He searched for her. For weeks, he prowled the alleys. The rooftops. The market streets.
But the masked girl with the silver fox face never appeared again.
"Where did you go?" he whispered one night, standing alone in the place they'd last fought side-by-side.
"Who were you?"
He didn't know her name. He'd never seen her face.
But her absence burned deeper than any betrayal ever had.
And that's when the ache began.
...
The imperial court buzzed like a disturbed hornet's nest.
The Fourth Prince—long presumed broken, discarded, or too damaged to be relevant—had returned to the palace after more than a decade in the Cold Palace.
And the moment his boots touched the jade-tiled floor of the main palace gate, everything changed.
Wei Li stood tall, expression unreadable, his eyes cold as ever.
Dressed in black and silver robes without a single emblem or jewel, he walked past the bowed heads of the eunuchs and servants like they didn't exist.
He wasn't interested in greetings or grand receptions.
He had come because the Emperor commanded it. That was all.
The golden throne loomed ahead. The Emperor's once-proud face had aged, though his authority remained sharp.
"My son," the Emperor began, eyes narrowing slightly. "You've grown… hardened."
"Isn't that what the Cold Palace is for?" Wei Li replied flatly, not even bowing.
The courtiers gasped, but the Emperor only sat straighter, his fingers curling around the dragon armrest.
"You've been summoned because the court must prepare for the next era. The empire needs strength."
"Then you have three other sons to choose from, Your Majesty," he said, gaze flicking toward the row of princes seated to the side. "I came to obey, not to compete."
Silence thickened.
The Second Prince smirked faintly, while the Third seemed more curious than wary.
He doesn't care, they all thought.
He's not a threat.
But that's what made him terrifying.
Later that day, the garden halls were quieter. Cherry blossoms danced in the wind as Wei Li walked, seemingly aimless, hands behind his back.
But his mind missed nothing.
Footsteps behind him.
"Fourth Brother," said the Second Prince, Li Xiao sheng, stepping into view with a forced smile. "The palace is colder without your silence, truly."
"Is that your way of saying it's colder with me back in it?" Wei Li replied calmly.
Xiao sheng chuckled, eyes narrowing. "You've changed. I almost miss the little boy with the lost eyes."
"He died thirteen years ago."
"Pity. He was easier to manipulate."
Wei Li smiled faintly, a ghost of amusement.
"Try, and see what happens."
He ignored the whispers.
The sideways glances. The quiet speculation.
Wei Li didn't dine in the grand halls.
He didn't seek an audience with the Empress or try to curry favourur with officials.
He didn't care for the crown.
That was what everyone believed.
But beneath his still surface lay a storm.
Every move, every word spoken, every piece of information was carefully catalogued behind his calm eyes.
He knew he wasn't welcomed back.
That night, he dreamed of her again.
The silver fox mask. The soft voice.
The way her sword danced under moonlight. The way she never told him her name, and the way she disappeared without goodbye.
"Where did you go?" he murmured to the darkness.
"Who were you?"
And why did it matter more than anything else?
He rose before dawn, dressed without help, and looked out the high palace window.
He didn't belong here. Not with the glittering marble, the false smiles, the dangerous luxury.
But he would remain.
Not for his father.
Not for the throne.
But because he had unfinished business.
...
The Fourth Prince Wei Li, wasn't meant to be at the Inner Market.
He wasn't meant to be anywhere, really.
The court still didn't know what to do with him.
He didn't have a seat at the morning meetings. He wasn't assigned duties. He was free—but it was the kind of freedom that tasted like exile dressed in silk.
So he wandered. Quiet. Hidden behind a simple black robe with no royal insignia.
And there, between rows of herbal sellers and silk merchants, he saw her.
Just a glimpse.
A girl in a plain sky-blue hanfu, her hair in a modest braid, kneeling to help an old woman pick up scattered radishes. Her voice was soft, but familiar. Her movements—elegant, practiced, graceful. Too graceful.
His heart skipped.
No mask. No blade. No cloak.
But the way she moved, the calmness in her hands… it was her. He could feel it in his bones.
Is it you?