Ten glimpses into the life of the child born of love and legacy
1. The Crowned Decision
(From Gu Lian's and Ai Miao's perspective)
In the fifth year of Jinghe, just after the Lantern Festival, Emperor Gu Lian made a declaration that shook the court.
"I share a deep bond with Lord Wen'an," he said from the Dragon Throne, voice steady and clear. "Yet the foundation of the realm must not be neglected. I have decided to adopt a virtuous young son from the imperial clan, to be raised under the name of myself and Lord Wen'an, and to be named Crown Prince."
The hall erupted. Adoption was not rare—but to declare the child as belonging to both "myself and Lord Wen'an"? Unheard of.
Ai Miao, standing below the imperial steps, looked up in shock. Gu Lian had mentioned considering a child from the clan, but never hinted at such a bold, solemn gesture.
"Your Majesty, this defies propriety!" an elder minister protested. "Though Lord Wen'an has served the realm, the matter of succession is no trifling affair!"
"Trifling?" Gu Lian's gaze swept over him, calm yet commanding. "Lord Wen'an is my minister in state, my companion in life. This child bears my blood, inherits the throne, and carries Lord Wen'an's name. Is that trifling? Or do you believe his service and devotion unworthy of a son's name?"
The minister fell silent.
Gu Lian turned to the gathered nobles. "I have chosen the young grandson of Prince An—Gu Heng. He is bright, kind, and four years of age—perfect for nurturing. Prince An, do you consent?"
Prince An knelt, trembling. "I… I thank Your Majesty for this grace. But…" He glanced toward Ai Miao.
"Lord Wen'an," Gu Lian said gently, "will you raise Heng'er with me, as our own?"
All eyes turned to Ai Miao. He felt the weight of their stares—shock, doubt, even veiled disdain. But above all, he felt the unwavering trust in Gu Lian's gaze.
He stepped forward, knelt with perfect form, and said clearly: "I, Ai Miao, thank Your Majesty for this honor. I shall devote myself to raising the Crown Prince, treating Heng'er as my own, in gratitude for Your Majesty's trust—and in service to the realm."
With that vow, their names, their legacy, and the future of the dynasty were bound together.
2. The Study Ledger
(From Gu Heng's perspective)
Jinghe Year Eight, Summer.
Today, the Grand Tutor praised my essay, saying it faintly echoes Lord Wen'an's style. When Father read the comment, his lips curled slightly—then he straightened his face and said, "Don't grow arrogant. Your Ah-Da could recite the Strategies of the Warring States at your age."
I know he was pleased. He only calls Ah-Da "Lord Wen'an" when being formal. But when he scolds me, it's always "your Ah-Da"—with a hint of affection.
Ah-Da reviews my essays with red ink, writing long, precise notes in the margins. His handwriting is lean and firm, unlike Father's bold, forceful strokes. Sometimes his comments are longer than my original text. He quotes classics, points out flaws, and offers better angles.
Yesterday I asked, "Why do historians praise generals more than ministers?"
Ah-Da paused, looked out the window, and said: "Because a strategist's merit often hides behind a ruler's decisions, buried in the quiet details of peace. True success makes everything seem effortless, not self-glorifying."
I think I understand. Or maybe I don't. But I know—Ah-Da is that kind of person.
3. Illness
(From Gu Heng's perspective)
Jinghe Year Nine, Winter. I caught a cold and was bedridden with fever.
Father came first, brow furrowed so tight it could crush a mosquito. The imperial physician trembled under his glare. Father sat beside me, his palm warm on my forehead, his movements clumsy but careful. He told me the story of how he once hunted a black bear alone as a boy— I've heard it three times. He always tells it when I'm sick or hurt.
Then Ah-Da arrived. He brought freshly brewed medicine, sat where Father had made space. He didn't tell stories. He just touched my cheek gently and fed me the bitter liquid, spoon by spoon. When I grimaced, he pulled out a tiny box of candied fruit from his sleeve.
"His Highness feared bitterness as a child too," Ah-Da said softly, smiling. "Always needed coaxing to take medicine."
Father coughed, ears slightly red. "When did I ever…"
Ah-Da looked at him. Father said no more, just reached out to adjust Ah-Da's slipping cloak.
That night, half-asleep, I felt someone tuck my blanket. I peeked and saw Ah-Da standing by my bed, Father behind him, arms wrapped around his waist. Both gazing down at me.
"Like you," Father murmured. "His eyes resemble Your Majesty's," Ah-Da whispered.
Then came a kiss on my hair— I don't know whose it was.
4. First Hunt
(From Gu Heng's perspective)
Jinghe Year Eleven, Autumn. I was ten, joining Father and Ah-Da for my first royal hunt.
Father rode with ease, arrows swift and true. He felled a deer. The court praised his skill. But I saw Ah-Da shake his head and whisper to Duke An (once General A Lie): "His Majesty was restless today. The third arrow could've been cleaner."
Then it was my turn. I drew my small bow, aimed at a gray rabbit— but my hands trembled. The arrow flew crooked, missing entirely. The attendants stifled their laughter.
I lowered my head in shame.
"Sink your wrist three degrees," Ah-Da said calmly, appearing beside me. "Slow your breath. Aim, then release."
Father joined us. He didn't scold. He placed his large hand over mine, guiding me to notch, draw, and shoot.
"Focus, Heng'er," he said. "Steady heart. Steady hand."
That arrow struck true.
That night by the campfire, I gnawed on venison while Duke An told tales of border battles. Ah-Da sat beside Father, occasionally adding quiet details—terrain, weather, human nature. Father listened, nodding, raising a brow, then passed Ah-Da a cup of warm wine.
I watched the flames dance, watched the two of them side by side, and suddenly understood what the Grand Tutor once said:
"His Majesty steers the helm. Lord Wen'an reads the stars. One sets the course. One guides the way. Both are indispensable."
5. The Coming of Age
(From Gu Heng's perspective)
Jinghe Year Eighteen. I turned twenty and received my crown.
Father placed it on my head himself, before the gathered court. It was heavy—like the weight of the realm.
After the ceremony, we gathered in Lingyun Pavilion. Just the three of us.
Ah-Da handed me a long box. Inside was his old writing brush—wolf hair, purple bamboo shaft, worn smooth by years of use.
"Governing is like writing," he said. "To plan a chapter, one must hold vastness in mind. But when the brush touches paper, it must be light and precise. May you learn both bold strokes and restraint."
Father gave me a dagger he'd used in youth. Its sheath bore cloud patterns, matching the ones on his ebony bow.
"A ruler must have edge," he said, hand firm on my shoulder. "But remember—draw your blade to protect, not to conquer."
I held the brush in my left hand, the dagger in my right. One taught strategy. One taught sovereignty. Together, they formed the spine and soul of a king.
"Father. Ah-Da," I said, bowing deeply. "I shall strive with all I have, to honor your teachings and your grace."
Father helped me up. Ah-Da stepped forward to straighten my slightly askew coronet ribbon.
The sunset cast our shadows long and intertwined— no longer distinguishable. Like the empire itself, etched with both their names.
"Go," Father said, gazing at the palace beyond. "Go see the land that will be yours."
Ah-Da stood beside him, voice soft: "We'll be waiting for you at dinner."
I descended the pavilion steps, knowing their eyes would follow me. I didn't need to rush to the throne. The best lesson was watching how they ruled—together.
And my time… would come, steady and sure, under their guidance.