Wei Feng’s stomach let out a pitiful growl, a vulgar sound that echoed in the stillness of his opulent yet disorderly chambers. He hadn’t eaten breakfast, a capital crime in his personal book of laws. He rubbed his face, feeling the sting of fatigue in his eyes and the lingering aftertaste of last night’s wine. The only reason he had bothered to get out of bed and pull on a relatively clean robe was a rumor, a golden whisper carried by the servants: at the Morning Council, they would be serving the famous Frosted Lotus Pastries from the Southern Province.

Politics were an insufferable bore, a theater of bald, pompous puppets. But good food, especially lotus pastries, was a matter of the highest state importance.

With a sigh of pure resignation, he slipped out of his chambers. His silk slippers dragged across the polished wooden floors with a lazy sound, a sharp contrast to the martial rhythm of the guard patrols. He ran a hand through his hair, a mess of black locks that refused to be tamed. He hadn’t bothered to tie it up. What for? Comfort far outweighed decorum.

Just as he was rounding the Celestial Dragon Corridor, he felt her before he saw her. The atmosphere shifted, the air growing denser, charged with the unmistakable presence of Princess Wei Yao and her retinue.

She advanced like an imperial warship sailing on calm waters. Flawless. Regal. Untouchable. She was flanked by four stern-looking handmaidens, all moving in silent synchrony. Her robe today was a deep blue, embroidered with silver threads that formed subtle celestial dragons dancing among the clouds. Her ink-black hair was swept up into a perfect, intricate style, held in place by a single silver hairpin shaped like a dragon. Her back was straight, her chin high, her expression as serene as the surface of a frozen lake.

Wei Feng stopped, leaning casually against a lacquered wooden pillar, partially blocking the hallway. His disheveled posture was a direct offense to the discipline she embodied. The procession halted a few feet from him. The silence stretched.

They exchanged a look.

To anyone else—to the handmaidens who lowered their gaze and the guards who pretended not to see—it was a familiar scene: the gaze of the diligent and perfect Princess Wei Yao, laden with a cold, silent disdain for her useless uncle, the royal drunk, the stain on the Wei lineage. A look that said, Get out of my way, you nuisance.

But for them, in that brief instant, the look was a battlefield of secrets. In her cold disdain, he saw the echo of screams smothered in silk pillows. In her golden eyes, for a fraction of a second, flashed the memory of fire, not frost. He could see the tips of her ears, barely visible behind the veil of her hair, turn a delicate pink. And she, in turn, saw in his lazy, mocking smirk the absolute knowledge of her surrender, the promise of future nights. A smirk that said, I remember every note of your music, princess.

She broke eye contact first, her expression becoming, if possible, even colder. Without a word, she moved around his indolent figure and continued on her way. Wei Feng watched her go, his gaze shamelessly drifting down the curve of her back and her hips, a gesture he was sure she could feel like a physical touch.

Only when the procession had vanished did he push himself off the pillar and resume his own, far less dignified, march. His stomach growled again. He definitely needed a pastry. Or five.

The Council Hall was an imposing space, dominated by a massive dark wood table and heavy tapestries depicting the conquests of the first Emperor Wei. It was already nearly full. Ministers with long beards and scowling faces whispered amongst themselves, generals in ceremonial armor stood as rigid as statues, and eunuchs glided about silently, serving tea.

Wei Feng ignored the disapproving glares and headed straight for a side table. There, piled on a silver platter, they were: the Frosted Lotus Pastries. Snow-white works of art, with a delicate sugar glaze that shimmered under the light of the candelabras.

He took three, stacked them on a plate, and found a seat in the farthest corner of the hall, away from the Emperor’s throne and the princess’s chair. Before anyone could say a word, he took a large bite of one. The sweet, delicate flavor of the lotus paste filled his mouth. Bliss. Maybe politics weren’t so bad after all.

“Silence!” boomed the voice of Emperor Wei Zheng as he entered the hall.

All the ministers bowed deeply. Wei Feng merely gave a vague nod, too busy chewing. The Emperor shot him a death glare but decided to ignore him for the moment. He sat on his throne, and Wei Yao took her seat to his right, her face a mask of serene attentiveness.

The meeting began.

“Your Imperial Majesty,” began General Hu, a burly man with a hideous scar across his left cheek, “the report from the Pacification Campaign in the Southern Fragmented Kingdoms is not good. The resistance is more fanatical than we anticipated. These southerners fight like mud-devils, using the terrain and guerrilla tactics. The costs are high, both in grain and in men.”

“Costs we cannot afford!” interjected the Minister of Finance, Zhao, a thin little man with a shrewd face and small, beady eyes like a rat’s. “General, your legions are consuming the budget at an alarming rate. Every arrow they fire, every sandal they wear out, costs money!”

“My men fight with iron swords against enchanted steel weapons, Minister Zhao,” General Hu retorted, his voice a low growl. “The Merchant Republic of the Seven Rivers is playing dirty again. Their caravans, officially laden with silk and spices, are transporting repeating crossbows and alchemical blades to the southern rebels. We must impose a blockade!”

“A blockade is an act of war against the Republic!” shrieked Zhao. “Do you wish to fight on two fronts, General? With the coffers nearly empty?”

“Better to fight on two fronts than to be bled dry on one by the greed of those merchants!”

As they argued, Wei Feng poured himself a cup of tea and took another bite of his second pastry. He felt the dough lacked a touch of salt, but the filling was sublime.

“Enough,” interrupted the trembling but firm voice of Grand Counselor Bai, an old man whose white beard reached nearly to his waist. “Arguing about the south is pointless when a greater threat looms in the north.”

A tense silence fell over the hall.

“One of our Snow Wolf patrols has vanished near the Whispering Dragon Pass,” the old man continued. “Fourteen men, our best scouts. They simply vanished. No bodies, no signs of a struggle. Just an unnatural silence in the snow.”

The Emperor shifted on his throne. “The Frost-Peaked Alliance?”

“It is their territory, Your Majesty,” said Counselor Bai. “Those northern barbarians are as unpredictable as their avalanches. We cannot afford to provoke them, not now.”

“And let us not forget the impending diplomatic visit from the Theocratic Dominion of the Purifying Flame,” added another minister with a sigh. “They arrive in two weeks. Their priest-warriors are arrogant, and their demands regarding the holy sites on our western borders grow more… irritating each year.”

Fragmented Kingdoms, Merchant Republic, Frost-Peaked Alliance, Theocratic Dominion… Wei Feng yawned. It was like listening to a group of farmers complaining about the weather. There was always a storm somewhere. He picked up his third pastry. This one was perfect.

As a bald minister in a robe that was far too tight began a soporific monologue about grain supply routes, Wei Feng’s attention drifted completely. The minister’s droning voice became background noise, as irrelevant as a buzzing fly. His gaze was fixed, bold and undisguised, on his niece.

The lighting in here is terrible, he thought, his gaze slowly traveling down from her impeccable bun, past her long, pale neck, to settle on the outline of her breasts, barely visible beneath the thick layers of her formal robe. Far too bright, too direct. For our next… session, I definitely need candles. Yes, beeswax, not tallow. They create a softer, warmer light. They would better accentuate the shadows in… those valleys. And maybe some sandalwood incense to mask the smell of wine. Though she doesn’t seem to mind.

Wei Yao, though she kept her gaze fixed straight ahead, felt the intensity of her uncle’s stare like a hot coal against her skin. She tried to ignore it, to focus on the boring logistical details, but it was impossible. A familiar warmth spread from her stomach. The tips of her ears, her personal traitors, flushed an almost imperceptible pink. Exasperated, without moving a muscle in her neck, her golden eyes shot toward him for a single, fleeting instant. It was a look of pure warning, a silent shot across the room that said plainly, “Pay attention, you useless idiot.”

Wei Feng simply raised an eyebrow, lifted the last piece of his pastry in a silent toast, and popped it into his mouth with a satisfied smirk.

Completely bored now that the pastries were gone, he looked for something to drink. The tea was tasteless. He needed wine. With a lazy gesture, he waved over a young court handmaiden standing near the wall.

“Girl,” he said, his voice just loud enough for those nearest to hear, “a little more wine over here, if you’d be so kind.”

The young handmaiden started, her eyes wide. She looked in terror at the Emperor. Wei Zheng, who had been on the verge of dozing off, sat bolt upright, his face turning red with fury.

“WINE?!” he roared, his voice making the teacups rattle. “You dare ask for wine in the middle of a State Council, you useless lout?!”

Wei Feng shrugged. “Such a dry discussion requires a wet palate, brother.”

“No one is to serve that good-for-nothing any wine!” the Emperor ordered, pointing a trembling finger at Wei Feng. “He is enough of an embarrassment to this family sober! I will not tolerate his drunken antics in here!”

The handmaiden bowed so low her forehead nearly touched the floor and scurried away. The other ministers either coughed to hide their smiles or simply stared straight ahead, pretending nothing had happened.

Wei Yao, without looking directly at him, let out a barely audible sigh. It was the most subtle sound in the world, an exhale filled with an infinite exasperation, as if she were dealing with the most troublesome child in the empire. Discreetly, as the bald minister resumed his speech, she made a nearly invisible gesture with her little finger to her personal handmaiden, who stood behind her chair.

Moments later, the princess’s handmaiden moved with silent purpose. She approached Wei Feng’s corner and, with the perfect excuse of adjusting a cushion, she bent down. In the motion, a jade flagon full of wine was placed on the floor, hidden by the leg of his chair. She withdrew with the same silent grace, unnoticed by anyone but him.

Wei Feng smiled to himself. Ah, efficiency.

The meeting finally concluded. The Emperor, looking exhausted, stood up.

“That is all for today,” he announced. “However, let us all remember that tonight we will hold a banquet in the Hall of Eternal Harmony to welcome Young Master Jin of the Golden Sword Sect.”

The room’s attention immediately shifted to Wei Yao. The prestigious suitor, the sword prodigy, was coming for her. Her face, however, remained impassive.

Excellent, Wei Feng thought. Free wine, free food, and a show. I hope the peacock can dance. It will be amusing to watch Yao’er pretend to be impressed.

The ministers began to file out. In no hurry, Wei Feng bent down, retrieved his newly acquired flagon, and poured himself a full cup of the fragrant wine. He took a long, grateful sip.

Emperor Wei Zheng, walking past him on his way out, stopped dead in his tracks. His eyes locked onto the full cup in his brother’s hand. His baffled gaze traveled from the cup to the young handmaiden now trembling in a corner, and back to the cup. His brow furrowed, his face—normally a mask of anger or boredom—becoming a picture of pure, utter confusion. Logic had broken.

He leaned toward his chief eunuch, a thin, elderly man who was always at his side.

“Li,” the Emperor asked in a low voice, with a genuine, profound perplexity he rarely showed, “where in the hells did that fool get wine?”

From across the hall, Wei Feng raised his cup in a silent toast to Wei Yao.

She, of course, ignored him completely, withdrawing with the unruffled grace of a future empress. Though he could have sworn he saw the faintest twitch at the corner of her lips.