Fan Xinyu stood at the side of the hall, his back against a jade pillar, his eyes on the aged princess.
Princess Fei sat on her rosewood dais, her wine-colored robes pooling around her, her silver hair catching the candlelight. She was speaking with the empress, her expression pleasant, her hands still. But Fan Xinyu knew her too well. He could see the tension in her shoulders, the way her eyes moved—always watching, always calculating.
"Years," he thought. "Years since we fought side by side on the battlefield. And still, time has left no scars on her face."
He remembered her then—younger, fierce, charging into rebel lines with a sword in her hand. The campfires. The blood. The night she lost her child and her womb.
She had never been the same after that. But she had never broken, either.
He glanced away. The past was the past. Tonight, he had a duty.
Suddenly a pair of rushed footsteps broke his thought process.
A maid hurried toward him, her face flushed, her purple livery slightly askew. He recognized her—one of the princess's personal attendants, usually stationed near the kitchens.
"What is it?" he asked, his voice low.
"A guest, Commander." She curtsied quickly. "There's a disturbance near the east corridor. A young man—he's causing a ruckus, trying to force his way toward the kitchens. One of your soldiers stopped him, but he won't listen."
Fan Xinyu's jaw tightened. He hesitated, glancing back towards the princess.
"Take me there."
He followed her through the throng of nobles, past silk banners and flickering candles, into the quieter eastern wing. The sounds of the banquet faded behind them—laughter, music, the clink of cups—replaced by the echo of their footsteps on polished stone.
The journey from the main hall to the kitchen wasn't too far off.
He arrived quickly only to find one of his subordinates blocking the path to the kitchen corridor.
The young man on the other side of the soldier was flushed, his robes slightly disheveled, his cup empty and clutched in his hand like a weapon. He was arguing, his voice loud and slurred.
"You don't know who I am! My family—"
Fan Xinyu stepped forward.
The young man's eyes darted to him, then away. He didn't recognize Fan Xinyu. Most guests didn't.
The soldier saluted. "Commander. This guest was attempting to enter the kitchen area. I informed him it's off‑limits, but he refuses to leave."
Fan Xinyu studied the young man. Rich robes. A noble's bearing. And the smell of wine, thick on his breath.