The Emperor looked quietly at Lien Nguyet.
Her eyes were heavy with sorrow, like a field battered by storms, left desolate in the twilight breeze. His heart ached—twisted by the sight of his niece, the girl he had raised since she was just an infant. Once, she fit in the crook of his arm like a blooming flower just kissed by the sun. Now, she was a widow in her thirties, with strands of silver beginning to thread through her dark hair, her heart heavy with grief and loss.
Lien Nguyet was the daughter of his younger brother, Lien Tu Diep—a brilliant man, yet fragile of body. Years ago, Tu Diep had collapsed from illness, worn down by the burdens of courtly duty, leaving his child not yet two years old. His wife, unable to bear the sorrow, lost her mind. Months later, she drowned herself in the Tieu Tuu River, leaving their baby orphaned and alone in the world.
When the Emperor received the tragic news, he traveled personally to bring the girl back to the palace. She didn't yet know how to speak, much less call his name. Yet when he held her in his arms, he knew—he would raise her as his own.
Childless himself, and deeply bonded to his late brother, the Emperor—whose given name was Tu Anh—welcomed her into the palace, treating her like his daughter. He had her taught courtly etiquette, literature, history, and philosophy alongside the royal children. Over the years, she grew from a quiet little girl into a gentle, intelligent young woman. But in her eyes lingered a sadness, a quiet void left behind by an absent mother and father.
Tu Anh, long past thirty, had no children of his own, and as the years passed, he became even more attached to Lien Nguyet. At one point, he considered adopting her formally as his daughter. But the court ministers, wary of political instability, opposed the idea fiercely. Reluctantly, he held back, continuing to care for her without a title, but with all the love he could offer.
When she turned sixteen, a new figure rose in the court—Tran Uy, a young man of legendary promise. He was the son of a respected general from the Tran clan, raised on battlefields since childhood. At ten, he had mastered the classical texts. At twelve, he could recite the Six Strategies. By fourteen, he was advising seasoned generals. At sixteen, he commanded a small unit and won three decisive victories at the border.
Handsome and composed, he carried himself with the quiet confidence of a mountain tiger. Strong in body and sharp of mind, he remained unwed, showing no interest in courtly flirtations. When he achieved a stunning victory along the Tieu Tuu River—the very waters where Lien Nguyet's mother had perished—the Emperor took it as a sign. Fate, perhaps, had brought him this guardian for his cherished niece.
Subtle efforts began. "Coincidental" meetings, shared dinners, and orchestrated moments of conversation were arranged. The Emperor watched closely—each smile, each shy glance exchanged between the two. When Lien Nguyet turned seventeen, he proposed the match. Neither family objected. Why would they? One was a national hero, the other a noblewoman with royal blood.
The wedding was modest, by royal standards, but deeply respectful. The Emperor visited them often after their marriage, finding joy in the way they looked at each other—with love, trust, and understanding. He felt, for once, that perhaps the gods had been kind.
Ten years passed before they had a child: a son, named Tran Si. The day the news arrived, the Emperor was in a royal council. He stood up from his throne mid-session, smiled—an exceedingly rare gesture—and ordered a celebratory feast in the palace. That day, the nation's most solemn ruler laughed like an ordinary grandfather.
Five more years passed. The family lived in peace. The kingdom held firm. And then—disaster.
The province of Minh came under siege from Nam Luong, once a loyal vassal. Trusting in Tran Uy's skill and loyalty, the Emperor sent him to relieve the province. But it was a trap.
Minh had betrayed them, conspiring with Nam Luong to ambush the imperial army. Surrounded, outnumbered, and facing death, Tran Uy led his soldiers in a desperate charge. He carved a bloody path to allow his men to retreat safely, sacrificing himself on the battlefield.
When the Emperor received the news, he said nothing for hours. Then, in a sudden burst of rage, he overturned his desk, cast aside scrolls, and shattered the silence of his chambers. He wanted vengeance—blood for blood. Yet as a sovereign, he couldn't afford to be ruled by emotion.
Inside, though, he was a grieving father. He had sent Tran Uy to his death. He had watched his niece lose the man she loved. He bore that weight, that guilt, in silence.
For the next three years, he prepared for war. He ordered weapons forged, soldiers drilled, supplies stockpiled. Finally, he marched on Minh with a vengeful army. The city fell. The traitors were executed. Nam Luong's envoys were beheaded. Justice, it seemed, had been served.
But justice could not bring back the dead.
On the ruined walls of the fallen city, the Emperor stood alone. Blood soaked the stones. The cries of the vanquished echoed through the air. And yet, his heart was hollow. Tran Uy was gone. His laughter, his voice, his gaze—forever lost.
Now, standing in the palace once again, he watched Lien Nguyet cradle a keepsake of her husband—a faded sash, a worn clasp. She had not wept aloud, but her silence screamed more than any tears.
In that moment, he realized: she was stronger than him.
He, who could command nations, could not ease her pain. She bore her sorrow like a quiet flame, enduring when others would fall. He wondered—should he move forward, or remain shackled by the past? If he could not answer that, how could she, a widow with a shattered heart?
She had lost a husband. He had lost a son in all but name.
And still, she stood.
And so must he.