Li Yanqing returned to the palace as evening approached.
The sky above the capital had begun to fade into a pale golden hue. His carriage passed through the palace gates without excessive escort. When the wheels stopped and Yanqing stepped down, his movements felt lighter than usual.
He did not immediately realize it himself.
He neither hurried nor slowed his pace. Yet his mind was no longer as tightly wound as it had been over the past few days, as though something that had troubled him had finally found its proper place.
A young servant standing guard at the pavilion steps bowed respectfully. As Yanqing passed, the servant glanced up briefly before quickly lowering his head again.
Yanqing paid no attention.
He entered the pavilion as usual, removed his outer robe, and allowed the servants to tidy his hair. But instead of sitting at his reading desk right away, he paused near the window, gazing out at the courtyard now wrapped in the light of dusk.
Without realizing it, the corner of his lips lifted slightly.
The servant pouring tea froze for a moment.
"Your Highness?" the servant asked hesitantly.
Yanqing turned his head. "What is it?"
"I thought… the tea might be too hot," the servant replied quickly. "This servant can wait a moment longer."
"No need," Yanqing said. "Just set it down."
His tone was calm—softer than usual, even.
The servant obeyed and stepped back. Confusion lingered on his face. And he was not the only one. Throughout the evening, several servants and eunuchs who crossed paths with Yanqing sensed the same thing.
The Crown Prince seemed more relaxed.
His expression was no longer tense as in the previous days. His gaze was no longer hollow. His movements were steadier, as though his thoughts rested on something that did not weigh him down.
When night fell and Yanqing sat copying texts, he remained at his desk longer than usual without feeling fatigued.
An elderly eunuch who had served the palace for many years whispered softly to his companion, "His Highness seems more spirited today."
"Indeed," the other replied. "He appears to be in a good mood."
Yanqing himself did not dwell on it.
Or perhaps he noticed, but chose to let it be.
His brush moved slowly across the paper.
His thoughts drifted back to the training hall.
He remembered the sound of wooden swords striking—steady, repetitive.
He saw Shen Zhiyuan standing at the center of the hall, his body slick with sweat, breath heavy, yet his back remained straight. His sword movements were firm and precise, not a single swing wasted.
But what Yanqing remembered most was not the sword.
It was the moment Zhiyuan looked up.
That glance was brief, unmistakably startled, and far too quick to be fully concealed.
Yanqing pressed his brush down unconsciously.
The ink spread across the paper.
He stopped, then slowly set the brush aside, his hands resting against the edge of the desk.
He recalled how they had sat side by side on the wooden bench.
The distance between them was not close—yet close enough for him to be keenly aware of Zhiyuan's presence. The way Zhiyuan sat stiffly. The way he answered carefully, lowering his gaze more often than meeting it.
"Three more swings."
Yanqing murmured the words softly.
He remembered the number clearly. Ninety-seven. Only three more before Shen Zhiyuan's training would end. A number that should have meant nothing, yet somehow lingered in his mind.
Perhaps because, in that moment, he realized for the first time that Zhiyuan's presence was not merely a matter of duty.
He remembered how Zhiyuan had turned quickly when Yanqing said the palace felt quiet without him.
That look had not been one a guard gave to the Crown Prince.
It was the look of someone who had just realized his presence was noticed.
Yanqing closed his eyes briefly.
His chest felt warm—not overwhelming, not pressing. Just a light sensation that remained.
___
That night at dinner, Yanqing finished his entire portion.
A senior servant observing him said softly, "Your Highness seems to have a good appetite."
Yanqing nodded faintly. "The food is good."
A simple answer.
Yet the faint smile that accompanied it made the servant bow more deeply.
The next morning, Yanqing woke earlier than usual.
He stood by the pavilion window, gazing at the courtyard still damp with morning dew. By reflex, his eyes searched for a familiar spot—a place where someone usually stood, a short distance away.
It was still empty.
But this time, the emptiness did not make him uneasy.
He remembered Zhiyuan's voice in the training hall.
"I will train with all my effort."
It had not been spoken loudly.
Yet Yanqing remembered it as a promise.
He did not know when Zhiyuan would return. There was no certainty. But for the first time, he felt he could wait without restlessness.
Yanqing straightened his robes and turned toward his study table.
His steps were calm.
And in the corner of the pavilion, a young servant whispered, "The Crown Prince looks as though he is waiting for something."
Yanqing did not hear it.
And even if he had, he would not have denied it.
___
Training that day ended later than usual.
Shen Zhiyuan stood at the center of the training hall, breathing heavily. The wooden sword in his hand still felt hot, his palms aching from gripping it too long. Sweat soaked his back, and his arms felt stiff.
Before he could draw a full breath, his father's voice sounded from the side of the hall.
"Zhiyuan."
He straightened immediately and turned. "Father."
The head of the Shen Clan regarded him without expression. His gaze swept over the small wounds on his son's arms and shoulders, then settled on his face.
"You need not clean yourself first," he said. "Listen carefully."
Zhiyuan lowered his head. "Yes."
"I have received orders from the military court," his father continued. "You will be dispatched to the northern border garrison."
Zhiyuan went still.
"The term of service is six years," his father said calmly, as though speaking of something trivial. "You will depart soon."
Six years.
Zhiyuan tightened his jaw, but kept his head bowed. There was no refusal on his face.
"I understand," he replied. "I will carry out the order."
His father nodded once. "This is your duty as a son of the Shen Clan. Do not falter."
"Yes, Father."
The conversation ended there.
But after his father left, Zhiyuan remained standing in place for some time. His fists clenched slowly, his breathing still uneven—not only from training.
Six years.
Without cleaning himself first, Zhiyuan changed into a simple robe. He roughly wrapped the small wounds on his arms. Then he left the clan residence at a brisk pace.
If he delayed, he feared he would not make it in time.
___
Li Yanqing was copying texts when a servant arrived, looking startled.
"Your Highness," the servant said urgently, "Young Master Shen requests permission for an audience."
Yanqing looked up. "Now?"
"Yes, Your Highness."
"Let him in."
The moment Shen Zhiyuan stepped into the pavilion, Yanqing stood up at once.
"What happened to you?" he asked reflexively.
Zhiyuan looked far more disheveled than usual. His hair was tied hastily, his robes rumpled, and dried blood marked his wrist.
"This servant has just finished training," Zhiyuan replied, lowering his head.
Yanqing moved closer without thinking. "Sit."
Zhiyuan obeyed.
Yanqing retrieved a small box containing cloth and medicinal salve. His hands moved faster than usual.
"You're pushing yourself too hard," he said quietly as he cleaned the wound on Zhiyuan's arm. "This isn't light training."
Zhiyuan held his breath as the salve touched his injury. "I'm fine."
"You always say that," Yanqing replied briefly.
He worked carefully. His fingers occasionally brushed Zhiyuan's skin, and each time it happened, Zhiyuan stiffened unconsciously.
A moment passed in silence.
"Your Highness," Zhiyuan said at last, his voice hesitant. "I came because… there is something I must tell you."
Yanqing did not stop tending the wound. "Go on."
Zhiyuan swallowed. "I will be departing for the border garrison."
Yanqing's hands froze.
"When?" he asked slowly.
"Soon."
"For how long?"
Zhiyuan drew in a breath. "Six years."
Silence filled the pavilion.
Yanqing lowered his gaze and resumed tying the bandage around Zhiyuan's arm, though his movements were slower than before.
"Six years," he repeated softly.
"Yes."
Yanqing nodded faintly. "That's… a long time."
He tied the final knot, then withdrew his hands.
"You must go," he said after a moment. "It's… your duty."
Zhiyuan looked at him. "I will depart as ordered."
Yanqing stood and walked to the dressing table. He opened a drawer and took out a simple jade hairpin—not ornate, but clearly well cared for.
He returned and placed it in Zhiyuan's hand.
"Keep this," he said.
Zhiyuan startled. "Your Highness, this—"
"It's nothing. Just… consider it a protective charm."
Zhiyuan stared at the object for a long moment before accepting it with both hands.
He then removed the ribbon he usually used to tie his hair. It was simple, its color faded.
"I don't have much," he said softly. "But I always wear this."
Yanqing accepted it without a word.
___
The day of departure arrived a few days later.
That morning, the outer palace courtyard was filled with the sound of hooves and shouted orders. The border troops had been ready since dawn. Military banners fluttered lightly as rows of soldiers stood in formation, armor and weapons gleaming.
Li Yanqing stood in a high pavilion near the inner gate.
He was not alone. Several members of the imperial family and high officials were present, standing at measured distances. Yanqing, however, stood slightly apart, near the wooden railing, his gaze fixed on the front ranks of the troops.
In his hand, he held a simple hair ribbon.
His grip tightened unconsciously.
Below, Shen Zhiyuan was dressed in military attire. His hair was tied neatly, his expression calm, though traces of harsh training still lingered faintly along his jaw and neck. He sat upright on his horse, back straight, bearing the same posture he had in the training hall.
Like someone ready to fulfill his duty—whatever the cost.
At last, the order to depart was given.
The horses began to move. The ranks advanced slowly out of the palace grounds, the sound of hooves mingling with the soft clink of armor.
Yanqing followed them with his eyes.
As the formation neared the outer gate, Zhiyuan suddenly turned his head back.
The motion was brief. Almost unnoticeable.
Yet his gaze found the high pavilion at once.
And there stood Li Yanqing.
They looked at each other across a distance that allowed no words.
Yanqing did not wave. He did nothing at all. He simply stood there, his eyes calm yet focused entirely on one person.
Zhiyuan set his jaw slightly.
Then, with a movement so subtle it was nearly invisible, he dipped his head briefly—not as a salute to the Crown Prince, but as someone taking his leave.
A moment later, he turned his face forward again.
The troops continued on.
One by one, they disappeared beyond the gates, until the outer courtyard felt empty once more.
Yanqing remained there for some time after they were gone.
Only when the sound of hooves had fully faded did he lower his gaze.
The ribbon in his hand had become tangled from his grip.
He carefully smoothed it out with his fingers, then closed his palm around it once more.
Six years.
He did not speak the number aloud.
But this time, he did not feel the same anxiety as before.
He knew whom he was waiting for.
And he knew this waiting was not in vain.