As Gu Lian turns fourteen, the fire in his heart no longer seeks to be extinguished—but to carve a path through fate.
Spring arrived in the sixteenth year of Yongxi. Gu Lian turned fourteen.
The war in Beijing had quieted after the third prince, Murong Jue, seized the royal court. But everyone knew—it was only the calm before the storm.
In the study hall, sunlight spilled across the desk. Gu Lian noticed a subtle change in the way Murong Che looked at Ai Miao.
"Sir," Murong Che asked while studying, fingers absently tracing the edge of the page, "if the new king demands the hostage prince's return, what should I do?"
Ai Miao didn't look up. "He won't. Summoning you now would admit instability."
"Then… I'll remain in Da Sheng?"
"At least two more years." Ai Miao finally looked up. "Why? Homesick?"
Murong Che shook his head quickly. "I only wish to stay by your side… and continue learning."
Gu Lian, reviewing memorials nearby, paused mid-stroke. He heard the emotion in Murong Che's voice—something beyond student and teacher.
In February, the spring hunt carried a strange tension.
No wild boars. No accidents. But Gu Lian saw it clearly—Murong Che's feelings were growing.
When Ai Miao corrected his archery stance, Murong Che's gaze followed every movement. When Ai Miao pointed out a mistake, he corrected it with unusual intensity, as if desperate for approval.
"He doesn't just admire you anymore," Gu Lian said during a break.
Ai Miao wiped his bowstring. "What makes Your Highness say that?"
"You don't see it?" Gu Lian looked toward Murong Che, practicing in the distance. "That kind of focus doesn't lie."
Ai Miao followed his gaze, then said quietly, "Youthful infatuation is like fireworks in spring—bright, fleeting, not to be taken seriously."
"And you?" Gu Lian asked. "Do you see it as just fireworks?"
Ai Miao turned to him. "He is my student. You are the ruler I serve."
The words were cold water on Gu Lian's heart.
In March, Gu Lian passed by the western quarters and saw Murong Che alone at a stone table, staring at a chessboard—the same endgame Gu Lian had played with Ai Miao the day before. Murong Che was trying to reconstruct Ai Miao's strategy, finger hovering over the pieces.
Gu Lian's chest tightened. He hadn't realized Murong Che's devotion had reached this depth.
After an April rain, Gu Lian found Murong Che in the garden pavilion, staring at the first lotus blooms.
"What are you thinking?" Gu Lian asked.
Murong Che bowed quickly. "Your Highness. I was wondering… the lotuses in Beijing must be blooming too."
"Missing home?"
"I have no home." Murong Che's voice was soft. "In Beijing, I was an unwanted prince. In Da Sheng, I'm a guest no one asked for."
Gu Lian felt a pang of sympathy. "Ai Miao treats you well."
Murong Che's eyes lit up. "He's the only one who doesn't judge me for these eyes."
Gu Lian saw the light in his gaze—and understood. To Murong Che, Ai Miao wasn't just a teacher. He was the only light in a long darkness.
This feeling would only grow deeper.
In May, during the Dragon Boat Festival banquet, Gu Lian sat beside Su Wanqing, receiving congratulations from officials.
"Your Highness seems thinner lately," Su Wanqing said gently.
"Court duties," Gu Lian replied with a strained smile.
His eyes drifted toward Ai Miao, seated alone at the far end, speaking with Ministry officials. Murong Che sat even farther away, gaze fixed on Ai Miao.
Midway through, Gu Lian excused himself and found Ai Miao alone by the lotus pond.
"You've been avoiding me," he said bluntly.
Ai Miao turned. "Your Highness imagines things. I've been… planning Beijing's next phase."
"Planning so much you can't face me?"
Ai Miao paused. "You've grown. Some things require distance."
"Because I'm the crown prince?"
"Because once you marry, you'll be an adult." Ai Miao's voice was barely a sigh. "Then, the line between ruler and servant becomes a chasm."
Gu Lian looked at his calm profile, wondering what lay beneath.
"What if I say I don't want that path?"
Ai Miao finally turned, emotion flickering in his eyes. "Your Highness, your path was laid the day you were born."
The words cut deep. Yes—he was the crown prince. So many things were not his to choose.
Including this heart, growing more unruly by the day.
After Mid-Autumn in August, the Privy Council delivered a new map of Beijing's borders. Gu Lian and Ai Miao reviewed it together. Their shoulders brushed as they unrolled the parchment—then quickly parted.
"Your Highness, look here," Ai Miao pointed to a pass. "Five hundred troops here could block the third prince's advance."
Gu Lian's gaze drifted from the map to Ai Miao's lashes. Then, he reached out and drew a tiny inked eagle—Ai Miao's private seal—beside his finger.
Ai Miao's hand froze.
"Your Highness," he said, voice low and sharp, "this is a military document. Not a toy."
"I think it's fitting." Gu Lian set down the brush, meeting his eyes. "An eagle soaring high—doesn't that suit the crown prince's image?"
It was a bold, public provocation.
Ai Miao stared at him, emotions flickering, then fading. He picked up another brush and quietly turned the eagle into a meaningless mountain.
Gu Lian watched his cold precision. The heat in his chest cooled into clarity: he was advancing. Ai Miao was retreating.
Before the Double Ninth Festival in September, the southern provinces sent rare ink as tribute. Gu Lian selected two pieces, sending one to Ai Miao.
During a break, he asked casually, "Did the ink suit you?"
Ai Miao didn't pause his writing. "Thank you, Your Highness. It's excellent—but too fine for daily use."
"It's meant to be used," Gu Lian said lightly. He knew this was a gentle refusal. But he didn't mind. At least Ai Miao had accepted it.
On the twenty-third of the twelfth month, snow blanketed the palace. Returning from the Privy Council, Gu Lian passed the western quarters and saw Murong Che alone in the snow, tracing a complex symbol with his boot.
That solitary figure, so focused and forlorn, mirrored something in Gu Lian's own heart—something unspoken, unplaced.
He didn't speak. Didn't approach. Just watched for a moment, then walked away.
That night, Gu Lian walked back alone, boots crunching through fresh snow.
Compared to last year's lonely New Year's Eve, he felt less lost—but more sharply aware.
The Grand Tutor's talk of "marriage and legacy" was no longer distant. Ai Miao's warning—"After marriage, the divide becomes unbridgeable"—was no longer abstract. It was a blade, poised to fall.
The end of fourteen arrived in silence.
He had once hoped time would cool the fire. But it only simmered, growing richer, deeper.
He no longer thought of burying it.
He began to wonder—how to carve a crack in fate's iron wall.