It had been a week since Chiyo arrived at the imperial palace, and to her own surprise, she wasn’t completely miserable.
She was supposed to be. She was supposed to be anxious, hiding in her chamber, wringing her hands and waiting for the moment the emperor—her future husband, apparently—would summon her like some prized object. But the summons never came. Not even a shadow of him. Seven days and not a single glimpse. And honestly? She was kind of living for it.
The palace was huge. Ridiculously huge. Endless courtyards, hidden gardens, bridges that led to nowhere, koi ponds big enough to swim in, and more silk cushions than any human needed. Chiyo had decided, after day two, that if she was going to be trapped in this golden maze, she was going to treat it like a playground.
She’d already made a name for herself among the staff and concubines, running barefoot through corridors and stealing fruit from trays. The younger ones started calling her Chō—butterfly—for the way she flitted from place to place, all laughter and curiosity, never staying still for too long. She liked the nickname. It felt lighter than “Lady Yan Chiyo, First Daughter of Lianhua,” which sounded like a prison sentence. Even the nobles whispered about her now—some amused, others scandalized. She didn’t care. Not really.
Right now, she was spinning in the courtyard, arms stretched out, the wind lifting the ends of her sleeves like wings. The air was warm, the sun was soft on her skin, and everything felt fine—at least for the moment. A giggle bubbled up in her throat as she turned faster, her long hair whipping behind her.
“You’re going to fall in!” Yuki’s voice rang out from the shade of the veranda.
Chiyo barely heard her. She twirled again, and again—and then the dizziness hit her all at once. The world tilted. Her foot slipped. Her vision spun. She yelped—and with an unceremonious splash, she toppled backward into the koi pond.
Cold water swallowed her, soaking her silk robe instantly. For a split second, she stayed under, blinking up at the filtered sunlight through the surface, bubbles slipping past her face.
Then she rose, sputtering, hair stuck to her cheeks and a lily pad somehow clinging to her shoulder.
Yuki was on her feet now, but she wasn’t laughing. Her head was lowered, lips pressed in a tight line.
Chiyo blinked at her, confused. “Yuki?” she called, breathless. “It’s just water. Don’t look so—”
And then she saw him.
Standing just beyond the stone steps. Not a myth. Not a rumor. Not a shadow. But him.
Tall. Still. Cold as the marble columns behind him. Emperor tú.
So much for first impressions.
