again Lan Wangji found himself struck—no, undone—by the sheer handsomeness of the face that looked back at him.
“Wait,” the man said lightly. “Tell me… do I look presentable enough?”
Lan Wangji blinked, brows knitting. “Why do you ask?” His patience was thinning fast. “We must hurry. I do not have time for your shameless flirtings.”
The man’s laughter rang low and warm, his head tilting back slightly as if Lan Wangji had said something delightful.
“Your pretty mouth,” he mused, “is the meanest mouth I’ve ever encountered.”
Heat crawled up Lan Wangji’s neck, but his retort was sharp and immediate.
“And your shamelessness is the most shameless I have ever encountered.” His eyes narrowed, voice taut with restrained temper. “Are you helping me out, or not?”
The man’s smile widened, the corners of his lips curling in wicked amusement, as though he had been waiting precisely for this outburst.
They walked in silence through dim corridors, their footsteps echoing softly against polished stone. The servants were nowhere to be found—something Lan Wangji had feared, then, strangely, welcomed. Each empty hallway felt like borrowed time, a secret chance. He kept his pace steady, though his ears strained for the faintest shuffle of guards or the whisper of approaching attendants.
The man never faltered, striding with the confidence of someone who belonged in every corner of the palace. He glanced over his shoulder every so often, not out of worry but as though to ensure Lan Wangji was still tethered to him—his gaze quicksilver, glinting in the shadows.
Lan Wangji’s own eyes roved the surroundings. This was his first time within the palace walls; he did not know these turns, these endless halls. And yet the man walked them with familiarity, with ease. Had he lived here once? Was he a frequent guest, a noble of high standing, perhaps someone the Emperor trusted enough to wander freely?
They came at last to a pair of massive doors, looming in front of them like sentinels. The wood was carved with ancient symbols, inlaid with threads of gold, silent and imposing. Lan Wangji narrowed his eyes against the faint gleam, trying to make sense of what lay beyond.
The man turned then, that same infuriating smile lingering on his lips, and extended a hand toward him—open, waiting.
Lan Wangji stared at it, uncomprehending. “What?”
“You might want to hold me,” the man replied easily, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
Golden eyes lifted sharply to his face, narrowing. “Why?”
“Because it’s darker past this door,” the man said, his tone lilting with mischief. “And I’d rather you stumble into me on purpose than by accident.”
Lan Wangji’s glare deepened. He followed the line of the man’s arm, his outstretched hand steady, confident, patient. He did not withdraw it even under Lan Wangji’s scrutiny, only tilted his head slightly, as though indulging a game he had already won.
For a heartbeat, Lan Wangji considered refusing. Pride demanded it. But pride had not been the one guiding him tonight. Desperation had. And the truth was, this man had helped him when no one else would.
With a sharp exhale, Lan Wangji placed his hand in his. His fingers were caught instantly, enveloped in warmth, as though the man had been waiting for that very moment.
“Why don’t you open the door?” Lan Wangji asked, low and clipped, unsettled by how easily the contact threatened his composure. The man, however, made no move, his hand still holding Lan Wangji’s firmly as his gaze lingered.
“Patience,” he murmured, almost to himself. His silver eyes gleamed in the faint torchlight, unreadable, as though he were not waiting for the door to open—but for Lan Wangji.
The man tapped his boots against the polished marble, the sound sharp yet unhurried, echoing in the vast corridor. His smile was relaxed, far too at ease for the strangeness of the moment.
Then came the sudden pounding of footsteps—rushing, urgent.
Lan Wangji’s head snapped up. A group of knights came barreling down the hall, their armor clattering, their breaths ragged. Instinct seized him—he wanted to run, to vanish before they caught him. But the man’s grip on his hand only tightened, firm, unyielding.
Lan Wangji froze, his heart hammering. In a rush of dread, realization hit him like a blade to the gut. This man had tricked him.
The knights skidded to a halt before them. Their eyes darted wildly between the tall, red-clad figure and Lan Wangji. Then, to his shock, they paled—utterly, visibly paled.
One after another, they dropped to their knees in hurried bows, their foreheads almost touching the floor.
“Your Majesty,” they chorused, voices trembling with reverence.
Lan Wangji’s blood turned cold. His ears rang with the title, the words thundering in his skull. Your Majesty?
Slowly, almost fearfully, Lan Wangji turned his gaze to the man beside him. That smile—bright, easy, too bright for the halls of a palace—had not faltered. The man hummed in acknowledgment, the picture of nonchalance, and with a lazy flick of his hand, gestured the knights to rise.
“Looks like you’ve found the consort,” one of them said breathlessly.
Lan Wangji’s heart plummeted.
Consort.
Before he could even string together his panic into words, the great doors before them swung open with a heavy groan. A flood of sound rushed out—applause, cheers, the swell of celebration. The air shimmered with incense and light, and through the archway lay the grand hall, glittering with gold and silk, nobles lined like jeweled birds in their finery.
Lan Wangji stood frozen, his body refusing to move, as the herald’s voice rang clear and triumphant:
“His Imperial Majesty, Emperor Wei Wuxian—entering with his soon-to-be consort, Lord Lan Wangji!”
The world tilted.
Lan Wangji’s eyes widened, his breath caught sharp in his throat. Every muscle in his body screamed for him to tear away, to flee, but he could not move. His veil was gone, his ceremonial robe half in disarray, his dignity shredded. He was standing hand-in-hand with the Emperor himself—the very man he had insulted, glared at, lied to.
Heat flamed up his neck, his ears burning red with humiliation so fierce it almost drowned out the cheers. What would the nobles think? That their new consort had already stripped himself of propriety, walking into the grand hall bare-faced, half-dressed, clinging to the Emperor as if caught in some scandalous tryst?
He wanted the floor to split beneath his feet and swallow him whole.
Beside him, Emperor Wei Wuxian only tightened his hold on his hand and smiled as though none of it mattered—as though the entire spectacle was exactly as he had planned.
Lan Wangji’s gaze swept the hall, desperate, searching for an anchor in the sea of eyes staring at him. And then he found them—his brother’s.
Lan Xichen stood among the nobles, smiling serenely, his applause steady and proud. To anyone else, he looked pleased, as though this had all gone according to plan. But to Lan Wangji, the sight only deepened the dread coiling in his chest. His brother believed he had arrived late only to walk beside the Emperor, dignified and proper. Only Lan Wangji knew the truth—he had stumbled into the role in disarray, stripped of robe and veil, deceived into thinking escape was within reach.
Beside him, the man—no, the Emperor—shifted. When they halted before the gathered court, Wei Wuxian leaned just enough for his voice to be heard by Lan Wangji alone.
“Hi,” he said, the single word playful, casual, almost as if they weren’t surrounded by hundreds of watching eyes.
Lan Wangji could only stare. His throat tightened, his chest rose and fell with the sharp edge of disbelief. This man had tricked him. This was why he had smirked when Lan Wangji lied about the missing consort. This was why the silver eyes had struck him as familiar—they were the same eyes as the Empress Dowager’s, shining with both authority and warmth.
Now, they gleamed with unmistakable amusement.
Those silver eyes pinned him, crinkling slightly at the corners, fondness hidden beneath mirth. Wei Wuxian’s lips curved in a smile that had no right to be so soft, not when Lan Wangji was drowning in humiliation.
Then, with infuriating ease, the Emperor introduced himself.
“I’m Wei Wuxian,” he whispered, his voice silk and smoke against the roar of applause. “Your soon-to-be lord husband… my missing consort.”
The words pierced him, shame burning through his veins until he thought his skin might catch fire. Lan Wangji dropped his gaze, ears blazing red, every instinct screaming for silence.
Wei Wuxian only smiled wider.