Fu Huang looked especially handsome today.
He wasn’t the kind of man with strikingly good looks—his features were sharp and thin, with a weathered, world-weary expression. But somehow, that tired air, paired with his dark black dragon robe embroidered with golden clouds, made him look all the more regal. Under the sunlight, he carried an air of lazy indifference that only added to his imposing majesty.
Xiao Ai muttered in his head, “Go ahead, keep staring—your heart’s about to overflow.”
Fu Ye lowered his head slightly, the jeweled pendant at his neck shimmering in the light.
Back inside the hall, he’d only thought that the golden amber on the pendant looked pretty. But now, under the sun, it wasn’t just pretty—it was breathtaking, worth a king’s ransom.
They said amber could ward off evil and bring peace to the soul.
He ran his fingers lightly over the golden amber.
Maybe it could calm the storm in his heart.
Just then, Fu Huang asked, “How much incense did you use today?”
The breeze was blowing from Fu Ye’s direction, carrying with it the soft, fragrant scent of his robes.
Fu Ye froze. People prone to headaches usually didn’t like heavy fragrances. He quickly asked, “Was it too much?”
But to his surprise, Fu Huang said, “It smells nice.”
…
Unintentional flirting is lethal.
Luckily, the Empress Dowager’s grand procession—her and a row of lady officials lined up like red-glazed plum blossom vases—had drawn close.
The Empress Dowager seemed to have been waiting for them on the walkway outside Cien Palace. She sat upright in her golden phoenix carriage, the canopy above shielding her from the harsh sun. Her hair was piled high, pinned with a gold hairpin shaped like twin phoenixes holding an eastern pearl. She radiated dignity and grace, commanding respect without a word.
Whenever these two—mother and son—met, Fu Ye was always extremely cautious.
He immediately stepped down from his carriage and bowed.
Fu Huang remained lounging in his own carriage, which didn’t stop moving. The lady officials beside the Empress Dowager stepped back slightly as the imperial carriage rolled past.
Eunuch Qin bowed deeply to the Empress Dowager before hurrying after them. When they’d gone a distance, he glanced back and said quietly, “That pendant Her Majesty gifted the prince looks awfully familiar. I wonder which noble once wore it. I doubt the palace could produce a second one like it. The Empress Dowager truly dotes on the prince.”
Indeed, that pendant was rare. Golden amber of that quality was hard to come by, let alone so many matching pieces strung together like that. It was probably one of a kind in the entire empire.
But Fu Huang thought: Every treasure in this world ought to belong to Fu Ye. Naturally, anything the Empress Dowager has should all be given to him too.
The Empress Dowager didn’t even glance at the emperor. But she did lower her gaze to spot the black jade dragon medallion hanging at Fu Ye’s waist. She made no comment.
Since her serious illness, the Empress Dowager’s spirit clearly wasn’t what it once was. She’d grown noticeably thinner. Even dressed in splendid robes and heavy makeup today, her weariness showed through. She fingered a string of green prayer beads and said softly, “Ye’er, come walk with Mother.”
Just what he’d hoped for.
The Empress Dowager’s dignified kindness filled him with both fear and guilt. Being near her worked better than any meditation chant for calming his heart.
Fu Ye bowed low. “Yes, Mother.”
He didn’t get back into his carriage, choosing instead to walk beside her.
When it came to humility and grace, no one could match him—not even Prince Ankang. Ankang was too timid, his flattery too obvious. Granted, fear of the emperor’s tyranny explained much of it, but it lacked the true bearing of royalty.
Fu Ye, on the other hand—rare beauty, the perfect blend of modesty, liveliness, and nobility. Unmatched in splendor, peerless in grace. A figure like his didn’t need to say a word—just standing among the people was like a celestial being descending from the heavens.
The very image of imperial pride.
Looking ahead, he couldn’t help but feel the emperor’s lone figure seemed all the more cold and forbidding.
Like a dragon lurking in the dark.
Spring had come to Fengchun Palace, where the banquet was held. Inside, Grand Chancellor Xie and the other ministers gathered along with the new scholars. All the new graduates wore purple robes with red sashes at their waists, black boots, and long-winged black hats. Together they knelt to pay their respects.
The emperor led the way. Fu Ye, supporting the ceremonial scepter, followed close behind. The chime of his ornaments rang softly as they walked the golden peony-patterned carpet.
The Qionglin Banquet was a grand state occasion. Those in attendance included not just the chancellor and top ministers, but also princes like Ankang and many renowned scholars.
Among them was one of the most celebrated literary figures of the day: Cheng Wenxi.
Master Cheng had been a prodigy during the reign of Emperor Mingzong, the only man in history to achieve top honors in all three imperial exams at age eighteen. His writings were essential reading for scholars, and his students held offices all over the realm. These days, he devoted himself to teaching at academies. Nearly half the new graduates this year had studied under him. People said that whenever Master Cheng lectured at an academy, it was standing room only—so crowded that “the fishponds would run dry from the crowds drawing water.” When he returned to the capital, thousands came out to greet him. Even now, the city’s great scholars took pride in having debated with him.
Now in his nineties, Master Cheng had been personally invited by the Empress Dowager and was treated as the guest of honor, excused from kneeling. One of the first things he did was have Fu Ye pay his respects.
The Empress Dowager was very pleased with how Fu Ye carried himself.
After months of palace life, he’d shed the fragile, uncertain air he’d had when he first returned. In important moments like this, he was nothing short of impeccable—noble, elegant, every movement flawless.
The banquet began with the leaf-pinning ceremony.
And today, Fu Ye bore the heavy duty of leading that ceremony.
The newly appointed scholars stepped forward one by one. Fu Ye personally fastened a crimson maple leaf from the palace onto each of their gauzy hats.
He was a natural at this sort of thing—his words warm, his smile easy. And the congratulatory phrases he offered each scholar? Almost no two were the same.
Though today’s banquet was held in honor of these new scholars, Fu Ye had, by now, become the most celebrated figure in the entire realm. Wherever he went, all eyes followed. Ministers and dignitaries vied to raise a cup in his honor.
Fu Ye hadn’t planned on drinking at all.
But with so many officials toasting him so earnestly, it felt impossible to refuse. After a few cups, a rosy glow had bloomed across his cheeks.
He wasn’t drunk—the imperial Qiong wine served at the banquet was mild, with a hint of sweetness. The few cups he drank only made him feel warm all over, and if anything, even more at ease. Words flowed freely; he was in his element.
He truly thrived in lively company.
Unlike Fu Huang, who sat quietly at his place, approached only by a few of his oldest ministers, those rare souls brave enough to strike up conversation.
Because of his old illness, Fu Huang had long since sworn off alcohol. Even now that his head was better, he hadn’t touched a drop. He simply watched Fu Ye work the room—mingling effortlessly with scholars, ministers, and royal kin alike. Everyone was drawn to him.
This—this was his stage.
Fu Ye was like a bird born to fly free, and the palace walls could never cage him in.
As for Fu Huang? He felt as if he himself had already begun to decay within these walls. His wings had withered, his feathers fallen. He could no longer fly.
Fu Huang leaned there, quiet, holding a cup of wine.
Eunuch Qin hurried to his side. “Your Majesty—”
But before the words were fully out of his mouth, Fu Ye raised his hand and pointed right at him.
The ministers who’d been crowding around Fu Ye, eager for favor, froze and followed his gaze—only to see His Majesty, wine cup in hand, poised to drink.
…?
And then they saw the emperor silently lower his cup.
…!!
Lord Liu of the Court of Judicial Review found the scene strangely familiar.
His own wife was like this. At any banquet, if he so much as took two extra sips, her sharp eyes would flash his way—and down would go the cup, sheepish as could be.
Lord Liu was famous for fearing his wife.
But surely the emperor wasn’t afraid of…?
No, no. The prince wasn’t his wife!
And surely the emperor wouldn’t be afraid of the prince!
The prince was the very picture of grace and gentleness—like a sage descended to earth, kind to all, truly a paragon of virtue!
Yet they heard the “paragon of virtue” say, “Gentlemen, give me just a moment.”
As he spoke, Fu Ye started walking toward the emperor.
Fu Huang watched him move through the crowd, the necklace at his throat glittering brilliantly.
He’d thought Fu Ye, surrounded by admirers and basking in attention like a fish in water or a bird in the forest, had long since stopped thinking of him.
“You’re trying to drink?” Fu Ye asked.
Fu Huang’s expression was easygoing. “I already set it down.”
In front of so many people, Fu Ye was all deference and respect. “Your Majesty’s health is most important. Best not to drink. Let me pour you a cup of plum tea instead.”
Fu Huang said, a little wistfully, “You’re really keeping a close watch on me.”
Eunuch Qin quietly sighed.
Your Majesty, if only that were true complaint…
Fu Ye poured the emperor a bowl of plum tea before returning to the others.
“What was Lord Liu saying just now?” he asked.
Lord Liu of the Court of Judicial Review looked embarrassed. But seeing Fu Ye, tipsy now, with a soft smile and bright, perfect teeth—like a mountain of jade about to topple—smiling at him from so close? His head swam.
He must have drunk too much; in that moment, he completely forgot what he was about to say.
The head of the Court of Protocol stepped in. “Lord Liu was just saying he’d like to introduce his nephew Liu Hui to Your Highness.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” Lord Liu said, recovering himself.
He turned quickly to find his nephew among the scholars.
Fu Ye soon spotted Liu Hui, this year’s third-place laureate.
The young man was indeed striking, every bit as distinguished as they’d said. But Fu Ye, remembering how jealous Fu Huang could be, kept his distance and was all polite formality.
In truth, among these new scholars, it was another he’d been wanting to meet.
“Which one is Zhang Gui?” he asked.
Someone called out, “Ruiyu, over here!”
And a young man stepped forward.
It turned out he was this year’s top scholar.
Zhang Gui wasn’t exactly handsome, but his brow was open and forthright, and he carried himself with the clear, upright air of a true scholar. His name had been tainted by scandal in the capital, and only a sovereign as unconventional as Fu Huang would have dared appoint him as the top scholar despite it.
Fu Ye waved grandly. “Bring wine!”
Shuangfu rushed over and filled his cup.
“His Majesty let me read your palace exam essay. Such brilliance! His Majesty spoke highly of it, and I’ve been eager to meet you.”
Zhang Gui bowed with dignity, neither humble nor arrogant. “Your servant thanks His Majesty for his praise, and thanks Your Highness.”
Fu Ye, thinking of that beautiful man Zi Ying, looked at Zhang Gui and felt sure they must be a perfect pair.
And he felt a sharp stab of envy.
He had no such good fortune—he’d fallen for someone who could never return his feelings.
He drained his cup in a single gulp, and out of the corner of his eye, he couldn’t help glancing at Fu Huang.
Fu Ye loved crowds, loved the spotlight. On a day like today, he ought to have been in his element. And outwardly, he was—he’d charmed every new scholar in the hall.
But inside? His heart wasn’t in it.
His gaze kept drifting to Fu Huang. His thoughts ran wild: Would Fu Huang be jealous, seeing him so dazzling today?
Part of him hoped he would be. Part of him hoped he wouldn’t.
He took two more cups without even realizing it.
And before he knew it, he’d drunk too much.
He could feel the light haze of drink—he wasn’t lost to it, but the wine had seeped into his heart, leaving it soft and aching, with a heaviness he couldn’t shake. His thoughts wandered uncontrollably. All he wanted was to go sit beside Fu Huang.
As dusk fell, he seized a chance during a break to change clothes and slipped away to rest in the rear hall of the Spring Palace.
The Empress Dowager, too, had shared a few cups with Prince Ankang and the others. Now she reclined on a couch, watching palace maids dance to lilting music—a rare scene of merriment in the palace these days.
Chief Attendant Sun returned from the rear hall and whispered at her ear, “His Highness seems to have drunk a little too much. He said he wished to lie down for a while.”
The Empress Dowager nodded and looked toward the emperor, seeing Eunuch Qin leaning close to him, no doubt reporting the same thing—he and Sun must have just come from the rear hall together.
Fu Huang sat for a while, absentmindedly toying with the black jade token at his waist.
Prince Ankang rose, speaking with extreme caution to the Empress Dowager. “Your Majesty, I also brought a painting today… for His Majesty.”
He’d always been overly timid around the emperor—every little thing required the Dowager’s permission. The palace maids had just lit the lamps, their glow soft in the growing dusk, and under that light, the prince’s overly submissive expression only made the Empress Dowager feel all the more that he lacked the bearing of a true son of heaven, nothing like Fu Ye.
She gave a nod. “Go ahead.”
Only then did Prince Ankang approach Fu Huang and kneel before him.
His manner was full of deference. The emperor reclined with one arm resting lazily on the couch, his demeanor all the more imposing and cold.
Before long, the prince presented his gift—a scroll of a beauty.
Eunuch Qin received the painting in both hands.
The emperor had no real hobbies and was notoriously difficult to please, but everyone knew Prince Huan loved paintings of palace ladies. Clearly, Prince Ankang knew what he was doing.
Word was that the prince himself enjoyed poetry and antiques, which, in that sense, made him somewhat kindred to Prince Huan.
Fu Huang clearly liked the gift, even ordering it unrolled so he could take a look.
It was Lady Li Adorning Herself with Flowers by Zhang Mi, an artist of the previous dynasty.
In the painting, Lady Li wore her hair in twin topknots, her head crowned with blossoms. Behind her stood nine maidservants in pomegranate-red skirts embroidered with flowers—some holding flowers, some fans, some ewers—arrayed in delicate attendance.
A dazzling display of hairpins and silken shadows, elegant and sumptuous. Just the sort of thing Fu Ye would adore.
Zhang Mi’s surviving works were exceedingly rare. His style was refined, his court ladies famed for their serene beauty. The folding screens in Fu Ye’s chambers were patterned after his paintings.
Eunuch Qin said softly, “His Highness will be thrilled when he sees it.”
But Fu Huang, without Fu Ye at his side, felt nothing but emptiness. The night deepened; even his robes felt cold.
Having accepted the painting, he rose and, taking only Eunuch Qin, made his way to the rear hall.
The Spring Palace had been decked out joyfully for the feast. Red lanterns lined the corridors and eaves, casting their glow on vermillion walls. Under night’s dark canopy, the rear hall glowed with a decadent, almost gaudy springtime splendor.
As a prince, Fu Ye had many attendants. The rear hall’s doorway was crowded with palace maids and eunuchs. Shuangfu and the others were sitting on the steps, whispering together.
At the emperor’s approach, they scrambled to their feet in a panic.
Eunuch Qin asked, “Is His Highness still resting?”
“Yes, sir.”
Without a word, Fu Huang took the painting and stepped inside.
Shuangfu started to follow but was yanked back by Eunuch Qin, who shut the door behind the emperor.
Like a peacock spreading its tail, Qin thought. His Majesty’s planning a little surprise for the prince.
Serving at the emperor’s side all these years, he’d never expected him to be so romantic. When it came to winning the heart of the one he loved, His Majesty was every bit as charming as Emperor Wuzong.
Above, the plaque that read Spring’s Blessing glimmered in the lantern light, fitting for the moment.
The rear hall wasn’t large; it had been designed as a retreat for imperial consorts visiting the imperial gardens. The decor was lush, almost gaudy—very much like the Goddess Pavilion. Even the curtains were pink. Behind them stood folding screens painted with enormous red peonies, so rich in color they verged on vulgar.
Fu Huang approached the couch and saw Fu Ye lying there, his robes loose, one hand tugging at his collar as if feeling overheated.
His clothing had come undone, baring skin pale as mutton-fat jade. His fingers absently toyed with the flush of red at his chest—like crimson dogwood blooming in snow.
Fu Huang froze where he stood.
The door behind him hadn’t closed all the way. A spring breeze drifted in, making the curtains sway. The crack of the door let in a sliver of lantern light, slicing through his shadow and casting a soft, flickering glow on the fragrance-laden folds of Fu Ye’s robe.
He stood there in the dim light, all the lazy ease from earlier gone. Now he looked more like a ghost that had just clawed its way out of hell.
Thin. Silent. Unblinking. A vein at his temple pulsed faintly.
Fu Ye had truly underestimated this Qiong wine.
Ancient brews weren’t supposed to be strong, and when he’d come to the rear hall, he’d still been able to walk on his own—just a little unsteady on his feet. But after lying down for a bit, the wine had hit him hard, blurring the line between dream and reality.
Otherwise, how could it be that just moments ago, Fu Huang was in his chamber with him, looking at those racy pictures together—and now, with just the blink of an eye, Fu Huang was here at his bedside, in a room awash in so much red it made him dizzy? The place felt unfamiliar, like it wasn’t even his quarters.
It had to be a dream.
“Brother…” he murmured.
Fu Huang stepped closer.
Fu Ye’s eyes were dazed, glassy with a hint of moisture, his hair a little mussed, his face flushed like spring’s first dewdrops—half drunk, half not. His lips parted slightly, revealing a glimpse of white teeth and the pink tip of his tongue.
But his hand stayed tucked inside his robe, unmoving.
He really did have a reckless, unrestrained nature.
“Just came to check on you,” Fu Huang said, sitting down and brushing his hand over Fu Ye’s forehead.
Fu Ye lifted the hand hidden in his robe and caught Fu Huang’s wrist.
His wrist was cool to the touch, but Fu Ye’s fingers burned, faintly pink with heat.
“Are you drunk or not?” Fu Huang asked.
Fu Ye didn’t answer. Instead, he rubbed his face against Fu Huang’s palm, like a cat seeking affection—warm, soft, clinging.
Fu Huang froze.
He thought: He really is drunk. Otherwise, he wouldn’t act like this.
So eager to please. Like some spoiled kitten, nuzzling his hand with that flushed face, those lips just slightly open, the pink of his tongue barely visible.
Fu Huang thought: He’s so shameless. How could he be this indecent?
Good thing it was him here. Anyone else would’ve already kissed him a thousand times, crushed him in their arms, ruined him completely.
The thought sent a dark, twisted surge through him. He gripped Fu Ye’s chin, and his thumb pushed past those red lips, heavy and rough as it ran over that soft, wet tongue.
Fu Ye bit down lightly on his finger—then suddenly let go, looking up with eyes so wet it seemed like tears might fall.
His wantonness stirred something strange in Fu Huang. His heart burned, but along with it came a surge of disgust—an urge to torment him, to break him down without mercy, until he no longer acted like this.
It wasn’t the tender feeling one should have for someone they cared about. It would be brutal.
He wouldn’t be gentle. Not at all.
But Fu Ye seemed to like it. His whole body melted, sweet as honey, his breath quickening as he clung to Fu Huang’s wrist and lay back, eyes so lost and heated it looked like he might weep.
Truly… truly…
Fu Huang grabbed his wrist, squeezing so tightly it was like he wanted to fuse their bones together—or maybe he was trying to hurt Fu Ye, to snap him out of it.
Fu Ye opened his mouth, looking at him with something that seemed like pain. But look closer—it wasn’t pain at all. His expression was far too wanton, too wild.
“You like it rough, don’t you?” Fu Huang’s voice was low, heavy with command.
Fu Ye had no idea how drunk he really was. But drunk he was, and oddly submissive—submissive to the point of indecency. His eyes met Fu Huang’s, soft and hazy, and he let out a soft, breathy “Mm…” Then he ducked his head, his neck flushed so red it seemed it might bleed—so red…
It made Fu Huang’s blood pound, heat surging through him, burning him from the inside out.
He hadn’t meant to take advantage. But now, dizzy with desire, it felt like he’d been bewitched. His body trembled as he leaned down, breath warm against that fevered skin.
That breath made Fu Ye arch like a drawn bow.
He likes it rough, does he? Then I won’t give him what he wants.
But this tenderness—it was like a blade, slicing Fu Ye’s heart to pieces.
Fu Ye felt like he was dying.
Even in his dream, some part of him clung to propriety, and he started to sob, soft and broken.
Outside, the red lanterns swayed, their glow painting faces crimson. Shuangfu straightened up in alarm. “I think the prince is crying!”
Qin Neijian hissed, “Don’t say anything!”
From inside came the sound of Fu Ye’s sobbing, growing louder and louder.
Oh heavens above, Qin Neijian thought, just how rough is His Majesty being?!
It’s the prince’s first time!
If this leaves marks—how’s anyone supposed to explain that when he sobers up?!
“Go, go! All of you, get farther away!” he urged the attendants.
But before they could scatter, a group appeared at the end of the vermillion corridor—an entire retinue sweeping down on them.
It was the Empress Dowager and her attendants.
Sun Gongzheng was supporting her, followed by a line of palace women. The lantern light flickered over them, painting them like ghostly courtesans. To Qin Neijian, they looked like a procession of spirits.
From the front hall came music and laughter—the new scholars, tipsy now, freer than the staid old ministers. They were drinking and composing poetry, reveling in the night.
Qin Neijian panicked. He shoved the door open and rushed inside. “Your Majesty—the Empress Dowager is here!”
The curtains and screens blocked the view, and he was burning with embarrassment, heart pounding with worry. From inside, Fu Ye’s sobbing grew louder.
It didn’t even sound like someone being pleasured.
Steeling himself, Qin Neijian crept closer—and saw Fu Ye clinging to the emperor’s robes, crying his heart out.
Oh—he still had his clothes on…
Footsteps sounded behind him, and he turned. The Empress Dowager and her attendants had already entered.
They stopped short at the sight: the prince, weeping in the emperor’s arms. Everyone exchanged bewildered looks.
“He’s drunk,” the emperor said coolly, as always in front of his mother. He tugged Fu Ye’s robe closed a little.
The collar was missing—God knows where it had gone—and his throat was chafed red.
Shuangfu and the others hurried in, but Qin Neijian waved them back. The emperor said, “Let him cry it out.”
No one knew what Fu Ye was crying for—what had made him so heartbroken.
His sobs left him limp, spent.
The emperor held him close, stroking his hair. The fierce golden dragon embroidered on his robes tangled with the silver dragon on Fu Ye’s, like the two beasts were entwined in an intimate embrace.
