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Before the dragon throne, before the vermilion seals and the endless kneeling of ministers, before the empire began to weigh upon his shoulders like iron-there had been a time when Emperor Xiao Zhenyu was simply Zhenyu.
And beside him, always, was Princess Xiao Lihua.
In those days, the palace had not yet learned to be quiet.
Morning light would spill across jade-tiled roofs, warming courtyards filled with peonies and magnolia trees. Servants moved without fear in their steps.
Laughter did not echo suspiciously; it rang freely. The imperial banners fluttered like bright wings against the sky, and the scent of sandalwood drifted lazily through open windows.
Zhenyu remembered the warmth most of all.
He remembered his father's voice-a deep, commanding sound that could silence a hall of a hundred officials yet soften completely when calling his children.
The late Emperor was a warrior carved from discipline, broad-shouldered and resolute, but in private moments he would crouch to Lihua's height and allow her to braid thin ribbons into the tassels of his ceremonial sword.
"You will weaken my dignity," he would say in mock sternness.
"You have too much of it," Lihua would reply boldly, her small fingers deft despite their size.
Their mother, the Empress, would watch with a gentle smile from beneath silk sleeves. Where the Emperor commanded like thunder, she moved like flowing water.
Her presence did not demand attention; it invited peace. She had a way of smoothing tension from the air simply by entering a room.
Zhenyu had inherited his father's silence.
Lihua had inherited their mother's light.
As children, they were inseparable.
Zhenyu rose before dawn for his lessons-classical texts, governance, history, military strategy. He learned calligraphy until his wrist ached and recited philosophy until his throat felt dry. His tutors praised his composure.
They called him mature beyond his years.
Lihua would often slip into the study hall unannounced, her hair half-pinned, her expression mischievous.
"You study too much," she would whisper loudly, despite the tutor's presence.
The tutor would cough disapprovingly.
Zhenyu would not lift his eyes from the scroll.
But when she tugged at his sleeve and pressed a candied plum into his palm, he would close his fingers around it without a word.
After lessons, she would drag him to the gardens.
The imperial garden during spring was a living painting. Plum blossoms drifted like pale snow. Carp rippled the surface of still ponds. Stone bridges arched delicately over quiet water, and the great willow tree near the western pond trailed its long branches like curtains of silk.
Lihua adored that willow.
She claimed it was bowing to her.
Zhenyu told her trees did not bow.
She insisted he lacked imagination.
Sometimes she would hide behind its cascading branches and call out, "Find me, Brother!"
He always pretended not to see her slippers peeking out from beneath the leaves.
He always found her anyway.
But even in those warm days, there were shadows.
Lihua had been a fragile child.
Her laughter was bright, but her body was not strong. When seasons changed, fever often followed. At first, it was mild-a day of rest, a bitter cup of medicine. The Empress would sit beside her bed, brushing cool cloths across her forehead, humming soft lullabies that seemed older than the palace itself.
Zhenyu would linger by the doorway, pretending to be unaffected.
Yet he never left entirely.
He would wait until the physicians declared her fever reduced before returning to his chambers.
The first time her illness frightened him was during a winter when snow fell heavier than usual. The palace roofs turned white, and the air sharpened with cold.
Lihua had insisted on playing in the courtyard, chasing snowflakes with outstretched hands. By nightfall, she was trembling beneath thick quilts, her skin flushed with unnatural heat.
Zhenyu was nine.
He stood beside her bed, fists clenched inside his sleeves.
"Will she recover?" he asked the physician.
The old man bowed low.
"Her Highness has a delicate constitution, but we will do everything within our ability."
Delicate constitution.
Zhenyu hated those words.
He sat beside her that night.
At some point in the darkness, she stirred and opened her eyes.
"Brother," she murmured weakly.
"I am here," he replied immediately.
Her fingers found his sleeve and curled into the fabric. "Don't let go."
He did not.
When morning came and her fever broke, he exhaled a breath he had not realized he was holding.
Their father heard of the illness and ordered additional guards around the princess's quarters, as though soldiers could fight fever.
He called for the best physicians in the capital. He blamed the winter wind.
But it was not wind.
It was simply the fragility of a body that carried too much light.
As they grew older, responsibilities sharpened.
Zhenyu began training in swordsmanship beneath the watchful gaze of military instructors.
His father insisted upon it.
"A ruler who cannot defend his realm invites invasion," the Emperor would say, correcting his stance with firm hands.
Blades clashed beneath open sky. Zhenyu's arms bruised. Sweat stung his eyes. He did not complain.
From the veranda, Lihua would watch, wrapped in shawls even when the day was mild.
"You look frightening," she would call.
"That is the point," he would answer without pausing.
When practice ended, she would hand him a handkerchief embroidered with plum blossoms-crooked, uneven stitches marking her early attempts at needlework.
"For good fortune," she would declare.
He kept every one she gave him.
There were festivals too-moments when the imperial family stepped beyond strict ceremony and into celebration.
During the River Lantern Festival one autumn, the four of them stood along the water's edge as thousands of lanterns flickered across the current like fallen stars.
Their mother knelt to help Lihua light hers.
"Make a wish," she said gently.
Lihua squeezed her eyes shut.
Zhenyu watched instead of wishing.
"What about you?" she demanded afterward.
"I do not believe in wishes," he replied.
She huffed. "Then I will wish for you."
Their father laughed heartily. "Careful, daughter. Wishes have a way of binding fate."
"Then I will bind it tightly," she answered, fearless as always.
The lanterns drifted away.
None of them knew how brief that peace would be.
War came quietly at first-reports from the northern border, murmurs in council chambers.
Zhenyu noticed the way his father's laughter grew less frequent.
The Emperor spent longer hours studying maps, consulting generals, summoning ministers.
One evening, Zhenyu passed outside the throne room and heard raised voices within.
"An ambush would be disastrous," a minister warned.
"Retreat invites weakness," his father replied.
The doors closed before he could hear more.
Not long after, the imperial banners were lowered to half-mast as preparations for campaign began.
Lihua clung to their father's robes the day he departed.
"You promised to teach me archery," she said, eyes shining.
He knelt before her, resting a large hand atop her head. "When I return."
Their mother stood beside them, composed but pale.
Zhenyu memorized that image-their family beneath the palace gate, sunlight catching on armor, the wind tugging at silk sleeves.
It would be the last time they stood together like that.
Months later, news arrived.
An ambush in mountain passes.
Betrayal among allied ranks.
The Emperor fallen in battle.
The palace changed overnight.
Servants whispered in corridors. Ministers gathered in urgent clusters.
Mourning banners replaced celebratory silk.
Zhenyu stood before his father's coffin dressed in white.
He did not cry.
Lihua did.
Her sobs echoed painfully against marble walls, and when night came, her fever returned fiercer than before.
Grief settled into the palace like frost.
Their mother tried to remain strong, but sorrow hollowed her gradually. She spent hours staring toward the north, as though she might see beyond distance and death.
Zhenyu began attending council sessions in his father's place. At thirteen, he listened to ministers debate troop withdrawals and border negotiations.
Some spoke to him respectfully.
Others did not bother to hide their doubt.
He learned quickly.
He learned to still his expression, to weigh words before speaking. He learned that trust was a currency rarer than gold.
Lihua's illnesses grew more frequent after their father's death. Whether from fragile health or broken heart, no one could say.
Each time she burned with fever, Zhenyu remained beside her.
He would sit silently, watching the rise and fall of her breathing, counting each exhale as though it were precious.
Once, in a moment of clarity between fevers, she whispered, "Brother, you must not always look so stern."
"I am not stern," he replied.
"You are," she insisted faintly. "Smile once."
He tried.
It felt unnatural.
She laughed weakly anyway.
Winter took their mother the following year.
This time, Zhenyu's composure cracked-not before the court, not before ministers-but alone, in the empty garden beneath the willow tree.
He stood there as snow began to fall, flakes dissolving against his dark hair.
He did not weep loudly.
He simply closed his eyes and allowed silence to swallow him.
When he returned to the palace halls, something inside him had hardened permanently.
He ascended the throne soon after.
At fourteen, he wore the dragon robe.
The court bowed deeply.
Lihua stood at his side, pale but resolute, her small hand brushing against his sleeve as reassurance.
The empire gained a ruler.
But Zhenyu lost the last pieces of childhood that day.
Still, whenever Lihua laughed-even softly-the palace seemed warmer.
Whenever she recovered from illness, hope felt possible.
And in the quiet moments between council meetings and military briefings, when he allowed himself to remember plum blossoms drifting through spring air and lanterns floating across river water, he would recall a time before war and responsibility.
A time when his father's laughter filled courtyards.
A time when his mother's voice soothed every storm.
A time when his sister's hand fit easily within his own, and the greatest fear he knew was a winter fever.
Before he was emperor, he was her brother.
And in that simple truth, the last remnant of spring still lived.
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(End of Chapter 5)