That night, I couldn't sleep. Every draft from the open balcony doors woke me. Even after closing them, the smallest creak of the wooden floor kept me staring at the obsidian ceiling. So, I decided to take a stroll.
And somehow, I ended up in front of my former fiancé's, Jiao's door. He was from the eastern lands, a merchant from the Chang'an Empire. He had settled in the north a few years back, while my father was still alive. The King—ever the worrywart, fearing I would spend my life alone—saw his shiny black hair and onyx eyes and proposed a marriage between us.
At first, the elders were against the idea, but once they realized there were no other marriageable men with those traits, they reluctantly agreed.
My father loved him—his wit, scholarly air, and poem-loving nerdiness played a strong part in that. We were forced to spend time together, and over time, we came to understand each other. He became a dear friend. I had told him my two biggest secrets—secrets I hadn't shared even with Salime.
He understood that I wasn't going to fall in love with him, and he didn't either. One thing that man hated was a loveless marriage, so he declared he couldn't marry me, even though it strained his relationship with my father.
He was an eccentric soul. After angering the whole Draga Kingdom, he drifted south for a couple of years. After I was crowned, I sent him a letter asking him to come back—and he did, though I was sure he loved the warmer, richer south.
I knocked on his door. Footsteps hurried toward me, followed by a loud thud. Then I heard him say, "For the love of God—"
At last, the door opened to reveal a man with a disheveled look. His eye bags were darker than the last time I saw him. His hair was tied up, but messy curls had escaped, giving him the look of someone who had just woken up. But I knew he hadn't—he'd been feeding his obsession with ancient poems, studying those texts late into the night.
"Rhia!" His tired eyes lit up. Then he hugged me so tightly I had to gasp for air. "It's been a while! Come on in."
He opened the door fully—or at least tried to. The clutter inside reflected the man himself. Shelves lined every wall, filled to the brim and overflowing. Scrolls and leather-bound books spiraled across the floor, stacks rising almost to the ceiling. Even his table was buried in papers.
On the right side sat one vacant chair; the other was occupied by three enormous books. He moved them aside into a corner for me to sit. Candles burned on the table, but their light couldn't quite illuminate the whole room.
"So, what made you seek me out?" he asked. His voice was high-pitched, just as I remembered.
Instead of answering, I looked at the words written on the paper before him. They were in the Chang'an language—Marin.
> "Two boys who loved each other,
> One was a prince, the other was not,
> They were not to talk out loud,
> Because their love was taboo.
> The prince became the emperor,
> And the other boy was caught.
> In the name of love, he did horrible things,
> To the poor boy."
"So what happened?" I asked, pointing at the unfinished poem.
It took him a moment to understand what I meant.
"Oh! That! Oh my, this is embarrassing!" He took the paper, crumpled it, and threw it into a corner.
"I always forget I taught you Marin," he muttered.
"About the boy," he went on, smiling faintly, "he escaped—became a wandering merchant. Now I hear he's staying in a kingdom called Draga, far in the north."
The realization hit harder than I expected. But I wasn't going to ask what had really happened. The sadness in his eyes told me enough.
"Good for him," I said.
"Yeah. Good for him," he murmured.
"About you, my girl—why are you here?" he asked.
"I'm going to marry the emperor of Selon, and I need a contraceptive method," I said out loud. It felt strangely freeing to say it—to accept my fate. From the beginning, there had been no choice. The North couldn't hold a war. So whatever it took, I would do it. I just had to not get pregnant.
He was silent for a moment, then sighed.
"It wasn't just Marin I taught you, was it? I taught you Chang'an medicine too. Oh, how stupid of me," he said, shaking his head.
"That isn't good for you, girl—the pills themselves have terrible side effects. I'm not going to prescribe you that," he said, clearly annoyed.
"I can't have his children," I told him. "Please—"
He let out a long, defeated sigh.
"I'll send the first batch for the first month tomorrow morning. After that, my merchants in Selon will provide them to you each month. Just so you know—I don't recommend this." His voice had gone low; all cheerfulness was gone.
"I wish, in your next life, you'd be born a commoner, with no responsibilities to shoulder. Then at last, you could finally live for yourself."
And that hit me harder than anything I had ever heard in my life.