The first light of dawn unfurled across the Palace of the Drifting Wind, settling like a silken veil upon the jade roofs and vermilion pillars of the Huaxian Empire. It was a morning steeped in promise, a moment when even the ancient stones seemed to exhale in collective peace. In the heart of this imperial world, Empress Chen walked slowly through the garden, the soft rustle of her robes blending with the hush of falling petals.
In her arms lay the newborn princess, Yulan, named for the jade-petal magnolia that symbolized purity and unseen strength. The child had slept through the dawn, her tiny fingers curled into themselves, her breath so light it barely stirred the silk swaddling her. Yet her presence possessed weight: the weight of legacy, hope, and perhaps destiny itself.
Trailing behind them—awkwardly, as though afraid to disturb the very air—was Emperor Long Ming. The man who once led armies across the Emerald Realms, who commanded warlords, bent nations, and carried the titles of the Dragon Emperor and Lord of Ten Thousand Rivers… now shuffled after his wife and daughter with the timid gait of an accused husband.
Chen's voice, sharp as a falling leaf, cut through the gentle morning.
"Think about what you did."
Ming froze. His eyes darted between his wife and the sleeping Yulan, as if the child might defend him.
"What… what did I do? I was only trying to help, my dear selfling… darling… w-wife…"
He stammered so badly he startled a sparrow from its perch.
From the third floor of the Yulan Pavilion, a window creaked open. A familiar man leaned out: Fang, the emperor's older brother, general of the Twin Dragons, and the palace's most tragic bachelor. His face—handsome in the rugged, battle-tempered way—twisted in exasperation as he watched the imperial couple.
"Well, they're enjoying themselves," he muttered. "And here I am—single. Again."
He slapped the railing. "This is unfair! Why must even mornings mock me?"
Meanwhile, down below, the Empress and Emperor continued in their domestic warfare.
"Chen," Ming pleaded, palms together as though praying to the heavens. "Please. At least tell me what I did wrong, so I can improve."
She turned, eyes narrowing like a fox preparing to strike.
"You were breathing near me this morning. That alone ruined my mood."
The emperor went pale. His shoulders sagged as if struck by an invisible spear.
"Then… then I shall die immediately."
He turned dramatically, cape fluttering behind him, and limped toward the cliff at the edge of the cherry garden. It was a theatrical limp, though the emperor himself believed it genuine—ever since Yulan's birth, every emotional crisis seemed to manifest physically.
From above, Fang choked.
"He's going? He's actually going? This idiot—"
Chen crossed her arms and whispered, "Let's see how long you can keep that up."
But Ming was already spiraling into his melodramatic abyss.
"Perhaps I am truly useless," he muttered as he trudged toward the cliff. "If even my breathing offends her… my life must be nothing but pollution. Yes… yes, the world is better without me…"
He sat at the very edge, one leg dangling over the yawning drop, the wind tugging at his robe as though urging him onward.
Behind a great cherry tree, only the top of Chen's head peeked out.
"…Have I also caught this habit of poking my head like Fang?" she murmured. "Unacceptable. Absolutely unacceptable."
Then Ming spoke again, voice trembling with self-inflicted despair.
"I suppose if I cannot make her smile anymore, I should simply disappear."
He pushed himself forward.
Chen's heart stopped.
"Ming!"
She leapt before she could think, instincts overriding reason. Her body shot through the air, the world blurring into streaks of pink petals and pale morning sky.
But Emperor Long Ming was not falling.
He was dangling calmly from a thick cherry branch just below the cliff, one hand looped effortlessly around it, as though he had rehearsed this very scene. His dark hair fluttered, his robe danced in the breeze, and his lips were curled into the most arrogant, satisfied grin conceivable.
"Well, my dear wife," he said, almost purring. "You jumped after me faster than I expected."
Chen froze mid-air, realization dawning like a thunderclap.
Her face flushed pink, then crimson, then almost maroon as she dangled helplessly.
Her pride collapsed.
She landed—quite ungracefully—on the same branch, only to feel a strong, steady arm catch her. Ming supported her with the practiced ease of a man who'd been waiting to do exactly this.
Her anger exploded with tears.
"You… you big idiot!" She punched his shoulder, his arm, his chest—anywhere she could reach. "Do you think this is funny? I was terrified!"
Ming blinked. "Well… I'm surprised to see you like this. You care about my body, don't you?"
Before Chen could launch herself at him in renewed fury, the sun dimmed momentarily. A broad shadow loomed above them.
"Finished flirting?" a deep voice called.
Fang stood at the cliff's edge, arms crossed, holding baby Yulan with the clumsy tenderness of an undefeated war general forced into babysitting duty. The sight of him, serious stance combined with the silk-swaddled infant, was absurd enough to break any tension.
His voice was ice.
"Your Majesty. It's past dawn. Time to return to your desk. The paperwork is plotting rebellion in your absence."
Chen's expression twisted into horror.
"Ming! Enough theatrics! Fang is right—go!"
The emperor sighed dramatically.
Fang crouched, extending a hand to pull Chen upward. He lifted her with surprising gentleness, laying her safely on the grass. Then he hauled Ming up after her, handling him roughly as though reminding him of rank, seniority, and stupidity.
Ming brushed dust from his robe with forced dignity.
"Yes, yes. Paperwork. I know."
Chen, still holding Yulan close to her chest, sniffed loudly.
"You two—both of you—are going to be the death of me. I swear, if you ever scare me like that again—"
Before she finished, two heads—one belonging to Ming, the other to Fang—popped out from behind the massive cherry tree.
Both in the same tone:
"Tata!"
Chen threw her free hand up.
"Aaaaah! Just go!"
The two men vanished with the synchrony of guilty children fleeing a crime scene.
Chen pressed her forehead gently against Yulan's.
"Your father and uncle are idiots, little one… but they are ours."
Her voice softened. "And they will love you more fiercely than the world itself."
Yulan stirred. A tiny hand reached upward, brushing her mother's chin.
Chen's eyes warmed.
"Come, little blossom," she whispered. "Let us go before those two set the palace on fire with their stupidity."
Behind the cherry tree, muffled whispers rose.
"Brother, do you think she's still angry?"
"Fang, she gave birth two days ago and nearly jumped off a cliff because of me. Of course she's angry."
"Ah… good point. Shall we run?"
"Yes. Immediately."
And so the emperor and his brother fled like fugitives of their own household, chased not by armies nor warlords, but by the wrath of a single woman whose heart had been frightened half to death.
The cherry blossoms swirled in the wind, scattering down like blessings—or warnings.
In the cradle of Empress Chen's arms, Princess Yulan blinked awake for the first time.
Her eyes, dark and luminous as onyx captured under sunlight, took in the drifting petals. Her small lips curved faintly—as if she understood perfectly the chaos she had been born into.
And somewhere in the distance, the palace bells began to toll, marking the beginning of a new day… and the unfolding of a dynasty touched by love, foolishness, and fate.