Princess Royal

The entourage of masked guards moved swiftly through the night, their armor clinking in hushed rhythm, every sound controlled as though even the noise of their march was disciplined. Mingyao sat rigid in the palanquin, mind churning as she studied the soldiers through the narrow slit of the curtain.

Who were they really?

Rumors had long whispered through the royal court of an imperial shadow force—soldiers who moved at the emperor's command, carrying out missions too delicate, too brutal, or too shameful to ever be spoken of. They were said to wield authority unchecked, feared even by ministers and generals alike. Most dismissed the tales as drunken gossip, but now… watching the silent, faceless men at her side… Mingyao could no longer deny it.

The Jinwei.

Her heart sank. If these truly were the Jinwei, then what did their presence mean? And who had summoned her beneath their watchful escort?

The emperor himself?If so… how much did he know?

That she carried royal blood—certainly. But did he know the truth of who she was? The thought left her hollow, the silence of the march pressing against her ears like the weight of an ocean.

Mingyao tried to draw words from the guards as the palanquin swayed.

At first, her questions lightly slipped out as though in idle curiosity.

"Are we headed to the palace?"

No reply.

"Who gave the command?"

Their steps did not falter.

Her attempts grew sharper, tinged with unease. "If I am to stand before the emperor, then shouldn't I know why I was summoned?"

But the guards' silence was unyielding, their masks unreadable. The only answer was the soft thud of boots as they continued their march. Mingyao clenched her fists in her lap. Very well. If they would not speak, she would have to rely on her own eyes, her own wit. And if worst came to worst, she would carve her own exit—even if the chances were slim.

The procession continued toward the palace gates… only to veer sharply down another path.

Mingyao leaned forward, brow furrowed. This was not the way to the imperial court. Unfamiliar streets stretched ahead, winding into shadows she did not know. Her pulse quickened, though her expression remained carefully neutral.

Her hand shifted the curtain just enough to glimpse the road ahead. Soon, they halted before a sprawling estate. In the dim wash of moonlight, her eyes caught the gleam of a plaque etched with gilded characters:

Residence of Princess Taiping.

Mingyao's breath stilled. The Grand Princess.

Her mind reeled. She had never once stood in Princess Taiping's presence. Why summon her now? And more importantly—how did Taiping know of her existence at all?

Her gaze slid back to the guards. Were these truly Jinwei? Or a force loyal to the princess herself? The questions multiplied like shadows. Why had Taiping returned to the capital at all? She was known for keeping to her fiefdom, far from the court's poisonous intrigues. For her to return now meant something extraordinary had drawn her back. Had she come for the autumn festival—or had the emperor summoned her back for some darker purpose?

Mingyao's thoughts fractured as the palanquin crossed the threshold of the estate.

The palanquin crossed the threshold of the estate—and at once a foreign energy washed over her.

Her breath caught. It was as if unseen eyes crawled across her skin, as if whispers brushed her ears just beyond comprehension. The air was thick with a presence that was neither seen nor touched but pressed upon her senses all the same. Every nerve screamed of danger. Her instincts told her to flee, to retreat before it was too late.

But she could not. The masked men hemmed her in, and forward was the only path allowed.

She forced her breathing steady. One step at a time

The guards led her deeper into the estate, until the towering doors of the main hall loomed before them. She was made to wait in silence, the heavy gates closed, the vast courtyard empty save for the sound of cicadas in the night.

Minutes bled into what felt like hours. Mingyao kept her composure, but her thoughts whirled. Why her?

At last, a maid appeared, her steps light but her expression unreadable. She bowed and spoke softly:

"The Grand Princess will see you. Please, follow me."

The words sank like stones in Mingyao's stomach.

The palanquin curtain was lifted, and the cool night air brushed against her face. Mingyao stepped down, her silk shoes pressing against the stone path. The masked guards flanked her, silent as shadows, as she was escorted toward the grand hall where Princess Taiping awaited.

As Mingyao crossed the threshold of the grand hall, the air itself shifted.

A crushing pressure washed over her—heavy, suffocating, like standing before several grandmasters at once. Her knees nearly buckled beneath the invisible weight, her breath caught in her chest. Yet just as suddenly as it came, the force melted away, leaving nothing but still air and the echo of her own pounding heart.

She forced herself to walk on, steps steady despite the cold sweat clinging to her back.

The hall was vast, gilded lanterns casting stretched shadows against the carved pillars. Seated ahead were seven women arrayed in a crescent, each adorned in robes so rich and distinct it was as though they carried their own worlds upon their shoulders. The extravagant wear seemed to blur the line between mortal finery and divine vestment. Two attendants flanked each of them heads bowed low, silent and watchful. The three eldest sat to the left, bearing the stillness of mountains, while the four younger figures sat to the right, a spectrum of blooming ages—one even as young as Mingyao herself.

At the far end of the hall loomed a seat—empty, yet heavy with presence. It was no ordinary chair; it radiated authority, a throne by all but name. And in the deeper shadows behind the crescent of women, Mingyao's senses pricked. Hidden figures. Dozens of them. Their breaths were controlled, their qi sealed, but no mere guards could veil themselves so well. The pressure she had felt earlier… it must have been theirs.

Her pulse quickened.

"Welcome to my grand hall, young one."

The woman on the far left—perhaps in her forties—spoke first. Her voice was vibrant, commanding, yet warm enough to curl at the edges. It rang through the chamber as though the walls themselves bowed to her authority.

"You must be filled with questions."

This time, the second woman—slightly younger, her features sharp with a subtle regality—took the words, her tone smooth and deliberate, like the glide of a brush across silk.

"But first…"

This voice came from the right, younger, sharper, almost playful, belonging to a woman in her late twenties. She leaned forward slightly, her eyes gleaming.

"Do you know who I am?" All seven women spoke at once, their voices weaving together in perfect unison.

The hall seemed to tremble with the weight of it. The words reverberated not only through Mingyao's ears but through her body, rattling her senses. It was as though seven mouths spoke with one soul—the same cadence, the same authority, each syllable vibrating with weight that pressed against her bones.

Her breath caught as her eyes flicked from one face to the next.

Her eyes darted across their faces. Though they differed in age, every one of them bore uncanny resemblance to the others—the same arch of the brow, the same cold serenity in their gaze. As if they were reflections scattered across time, fragments of one being split into seven.

Her breath quickened. She did not dare risk offense. At once, she dropped to her knees and pressed her forehead to the floor, voice steady despite the tension in her chest.

"Long live Princess Taiping. May Your Highness endure a thousand years."

For a heartbeat, silence hung in the hall. Then a laugh rang out—bright, girlish, cutting the heavy air like a silver bell.

It came from the second last seat on the right, where a girl not much older than Mingyao sat. Her youthful eyes sparkled with mischief. Rising gracefully, she crossed the floor and clasped Mingyao's arms, lifting her gently.

"Very good," she said warmly, a smile curving her lips.

One by one, the other six women stirred, rising from their seats. They circled in, silk brushing silk, until Mingyao stood surrounded, the air thick with perfume, power, and something far less tangible—an eerie familiarity.

The young woman who had helped her smiled, eyes glinting like a cat at play. "Would you like to play a game with us?"

Mingyao blinked. "…A game?"

"Yes. A game," the eldest declared, her tone deep, imperious, like a gavel striking.

"What sort of game?" A lilting voice came from the youngest, seated at the far right—a girl with eyes too bright, too sharp for her tender age.

"Yes, what game?" Mingyao echoed, the words escaping her lips before she could bite them back.

The girl at her side leaned close, her voice soft and coaxing. "A simple one. A game to decide who deserves that seat."

Her hand lifted, finger pointing toward the vacant throne at the far end of the hall.

Mingyao's breath caught. "…In other words, you want me to choose which of you is truly Princess Taiping?"

The eldest inclined her head. "It is good that you understand."

Confusion twisted in Mingyao's chest, frustration simmering beneath. Had she been summoned here to unravel some childish trick? Forced to play a guessing game in a hall full of doppelgängers? To be toyed with by a woman who wielded such crushing power? The urge to speak out clawed at her throat, but she forced her lips shut, masking her turmoil with a composed bow of the head.

The eldest woman's gaze lingered on Mingyao, as though she could see the flicker of irritation beneath her carefully schooled calm. A faint smile curved her lips.

"Do not trouble yourself, child. Think of this only as a game. I once heard that, in certain foreign lands, when a bride is to be wed, she is veiled and placed among others—so the groom must choose his true bride. They say it strengthens their bond."

Her vibrant voice echoed through the chamber, filling the silence with authority.

"Doesn't that sound fun?" another chimed in, her tone lilting with a playful edge.

Mingyao hesitated. Her lips parted, and after a pause, she spoke slowly, her voice quiet but firm.

"It does… but if what you say is true, then that custom is meant for a man and his wife-to-be. Between me and the Grand Princess—it feels… inappropriate."

Laughter like silver bells broke the air. The girl closest to Mingyao's age tilted her head, eyes glimmering with mischief.

"Stop being so rigid, Your Highness. Can't you allow the princess to feel a little special? After all…" her smile softened into something almost wistful, "…this custom was passed to her by her dearest friend, the late empress."

Mingyao's body shifted ever so slightly, a movement so small most would have missed it. Yet within, the words struck a chord she could not ignore. Her eyes swept across the faces before her—similar yet different, mirrors of the same woman at different points in life.

"…Very well," she said at last, straightening her posture. "If I agree to this game, how is one to win? All I know of the princess are the rumors that circulate through the court. I have not seen her since birth. Portraits exist, yes, but they won't help here."

"Do not worry, Your Highness." The youngest spoke this time, her voice bright and airy, almost innocent. "I am certain you will win."

Mingyao allowed a faint, humorless smile. "Easy for you to say. At least give me a hint—and promise me a reward if I succeed."

The eldest chuckled. "Shrewd of you, young one."

The girl her own age clapped her hands lightly, delighted. "As expected. A game without stakes is no game at all. There must be rewards… and punishments."

"Punishment?" The youngest echoed the word, head cocked, as though testing the sound on her tongue.

"Yes," the eldest confirmed, voice cutting through. "Both reward and punishment give weight to play."

A faint crease marred Mingyao's brow. The mask of serenity cracked for an instant, revealing the frustration beneath. She wanted—desperately—to walk out of this farce, to refuse the theatrics her royal aunt had spun around her. But she drew in a slow breath, steeling herself.

"I suppose…" she said at last, her tone clipped, "if there are rewards to be gained, then punishments are only fair."

"Good." The second eldest's voice slid smoothly into the space, final and decisive. "Then we are agreed."

At a gesture from the third youngest, the attendants moved forward. Each bore a tray draped in a veil of crimson silk. One by one, they halted beside the seven women.

"Here is how the game shall be played," the eldest began, her voice resonant.

"Each of us holds an item that represents the Princess," the second eldest continued seamlessly, like lines of a memorized verse.

"Your task," said the third, her voice low and steady, "is to choose the one that best reveals her."

"The item in the Princess's own hands," the fourth added, "is the truest answer."

"Do not fear," the third youngest interjected, her eyes sparkling. "If you choose well, you will be richly rewarded."

"And if not," said the second youngest with a smirk, "there will still be no punishment—for this round."

"Yet the weight of your reward," the eldest clarified, "will depend on how close you come to the truth."

"Close… in what sense?" Mingyao asked carefully.

"In age," the youngest declared, her voice ringing like a bell.

"Age?" one of the older women scoffed, her eyes narrowing.

"Forgive me," the girl corrected, her cheeks coloring faintly. "Not years… but physical resemblance. Features. Form."

"That explanation is hardly better," the second youngest muttered under her breath before raising her voice again. "You understand what she means."

Mingyao let silence hang for a beat, her gaze shifting from the women to the veiled items.

At first, the game seemed nothing but the whims of a spoiled princess—an elaborate stage to force her niece into play. But as she turned the puzzle over in her mind, another possibility unfurled.

This was not a game for amusement.

This was a test.

The Grand Princess—whether feared, despised, or revered—was no fool. Favored by the late emperor, protected by the current, she had power enough to command armies with a single word. If she wished to assign Mingyao a task, she could have done so directly. So why the masquerade?

Unless…

"Your Highness, are you ready?"

The eldest woman's voice snapped Mingyao from her thoughts. It rolled through the hall like the toll of a bronze bell, steady and commanding. "If you are, we can begin. Remember—you have only one chance. Choose wisely.

Mingyao raised her head, her gaze sweeping across the seven women. Their attendants stepped forward, lifting silk veils one by one to reveal the objects in their hands. The hall seemed to hold its breath as she began her study, moving in order—from the youngest to the eldest.

The first woman had the air of spring about her. Innocent brown eyes, soft as river silt, met Mingyao's for a fleeting moment. Her jet-black hair was coiled loosely, pinned with a simple orchid petal. She wore robes of pale pink that clung delicately to her frame, radiating sweetness. Before her lay a white jade hairpin etched with a phoenix motif. Mingyao's heart stirred at once. So she must be the princess at her coming of age, she thought. The jade hairpin was a mother's gift, a symbol every young girl of noble birth cherished when stepping into womanhood.

Her eyes slid to the next woman. This one's presence was turbulent, like a storm half-sheathed in silk. Her brown eyes held a restless depth, a story unsaid. A chaotic bun was pierced through with golden pins and jingling ornaments. Her green hanfu, flowing and wild, seemed almost alive, shifting with unseen wind. On the floor before her rested a strange token: a white chrysanthemum petal bound with a crow's feather by a strand of red silk.

Mingyao stiffened. She had expected wedding veils or auspicious signs of union. But this—this was stark, jarring. The white flower sullied by a black feather. Did the princess loathe her husband so deeply she could only remember their union as corruption? The thought unsettled her, and she hastily turned her gaze to the third.

This woman radiated maturity. Her hanfu was more elaborate, emerald and crimson threads woven into golden phoenixes that shimmered with movement. Her dark gaze was steady, self-possessed, crowned by a golden coronet and a phoenix hairpin that glinted beneath the lantern light. Her item was a green jade pendant, carved with the fierce curves of a dragon. Mingyao breathed out quietly. The symbol is clear entry to motherhood

The fourth woman was more austere. Her purple robes draped with regal gravity, and her hair was coiled neatly with golden phoenix pins. Her bearing was less radiant, more restrained—like a queen who bore the weight of law. Her items were a bundle: red silk, a ripe pomegranate, and scrolls of text. A union of fertility, knowledge, and responsibility. Clearly a symbol of her parentage.

The fifth figure made Mingyao's chest tighten. She was clad in plain white, her hanfu stark and undecorated. Her face carried sorrow's weight, the air around her heavy with grief. Her hair was loosely bound, a plain pin its only anchor. Before her lay white mourning silk, a broken hairpin, and a willow branch. The simplicity was more painful than any splendor—it spoke of loss, of mourning, of something irreplaceable. Her child… Mingyao thought.

The sixth woman's robes were black as midnight, though phoenixes still blazed upon them in threads of gold. Her headpiece was weightier than the others, dragons etched in fierce detail. Yet what she laid before her was more haunting: a single lock of hair bound with a ribbon and her eyes were pools of sorrow and rage. 

And then—the last. The eldest. She wore an opulent hanfu of deep purple, embroidered so richly it seemed a tapestry. Her headwear rivaled a dowager empress's, radiant and heavy, matched by a blue chrysanthemum tucked in her coiffure—and again in the offerings at her feet. Power and memory braided together, the image of a woman beloved, revered, untouchable.

Mingyao exhaled slowly.

The pattern was unmistakable now. Each of the seven women was Princess Taiping herself, refracted through time. From a child swathed in innocence to the austere sovereign draped in robes of command, the hall had become a gallery of her life.

But which one was real?

Logic whispered that the eldest must be the answer: the woman crowned in dignity, veiled in authority. Yet… could it truly be so simple? What kind of test would that be, if it demanded nothing more than the obvious?

Her thoughts turned over and over, a restless tide.

Why show the arc of a life in pieces? Why not a single mask, a single form? Unless—

Her eyes drifted back to the objects laid out before her.

Unless Taiping wanted to mark not just what she had lived, but what she had lost. Unless she wished, even symbolically, to reach back and tug at the threads of fate.

People long to relive happiness. But scars — they linger, carved into the soul. To erase them outright is impossible. Yet to rewrite them, even in ritual, even in play — that offers a kind of control. A grasp at agency over the past.

Mingyao's gaze sharpened. What wound would Taiping choose to reopen? What moment, if given the chance, would she change?

Two figures stood out from the seven.

The woman in plain white robes — unmistakable mourning garb. That stage could only mark her grief for a lost child.

And then, darker still: the chrysanthemum bound to a crow's feather. White beauty, sullied by black wing. Purity chained to corruption. That union stank of bitterness, of loathing toward the husband she had once been bound to. Perhaps even a wish for both their deaths.

A chill crept along Mingyao's spine as she lingered on the image.

At first, her heart leaned toward the mother in mourning. Surely, to erase that grief would tempt any soul. Yet… no. The grief of losing a child, though it hollowed her, might have become something she had accepted as part of the cruel rhythm of life.

But the black-feathered chrysanthemum—no acceptance lay there. Only venom, only a wound still raw.

Mingyao's breath caught. That was it. That was the moment Taiping would seize upon, the shard of her past she would want to shatter and reforge.

Decision flaring in her chest, Mingyao stepped back, gaze fixed, and crossed the hall. Her hand rose, steady despite the storm within, and she pointed to the second-youngest woman in the line.

The hall froze. The silence was a held breath, a thousand eyes watching.

Then, at last, one of the women stirred. Her lips curved, cool and sharp as the edge of a blade.

"Well done, royal nephew," she said. Her voice rang like glass, steady and composed, yet threaded with something else — approval, even pride. "I knew you could do it."

Only then did Mingyao let the air escape her lungs, the tension uncoiling in her frame. Relief washed over her, though disbelief still clung. Could this truly be his aunt, radiant and impossibly young? And more unnerving still — how did she know of his situation?

The women dissolved back to their seats, movements graceful, seamless. From the circle's heart, one rose higher than the rest. Princess Taiping stepped toward the throne at the end of the hall, her presence solidifying like a storm gathering power.

She studied Mingyao, eyes like a river in shadow — deep, unreadable.

"Welcome, my nephew," she said. A smile ghosted across her lips. "Tell me — would you like to become the next Princess Royal?"

Mingyao's heart tightened, her mind racing.

So it was a test, after all. A test of my sight, my judgment… my worth. But to what end?