The moon hung low over the ancient kingdom of Lianhua, casting silver light across the sweeping rooftops of the palace. A gentle wind stirred the hanging wind chimes of the Eastern Pavilion, their delicate tones echoing into the quiet night.
Inside the royal chambers, the air was warm with the scent of sandalwood and plum blossom. Princess Zhao Yuyan lay upon her rosewood bed, the silk canopy swaying slightly above her. Red lanterns glowed softly on the carved walls, while painted screens of cranes and lotus blossoms stood like silent guardians across the room. A phoenix-shaped incense burner exhaled smoke in lazy curls beside her.
Tonight was the Lantern Festival. Outside, the city glittered with drifting lights. But Yuyan had chosen not to attend. Earlier that evening, her father—the Emperor—had handed her a book. Ancient, leather-bound, worn. No title graced its cover, only a fading symbol: a crescent moon wrapped in thorned vines.
> "This book carries more than just stories," he had said to her quietly. "It holds truths you may need one day. Read it, Yuyan. Let it speak to you."
She opened it as soon as he left.
The story told of a time long before hers—an era when magic coursed through the earth and sky, when vampires, witches, and humans all walked the same lands.
Back then, the vampires lived apart in high mountain realms. They were pale, graceful, and reserved. They did not hunt humans. In fact, they barely fed at all—sustaining themselves on animal blood, and only in rare moments of need. Blood, to them, was sacred, never consumed for power or pleasure.
The witches lived in the valleys and forests, deeply connected to the spirit world. They often aided humans, offering healing, wisdom, and guidance. There was no war, no hatred. Just distance and difference.
But then came the darkness.
The story shifted to the vampire court, ruled at the time by King Xuanyin —a wise and noble leader who upheld ancient restraint. But his younger brother, Prince Leng Yue , was not so patient.
Cold-hearted and ambitious, Leng Yue grew restless. In secret, he discovered a hidden truth: human blood—unlike any other—could awaken dormant powers in a vampire. Not just strength, but unthinkable vitality, speed, and immortality. No vampire had known this. No one had dared try.
But Leng Yue did.
He began capturing humans in secret, feeding in the shadows. With each life taken, his power deepened. Over the years, his body changed—sharpened. He grew stronger than any before him.
And then he struck.
The coup was swift. King Xuanyin and his loyalists were slaughtered. Leng Yue took the throne. The vampire kingdom fell into darkness. With the truth of human blood now known, feeding became law. Armies marched. Cities burned. Humans were no longer neighbors—they were prey.
When the witches learned of the fall, sorrow gripped their hearts. They believed the last royal bloodline was destroyed, and that there would be no end to the suffering of mankind.
But then, a vision.
The Great Seer Nianzu , the eldest of all witches, foresaw a faint flicker of hope: the king's youngest son—just a child—had survived the bloodshed.
In desperation, the witches proposed a dangerous bargain. In exchange for the prince, they would vow never to interfere in vampire affairs. Not even to save the humans.
It was a bitter decision. But they knew: the boy was precious. The future might still be changed.
Leng Yue, arrogant and amused, agreed. He considered the child worthless. Without hesitation, he handed the boy over to them.
Back in the present, Princess Yuyan closed the book with a loud snap.
"Such a stupid and boring story," she grumbled. "I hate Fù Huáng taste in stories."
She tossed the book onto her table. It landed with a soft thud. Stretching, she yawned and settled deeper into the cushions, her eyes fixed on the flickering shadows dancing across the ceiling.
Moments later, she was asleep.
Princess Zhao Yuyan slept soundly, her breath slow and even beneath the silken canopy of her bed. The soft flicker of lantern light danced along the walls, casting gentle shadows, while the incense of sandalwood still drifted faintly through the room.
In her dreams, the world shifted.
She found herself standing barefoot in a garden unlike any she had seen before—lush, endless, and bathed in the soft hues of twilight. The sky above glowed a gentle lavender, and moonflowers opened slowly under the breath of the evening breeze. Petals floated like feathers across the marble path beneath her feet. A soft stream ran nearby, its waters so clear that the moon's reflection shimmered perfectly on its surface.
And by that stream, she saw him.
A man sat alone on a flat stone at the water's edge, his back facing her. His long dark hair was tied in a high warrior's knot, cascading like black silk down his robes of deep jade and silver thread. In his hands, he held a flute carved from white jade. The melody he played was haunting—not sad, yet filled with yearning, as though the notes carried the memory of a love long lost and never spoken aloud.
Drawn by the music, Yuyan walked slowly, cautiously, the hem of her dream-gown brushing the grass, her heartbeat echoing louder than her footsteps. She didn't know why, but her chest ached with every note. The closer she drew, the more familiar his presence felt. There was something about him—a pull from somewhere deep within her soul.
As she neared, she reached out a hand—her fingertips trembled as they brushed his shoulder—
Suddenly, everything dissolved.
The garden vanished.
The music stopped.
The cool mist of the stream was replaced by warm morning sunlight.
A gentle tap on her shoulder pulled her out of sleep.
"Mistress Yuyan…" came a soft, worried voice.
Yuyan blinked her eyes open, vision adjusting to the familiar glow of her chambers. Her maid, Mei, stood beside her bed, her face etched with concern.
"Mistress, good morning." Mei's voice was low and careful. Her wide brown eyes searched Yuyan's face. "You were talking in your sleep. Is everything alright?"
Yuyan blinked again, the remnants of the dream still swirling like mist in her thoughts. For a moment, she almost reached for the sound of the flute, but it was gone.
She managed a faint smile. "It was nothing," she murmured. "Just a strange dream."
But her voice lacked conviction, and Mei could sense it.
Mei had been by Yuyan's side since childhood—more sister than servant, a constant shadow in her life. Though she never dared speak without permission before others, in private, their bond ran deep. She knew Yuyan's moods better than anyone.
Still, she didn't press. "Should I prepare your tea, Mistress?"
Yuyan nodded, sitting up slowly. The memory of the melody clung to her mind like dew on petals.
"Sweet plum blossom today," she said, her voice soft. "I think that would be nice."
Mei bowed gently and moved toward the adjoining tea room.
As Yuyan ran her fingers through her long pink hair, still tousled from sleep, she glanced sideways at the book still resting on her table—the same book from last night. Its pages no longer glowed. But the garden in her dream... the melody… the man...
She could still feel his presence.
And it felt far too real to be only a dream.