The sun was sharp that morning, painting the palace corridors gold. Light bounced off every glazed tile, shimmered on every tassel of every silk banner, and turned the air thick with brilliance. It was the kind of morning that made even still things feel like they were watching you.
Sera walked through it as though it were a garden party.
She was dressed—improperly, no doubt—in a pale lavender robe edged with foreign embroidery, the thread too fine, the sleeves a little too loose. Her hair was bound high, but two curls had defiantly escaped, brushing her cheek. Her court maid followed three paces behind, looking perpetually scandalized.
"Is it true," Sera murmured, "that if I step on the wrong tile, the earth opens up and I vanish forever?"
"Lady Sera, please—" the maid whispered frantically, bowing to a passing official who barely acknowledged them.
Sera stopped beside a bronze crane fountain and crouched to study the trickle of water pooling beneath its feet. She tilted her head.
"I wonder what they feed them," she said, eyes dancing.
A second voice, dry as parchment and twice as brittle, snapped the spell.
"They feed them silence. A luxury you seem unfamiliar with."
Sera straightened.
The voice belonged to a man leaning against one of the stone pillars—arms folded, robe dark and severe, with a silver crest that shimmered faintly at his belt. He was young—but not soft. Not like the Crown Prince, whose beauty wore the edges of still water. This one was sharp angles and narrowed eyes. No smiles. No silk.
And he was staring at her like she was a riddle written in the wrong language.
She smiled.
"Apologies," she said lightly. "I wasn't aware the fountains required mourning silence."
"They do not," he said. "But courtyards near the Eastern Study are restricted to scholars and nobles of rank. Which you are not."
Sera blinked, once.
And then her smile widened, slow and wicked.
"Ah," she said, "but I'm a guest of the Inner Court. And I was told to walk until the walls told me to stop. You must be the wall."
His mouth tightened. "You mistake hospitality for immunity."
"And you mistake curiosity for rebellion."
A beat.
He stepped forward—deliberate. Calculated. Sera could smell ink and sandalwood on his robes.
"You are foreign," he said.
It was not a question.
She nodded. "Partly."
"And imported."
"Gifted," she corrected, mock pride in her tone. "Like a rare book no one's quite sure how to read."
His gaze flicked down to her slippers, her cuffs, the embroidered braid on her sash.
"I do not care for foreign ornaments," he said flatly.
"And I do not care for stiff tongues that never taste honey," she replied, brushing imaginary dust from her sleeve. "But I suppose we all have our curses."
His brows lifted slightly—barely. It was the most expression he'd shown.
From behind him, a eunuch's voice called: "Your Highness, the Chancellor awaits."
Sera's smile faltered just slightly.
She bowed.
"Forgive me, Prince," she murmured. "I should have recognized the seal. I'll try to be more... ornamental next time."
He stared at her for a moment longer—expression unreadable—and then turned on his heel without a word.
---
Sera watched him go, one brow arched, amusement warming her cheeks.
Only when he disappeared behind the carved wooden screen did she whisper, "Well, well. The snake has scales."
Her maid stepped beside her, whispering with a tremble, "That was Prince Jianyu, the twelfth prince. He lives in the Scholar's Quarter. He's known to be... stern."
Sera glanced once more toward the empty corridor, where only dust motes lingered.
"He's known to be afraid," she corrected gently. "Afraid of what he doesn't understand."
She stepped back toward the path and adjusted her sash with a flick.
"And people like that," she added, "make the most interesting husbands."