You're seriously selling me off to the crown prince?" Linh Yue exclaimed as she burst into the Head Physician's private office, her sleeves half-pushed up and hair slightly damp from the midday heat.
The sharp scent of crushed lotus root filled the air, mixed with dried sandalwood and the faint earthy smell of old medicinal books. Bai Song didn't look up. He was hunched over his desk as always, brush in hand, writing in tight, meticulous characters across a worn scroll.
"I'm not selling you off," he said evenly, finishing his line with a firm stroke. "I'm appointing you."
Yue crossed her arms. "Ugh! Working at the palace is going to be so boring! So many strict rules with eyes on you everywhere!" Her voice pitched upward with dramatic despair.
"Not like you're going there to have fun," Bai Song replied without missing a beat.
She moved around his desk with a practiced familiarity, leaning forward until she was inches from his ear. "Old man," she whispered conspiratorially, "be honest—how much were you paid?"
That earned her a response. Bai Song finally looked up from his work with a patient sigh, rolled the scroll into a tight cylinder, and whacked her on the head with it.
"Ouch!" Yue rubbed her crown with a pout that bordered on theatrical. "Abuse! Witnessed and recorded!"
"Why would I sell you off when I can give you to them for free?" he muttered, turning to the shelf behind him. He selected a leather-bound volume by touch alone, as if the placement of every book was carved into his memory.
"Wowww," Yue clapped her hands slowly. "So generous. Such a benevolent father figure."
"You're not my daughter," Bai Song said, flipping the book open. "You just act like one. A particularly annoying one."
She perched on the edge of his desk, ignoring the way he gave her a disapproving glance. "Xiao Ren would die to do this. Why pick me?"
Bai Song looked over his glasses at her, his expression finally serious. "I didn't pick you just because I could pick anyone. I appointed you because I trust you. It's the Royal Palace. Not just anywhere."
Something in his voice made her sit straighter.
For a moment, the room quieted. Outside, the wind stirred the wind chimes strung over the window—little copper bells that had hung there since she was ten. They tinkled like old laughter, like comfort.
Yue blew out a breath. "You're really not joking, are you?"
"I rarely do," he said mildly.
"You do when you drink ginseng wine," she countered.
"That's not joking," he muttered. "That's survival."
Yue hesitated. Then: "You said it was a request. From the Crown Prince?"
Bai Song nodded. "He sent word through the Imperial Health Bureau. He wants someone from the State Clinic with high clearance and specialization in circulatory medicine."
"That's weirdly specific."
"It is," he agreed. "Which is why I'm sending someone who knows how to keep her mouth shut."
"Flattery," Yue said, holding a hand over her heart. "I'm touched."
He gave her a look. "You're used to handling difficult cases. And difficult people."
"You mean you."
"I meant nobles," he said dryly, "but thank you for volunteering yourself."
She sighed dramatically, sliding off the desk. "How long do I have?"
"You leave at dawn."
"What?" she yelped.
"You'll be escorted by a palace carriage. I've prepared your documents and letters of clearance." He gestured toward a small lacquered box on the side table. "Also, your registration seal. Try not to lose it this time."
"That was once," she muttered, grabbing the box with a scowl.
"And bring your green kit. The full one."
"Seriously? You think he's dying?"
"No," Bai Song said. "But he might be lying."
Yue paused. "Lying about what?"
Bai Song looked back down at his papers and didn't answer right away.
After a moment, he said, "Don't ask questions until you're inside. And don't speak unless spoken to. He's not known for patience."
Yue rolled her eyes. "Lovely. Just my type."
He didn't respond, but his eyes flicked up once more.
Then, in a softer tone: "You'll do well."
She blinked. It wasn't often Bai Song said anything like that out loud.
She opened her mouth to make a joke—but for once, nothing came.
a sunbeam, until Yue finally let out a breath and dropped onto the cushion beside the low table with theatrical defeat.
"So let me guess. I'm going to be poking needles into royal flesh and pretending I don't hear political whispers?"
Bai Song made a faint noise. "Close enough."
She pulled the lacquered box toward her and opened it. Inside were four neatly stacked slips of authorization paper, her registration seal, and a long, folded scroll with a wax emblem pressed into the ribbon — the imperial insignia.
She raised a brow. "So official. Are they planning to frame me the moment something goes wrong?"
"Undoubtedly."
"I knew it."
He picked up a porcelain teacup and blew on the surface before sipping. "They didn't just ask for a physician. They asked for a female physician. That narrows the list to three. One is barely sixteen. One stutters when under pressure. Then there's you."
"Oh, so I'm the least of all evils," she said, mockingly. "I'm honored."
"No," he said. "You're the one I trained."
Yue paused, lips parting, just a little. Her hand hovered above the registration seal. Then, quickly, she closed the box.
"You know I don't care about fancy places," she said, softer now. "And I definitely don't care about bowing to princes."
Bai Song leaned back. "But you do care about patients who don't let themselves be treated."
That struck a nerve. Her eyes flickered up to meet his.
"What else do you know?" she asked.
"Enough," he said simply. "Enough to know he doesn't trust the people already treating him. And that he doesn't want anyone near him who answers to the palace first."
"And you think I don't?"
He gave her the faintest of smiles. "You answer to no one. That's your most irritating trait. And your most valuable."
She snorted, crossing her arms. "You make me sound so charming."
He stood then, walked to one of the shelves near the back wall, and opened a small wooden drawer built into the frame. After a pause, he drew something out — a long, narrow box.
She tilted her head.
"You already gave me a gift last New Year. That ghastly dried fish paste. I'm still traumatized."
Bai Song didn't answer. He returned to the table and placed the box in front of her.
Inside was a slender silver hairpin, curved at the tip like a crescent moon. Its body was carved with tiny motifs of lotus leaves and small, careful characters — protection charms for health, balance, and silence.
She stared at it, then slowly picked it up.
"I had it commissioned when you passed the upper exam," he said. "You were seventeen. I never gave it to you because I figured you'd just pawn it for more scalpels."
Yue blinked hard. "…I would have."
He nodded. "That's why I'm giving it to you now."
She looked down at the pin in her hand. Then, with a forced smile, she slid it into her hair without ceremony, twisting it through the braid at her crown.
"There," she said. "Now I look slightly more like a respectable palace woman and slightly less like an escaped herbalist."
"You'll do," he said mildly.
Then, more quietly: "Be careful, Yue."
The use of her name without title made her chest tighten.
She stood. "Don't start acting sentimental now, old man. You'll give me emotional hives."
"Go pack," he said instead, waving her off. "And no sarcasm in the official paperwork."
She grinned and made a sharp bow with a theatrical flourish. "Of course, Head Physician Bai Song. Your most obedient servant."
"Don't lie."
By the time the sun dipped low and turned the tiled roofs of the State Clinic a dusty gold, Linh Yue had packed everything she needed into a single travel case. It was long, narrow, and worn at the corners — like her. Inside were three sets of clean robes, her medical kit, two notebooks (one for patient notes, one for scribbled complaints), several jars of dried herbs, and a small pouch of coin Bai Song had slipped her without comment.
She closed it with a click and straightened just as Xiao Ren barreled into her room.
"You're leaving already?" he asked, breathless, as if she might vanish before he finished the sentence.
"I leave at dawn," Yue replied, tying a strip of cloth around the handles. "You still have time to organize a protest."
"I'm this close to it," he said, holding up his fingers. "I can't believe you get to go to the palace. The actual palace. You're going to treat the Crown Prince."
She turned to face him with mock solemnity. "Yes. Me. Not you."
"You're not even excited!" he cried. "If it were me, I'd have fainted already from joy!"
"You did faint once," she reminded him. "Because you thought powdered deer horn was edible."
"It looked like sweet root!"
She burst out laughing, and despite himself, so did he.
But when the laughter faded, he looked down, twisting the hem of his tunic.
"You're really going?" he asked, softer this time.
"Mm-hm."
"You'll… come back?"
Yue hesitated. Then reached up and flicked him on the forehead.
"Of course I'll come back," she said. "I can't leave you alone with the sterilization process. You'd mix the vinegar with the powdered ink again and set the entire lab on fire."
"That happened once!"
"Twice."
He tried to glare but ended up looking like a sulky cat.
She grinned and grabbed her case.
Together, they walked through the outer halls of the clinic — the smell of fresh herbs, the echo of footfalls on worn wooden floors. A few apprentices waved as she passed. Some bowed. Some whispered.
The royal seal on her clearance paper had spread through the place like wildfire. She didn't blame them for gossiping.
At the front courtyard, Bai Song was waiting beside the clinic gate. His hands were folded behind his back, and his expression was unreadable — which meant he was trying not to say anything sentimental.
"Don't forget to tell the palace staff you need a boiling basin at all hours," he said when she stopped in front of him. "And don't trust anyone who offers 'pre-prepared infusions.' Brew your own."
"Obviously."
He looked at her for a long moment. Then pulled a small packet from his sleeve and pressed it into her palm.
"For pain," he said. "Yours or his."
Yue stared at the packet, then at him.
"You think he's in pain?"
"I think he's hiding something."
She opened her mouth to joke, to ask if he'd finally decided to dabble in court conspiracies, but something about his tone made her pause.
Then he added, almost too softly, "They don't always want you to heal the body."
She looked up.
"Sometimes," he continued, "they just want you to say it can't be healed. Because then it stops being a problem."
Her fingers closed around the packet.
She didn't ask what he meant.
She just nodded, once, and bowed — a real one, this time.
And with that, she turned and walked through the gate.
The carriage sent by the palace was lacquered black with golden trim, its wheels near silent as they turned over the stone road that led through the capital. The horses were immaculate, their manes braided and polished. The footman didn't speak to her, nor did the guards riding ahead. Yue sat alone inside, fingers drumming on the wood panels.
She had worn her cleanest robe — pale blue with stitched magnolia blossoms — and pinned her hair back with Bai Song's crescent pin, though it felt too formal, like someone else's accessory.
The city gave way to quiet courtyards and walled paths. Then, beyond the rising mist and trimmed hedgerows, the Imperial Palace loomed into view.
It was massive.
Not just in scale, but in presence — like a silent deity watching from its hilltop throne. Curved rooftops overlapped like dragon's scales, tiled in deep red and blue enamel. The entrance gate alone had more carvings than the entire clinic's library.
Yue leaned out slightly, peeking through the open lattice window. "Well," she muttered to herself, "at least it's not ugly."
The guard beside the carriage didn't react. Obviously.
The carriage rolled through the outer gate, then another, then another. At the fourth checkpoint, Yue was asked to step out. She did so, dusting her sleeves, trying not to squint in the rising morning light.
A woman in dark green robes approached. Her hair was braided into a tight crown, and not a single strand was out of place. Her expression had been boiled out of her face sometime in her early twenties.
"Physician Linh Yue?" the woman asked, flatly.
"That's me," Yue replied cheerfully.
The woman blinked once. Slowly. "You will be searched. Then escorted."
"Lovely," Yue said. "Is there a complimentary drink, or…?"
No response.
She was led behind a screen and asked to remove her outer robe and boots. A palace matron examined her belongings with gloved hands, sniffing vials and uncapping jars. Yue watched the whole thing with detached amusement. When one jar of powdered ginger was flagged suspiciously, Yue quipped, "Be careful. That's extremely spicy treason."
The matron didn't even flinch.
Once cleared, Yue was given back her things and led in silence through a long hallway paved with polished jade. Their footsteps echoed like a warning bell. She passed murals of past emperors, floor-to-ceiling silk screens, and flower arrangements so carefully composed they looked painted.
She also noticed the lack of sound. No laughter. No conversation. Just footsteps and wind through chimes.
By the time they reached the third inner wall, Yue was beginning to feel it — the subtle pressure of eyes. The invisible weight of protocol, watching from every arch and corner.
The palace wasn't loud.
But it was loudly silent.
At last, they stopped in front of a pair of tall carved doors — not yet the prince's inner chamber, but the outer reception room connected to his quarters. A man in blue robes bowed and motioned her forward.
"His Highness will see you now."
Yue adjusted her robe, checked the knot of her sash, and stepped inside.
The doors clicked shut behind her.
The air inside the prince's receiving room was cooler than the outer halls, with the faintest scent of sandalwood and old cedar in the air. The walls were lined with scrolls and calligraphy — no portraits, no distractions. The furniture was low and minimal. Every object was placed with intention.
Linh Yue was alone.
She glanced once at the silk screen in the corner, behind which shadowed figures moved in quiet patterns. Attendants. Guards, maybe. Not for her.
She stood in the center of the room on the embroidered lotus bloom stitched into the rug and clasped her hands behind her back. Her heartbeat was even. Her posture perfect. She knew how to be quiet when it mattered.
The silence stretched.
She let her eyes wander.
The calligraphy scroll nearest the right wall read:
A ruler speaks not with his voice, but his stillness.
She raised a brow. "Wow," she muttered. "Sounds exhausting."
Just then, a set of footsteps approached from the inner chamber.
She straightened, chin up, gaze slightly lowered. But not too low. She wasn't a servant. She was here on appointment.
The Crown Prince entered.
He was taller than she expected. Slender, built like a sword rather than a wall. His dark hair was tied into a single, flawless knot, not a strand out of place. His robes were ink black with silver lining — severe, quiet elegance. His face was expressionless.
No, not expressionless — carefully void.
His eyes were colder than the room. Sharp, deep-set, unreadable. Not curious. Not hostile. Simply… uninterested.
He didn't speak as he approached. Didn't bow. Didn't sit.
He stood directly before her, glancing once at the physician's insignia on her belt.
Then, at last, he said, "Don't waste time."
His voice was low, smooth, and glacial.
Linh Yue bowed, low and crisp, then rose.
"I'm already bored," she replied automatically—then immediately flinched and coughed into her sleeve. "I-I mean—honored. Deeply. Honored."
The silence that followed was the kind that drew blood from pride.
He didn't blink. Didn't react.
For a long moment, they stood like that.
Finally, he turned.
And walked past her, toward the inner door.
She remained in place, back straight, heart pounding — not from fear, but the deep, infuriating urge to laugh.
He paused at the threshold.
Without looking at her, he said, "A physician who speaks too much is harder to replace."
Then he disappeared through the door.
She stared at the spot he'd just been, lips twitching.
"Oh," she murmured. "I'm going to have fun with you."