Linh Yue sat with both legs curled beneath her on a stiff bamboo mat, barely pretending to look interested as a very tall, very pale steward droned on about palace protocol with the soul-deep weariness of a man who had spent the last three decades folding napkins and enforcing silence.
"You are not to address His Highness unless spoken to. Do not initiate eye contact. Do not turn your back on him unless dismissed. You will enter from the eastern corridor at the third bell each morning, and you will bring no more than one satchel of tools or treatment items unless expressly permitted. Do not attempt to cross into the inner audience room unannounced. Do not…"
Yue blinked slowly.
She hadn't even stepped into her new quarters yet, and already she wanted to throw herself out a window. If she had to hear one more rule—
"…and under no circumstance are you to ask questions regarding His Highness's personal habits, condition, or schedule. Physicians are seen, not heard."
"Excellent," Yue said brightly, cutting him off mid-scroll. "That matches my natural desire to speak to no one and be left alone to die in peace."
The steward blinked.
He did not smile.
He rolled the scroll shut with the kind of dignity reserved for grandfathers and funerals, then motioned to a side door.
"You will be shown to your quarters now. Your assistant will brief you on daily coordination." He paused. "She is…"
The steward paused, mouth thinning slightly, as if the next words offended his sensibilities.
"…she is one of His Highness's personal attendants. She will assist you as assigned by the Inner Quarters."
"Does she speak in complete sentences?" Yue asked sweetly.
He did not dignify that with a reply.
He gestured stiffly, then turned and left without another word, his robes swishing like a disapproving curtain as he vanished down the corridor.
Yue stood, rolling her shoulders. "Well, that was warm," she muttered.
The side door slid open.
In stepped a young woman with bright almond-shaped eyes, two neat buns pinned on either side of her head, and the unmistakable air of someone who knew exactly how ridiculous court formality was and had decided to survive it with sarcasm and snacks.
"You must be the sarcastic miracle worker," the woman said, grinning.
Yue blinked. "You must be the assistant who's going to get us both fired."
"Han Jue," the girl said, offering a small, mostly ceremonial bow. "And you're Yue. Or, according to the gossip three halls over, 'that head physician's terrifying favorite with the loose tongue and unmatched diagnostic precision.'"
Yue tilted her head. "Terrifying favorite? That's new."
"You make people nervous," Han Jue said cheerfully. "It's a gift."
"I prefer to think of it as a natural side effect of competence."
Han Jue hooked her arm around Yue's without waiting for permission. "Come on. I'll show you your rooms. Then I'll give you the real tour. Not the official one with all the rules. The one with the shortcut to the kitchens and the servants who will actually talk to you."
Yue allowed herself to be pulled down the stone hallway, their footsteps echoing softly beneath high ceilings.
"Don't I need to be escorted like a criminal every time I sneeze?" Yue asked.
"Oh, absolutely," Han Jue said. "But everyone's too afraid of the Crown Prince to question anything that involves you right now. You're a royal physician. Technically, you outrank most of the outer servants."
"Technically," Yue repeated, amused.
"You should enjoy the illusion of power while it lasts. Come. This way."
They walked through three connected courtyards, past koi ponds and trimmed trees sculpted into unnatural perfection. The scent of osmanthus hung thick in the warm air.
Yue's new quarters were modest but clean—two beds, a table by the window, and a washbasin beside a low dressing cabinet. The bedding was crisp white, stitched with faint gold.
"You're bunking with me," Han Jue said, plopping onto the edge of the second bed. "You snore?"
"Only when I'm plotting rebellion," Yue replied.
Han Jue grinned. "Perfect. You'll fit right in."
_______________
Yue wasn't a morning person.
She especially wasn't a pre-dawn, stiff-uniform, "don't make a sound as you walk through five echoing courtyards" kind of morning person. But apparently, the Crown Prince trained before the third bell each day like some sort of royal ghost who didn't believe in sleep or joy.
So here she was.
Standing under a paper parasol with Han Jue by her side, watching Crown Prince Ji An slash through the air with a wooden training blade like it had personally offended him.
"Does he do this every day?" Yue asked, voice just above a whisper.
"Every day, same hour, same pattern," Han Jue whispered back. "Even in the rain. Especially in the rain, actually. He likes dramatic weather."
"Of course he does."
They stood in the covered walkway that bordered the eastern training yard. The morning mist still clung to the stone tiles, curling around Ji An's boots as he moved. Three guards stood on the far side, watching—not guarding, exactly, but silently acknowledging his strength. Or maybe bearing witness.
Yue studied him carefully.
His footwork was precise. Weight evenly distributed. But every time he shifted into a wide stance, his left shoulder lifted a little too high. The strike that followed came a fraction late. Barely enough to notice—but enough.
"He's compensating," Yue muttered, more to herself than Han Jue.
"For what?" Han Jue asked.
"Old injury. Left scapula or shoulder joint. Scar tissue, probably."
"You saw that in ten minutes?"
"I saw that in five."
Han Jue gave her a look that hovered between impressed and slightly afraid. "You are terrifying."
Yue shrugged. "He's going to make it worse if he keeps moving like that."
The prince finished his form and stood still, breathing steadily, eyes on the horizon. One of the guards stepped forward to offer him a cloth, but he waved the man off.
Yue stepped forward slightly, her parasol tilting just enough to cast shadow over the hem of her robe.
Immediately, one of the outer guards moved in front of her, hand lifted—polite, but firm.
She didn't even blink. "Tell His Highness his left shoulder is dislocated. Again."
A beat of silence passed. The guard didn't move.
Yue turned to Han Jue. "Would you mind?"
Han Jue stepped forward, clearly trying not to grin. "I'll pass it along."
The message was whispered down the line like an imperial game of "Truth or Die." It made its way through one attendant, then another, before finally reaching the prince himself. Ji An didn't look at them. Didn't respond.
But when he turned to leave the yard, his left arm remained very, very still.
Later that afternoon, Yue returned to her quarters to find a folded cloth parcel on the low table near her bed. Inside: a sling. Properly knotted. Lightly used.
No note.
No seal.
Just confirmation.
He'd listened.
She smiled to herself, just slightly.
"Progress," she muttered. "In prince-speak."
The next morning, Yue stood in the palace infirmary's brewing chamber — a sun-drenched side room lined with copper kettles and shelves of dried roots, leaves, and resin-stoppered jars. She ran her fingers along the rows until she found what she needed: safflower, ginseng bark, and a pinch of blue gardenia.
"Muscle restoration with just enough bitterness to offend him," she muttered, weighing the ingredients with the kind of care typically reserved for poisons.
Han Jue leaned against the wall, watching her work with wide eyes.
"You do know he never drinks his tonics, right?"
Yue didn't look up. "He will drink this one."
"Bold of you to assume."
Yue ladled the first steep into a porcelain cup and sniffed it. Then winced.
"Perfect," she said.
Han Jue peered over her shoulder. "That smells like scorched earth and boiled regret."
"Exactly what I was going for."
They delivered the tray through a servant runner—protocol demanded Yue not hand things to the prince directly unless summoned. She watched the boy carry it off with solemn dignity, cringing inside as the door to the prince's quarters clicked shut behind him.
Five minutes passed.
Ten.
The tray returned.
Cup untouched.
"See?" Han Jue sighed. "He doesn't even pretend to be polite."
Yue stared at the full cup, then grabbed it with both hands, returned to the chamber, and dumped the liquid with flair.
"Plan B," she said darkly.
Plan B included wormwood. And black garlic.
Han Jue backed away slowly. "Should I warn the prince you're declaring war?"
"No need," Yue said. "He'll taste it."
The second cup was darker. Less fragrant. Stronger.
She scribbled a small note and tucked it under the rim of the saucer:
"You'll hate this one more."
That tray went out with a different servant.
This time, it came back thirty minutes later.
The cup was empty.
No message.
No response.
Just a clean, dry cup.
Han Jue whistled. "I'm… weirdly aroused."
Yue rolled her eyes. "Please don't be."
"No, I mean by the mutual spite. It's very… flirty."
"It's medical," Yue snapped.
"Mmhm."
Yue folded the note she'd sent, retrieved it from under the empty saucer, and tucked it into her sleeve.
She didn't smile.
But her eyes sparkled just slightly as she turned back to the brewing table.
By evening, Linh Yue had unpacked everything she owned into half a cabinet and one corner of the shared room she now occupied with Han Jue.
She liked the room more than she'd expected. The window overlooked a small ornamental pond with stone steps and sleepy koi. The bedding was clean, the floor polished, and the lanterns cast a warm glow that softened the clinical edges of palace life.
Han Jue had already claimed the left side of the room and populated it with three pairs of embroidered slippers, an illegal stash of candied lotus seeds, and a tiny hand-painted fan that read: "I Do Not Listen to Orders, Only Good Ideas."
"Subtle," Yue said, eyeing the fan.
"Thank you," Han Jue said, lying flat on her back on the bed. "It keeps me from being smothered in my sleep by palace hierarchy."
Yue snorted and rolled up her sleeves, sorting through a pile of folded linens. "You do realize you're supposed to be one of those layers of hierarchy."
"Technically. But no one listens to me. I'm a personal attendant with a big mouth. I have no real power and no real fear. It's the perfect position."
"I'll give you that. You're strangely unbothered by the terror of being executed."
Han Jue sat up and grabbed a roasted chestnut from a hidden paper pouch beside her pillow. "Want one?"
Yue hesitated. "You just pulled that out from under your bedding."
"It's a palace-grade chestnut. These pillows are cleaner than my conscience."
Yue accepted one and cracked the shell with her teeth. "Fair."
They chewed in companionable silence for a few minutes before Han Jue's gaze slid toward her sideways.
"So," she said, voice drawn out and casual, "His Highness drank your tonic."
Yue raised a brow, gasped and replied sarcastically. "You heard about that?"
"I spread it. And you're welcome."
"I'm not trying to make a name for myself."
Han Jue smirked. "You're succeeding anyway. Half the servants are terrified of you. The other half are betting on when you'll be dismissed for saying something sarcastic during a pulse check."
"Let them bet. I'll split the winnings with you when I survive the year."
"Deal." Han Jue popped another chestnut into her mouth. "So, do you like him?"
Yue choked.
Han Jue grinned. "That's a yes."
"That is not a yes," Yue sputtered, coughing. "That is a 'please choke quietly while I clarify that the prince is a well-dressed statue with no emotional function.'"
"So, your type."
Yue groaned. "Absolutely not."
"You're blushing."
"I'm overheating. That's different."
Han Jue rolled over onto her stomach, kicking her feet up like a gossiping schoolgirl. "Come on. You have to admit he's… intense."
"He stared at me for fifteen seconds, then insulted my voice," Yue said. "That's not intense. That's customer service at a haunted tea shop."
Han Jue laughed so hard she nearly fell off the bed.
When she finally calmed, she propped her chin on her palms. "I like you. You're not afraid of him."
Yue shrugged. "Fear doesn't help me treat him. If he hates me, I still have to check his pulse. If he respects me, I still have to check his pulse. Either way, my fingers end up on his wrist. So he can deal with it."
Han Jue tilted her head. "You're going to last longer here than anyone expects."
Yue leaned back on her elbows. "I always do."
——————
The prince's receiving room was the same as before: too quiet, too perfect, the air just a little too still. Yue stepped inside when summoned, kit slung under one arm, her robes crisp, her expression unreadable.
Ji An was seated on a raised wooden platform behind a small table. His robes were pale grey today, the sleeves loosely draped over his hands. He didn't look at her when she entered.
She bowed low. "Physician Linh Yue, reporting for the midday examination."
Still no response.
Good, she thought. Let's keep the standard low.
A guard stood at the far wall, still as a statue. Another attendant hovered near the screen, then slipped away silently when Ji An lifted two fingers in a lazy, almost imperceptible gesture.
The room cleared.
She stepped forward.
"I'll begin with pulse and temperature," she said, kneeling before the low table, unpacking her kit.
He offered his arm without a word.
His wrist was bare — surprisingly so — and she blinked once before leaning forward. His skin was cool. Smooth. Veins faintly visible beneath the surface. She pressed two fingers gently to the radial point and counted silently.
…Even.
…Slow.
…but just a hint of irregularity in the final beat of each cycle. Almost imperceptible.
She adjusted her pressure.
He didn't move. He also didn't blink.
She felt his eyes on her.
"I noticed some joint strain during your training," she said, eyes on her own hand. "If you keep favoring the right side, you're going to overcompensate and cause muscle erosion."
No answer.
She glanced up. "Unless that's your plan?"
His gaze didn't shift, but something in it sharpened.
"You assume too much," he said finally, voice cool.
"It's part of the job," Yue replied, reaching for her thermometer vial. "Assume. Diagnose. Be unappreciated. Repeat."
That earned her… nothing. Not even the ghost of a smirk.
She uncorked the vial, placed a drop of the herbal solution on the copper reading strip, and held it briefly to his temple. The strip darkened to a healthy green.
"No fever," she said. "Good circulation in the upper arms. Your diet's being followed, more or less. I'll need to adjust the evening blend, though. Your sleep cycle's off."
At that, his brow twitched.
She watched him from the corner of her eye. "You're having trouble sleeping."
Still, he didn't answer.
She returned to her notes and began writing.
Loudly.
Each stroke of her brush was exaggerated, deliberate. She made a show of tapping the ink stone between sentences.
Finally, he spoke.
"Speak less."
Yue didn't look up. "Write more. Got it."
He didn't move, but she saw the faintest tension settle in his shoulders.
They sat in silence as she finished the note.
When she packed up to leave, she bowed again, just as formally.
"Midday assessment complete, Your Highness. I'll revise your prescriptions and submit the record to the Bureau."
He gave no acknowledgment.
As she turned to go, she let her voice drop just loud enough to carry:
"Next time, I'll bring stronger ink. That way you won't have to wonder whether I'm talking or just thinking very loudly."
The corner of his mouth didn't move.
But his eyes—those sharp, unreadable eyes—followed her all the way to the door.
Evening fell slow and golden, pouring into the palace courtyards in syrupy light as Yue made her way back to the physician's wing. The hem of her robe caught a breeze scented faintly of citrus blossom, and behind her, the hush of the Crown Prince's chambers swallowed itself shut with a near-silent click.
She walked calmly until the corner.
Then she exhaled, raked a hand through her hair, and muttered, "Speak less, he says. As if he even knows how to speak more."
Han Jue was waiting near the room, kneeling over a bowl of candied fruit and grinning like she'd just won a bet. "So? Did His Highness blink at you threateningly again?"
Yue dropped her satchel beside the cabinet with a soft thud. "He told me to speak less. Which, frankly, is the most words I've gotten out of him so far. I think I might be growing on him."
"Like mold?"
"Exactly."
She started to unpack her kit — and paused.
Tucked between her clean linens and parchment binder was a slip of folded paper she hadn't placed there.
She pulled it free slowly.
The paper was thick. Palace grade. No wax seal, no name. Just a list. Neatly written in a strong, practiced hand.
Golden linden leaf. Dried lotus root. Mulberry bark — low dose.
No valerian. Causes reaction.
She read it twice.
Once quickly.
Once slowly.
Then again.
Han Jue peered over. "What's that?"
Yue didn't answer at first. She turned the paper over. Blank on the back.
No signature. No instructions.
But it didn't need one.
The list wasn't something from the Bureau. It wasn't standard. It was specific.
It was hers.
And he'd read it.
She folded it carefully, tucked it into her sleeve, and sat on the edge of the bed.
"Well," she said, almost to herself. "He does talk. Just not like a normal human."
Han Jue squinted. "That sounded suspiciously like admiration."
"That sounded like clinical observation."
"You're smiling."
Yue looked up. She was.
She swatted Han Jue with a pillow and said, "I'm going to poison you with mulberry bark."
Han Jue snorted. "Wouldn't be the worst death in this place."
And outside, somewhere beyond the quiet walls and stone corridors, the Crown Prince sat behind a screen and stared at an empty tea cup, unreadable as ever.
But in the stillness, he'd spoken.
And Yue had heard it.