Vivian

The recording stone lay warm in her palm, though she had not touched the activation glyph in several minutes. It was unnecessary. The stream played continuously, linked directly to the Path Icon relay her mother had installed during the last Imperial tournament. The Li family had several of these people as staff, so she was getting a direct link to the Imperial Gala.

The Imperial Gala of which she was not a part. In which her husband came to—alone, without her.

The thought annoyed her.

The connection was good. It offered a pristine feed—no commentary, no filters, no time delay. Whatever magic kept the feed relaying from location to location was working well for once.

Officially, she had kept the stone to monitor threats. Political exposure. Enemies watching House Li too closely.

Unofficially, she hadn’t looked away from it in nearly two hours.

Vivian sat on the stone floor of her private training courtyard, far above the estate where the wind never reached and even the moonlight felt rehearsed. Her sword lay beside her, resting in the cradle of its lacquered scabbard. The tea she had poured remained untouched.

She told herself this was strategy. The Imperial Gala was one of the most attended and important events of the year. Something she usually avoided since her spot as the Heir was all but guaranteed, and since the other Tier 1 households attended the gala with the pomp and arrogance their house afforded, they usually brought their Heirs who tended to get drunk and handsy.

She had, more than once, refrained herself from stabbing someone.

Honestly, she hadn’t even thought about it until Anmei mentioned it earlier today.

Now she couldn’t stop thinking about it, and that is how she found herself alone, her gaze remaining fixed on the glowing sphere of light floating above her lap. It shimmered with the mirrored images of silk-clad nobility, chandeliers laced in mana, and enchanted instruments playing music she could no longer hear—only remember.

It was a scene that was familar and foreign.

And in the center of that radiance stood Ethan Zhou—her husband—her husband who seemed to forget that his wife was in seclusion and hadn’t even sent a message of encouragement. Just a thank you for the sword forms.

The jerk.

Vivian studied the man. Ethan stood too still to be uncertain. Too calm to be unnoticed. Vivian watched him navigate the gala with low ambition, a soft, easy charm, and a trait that was far more dangerous in Imperial circles: poise.

She knew what that meant. Others might not, but she did. She had underestimated him. Repeatedly. She wouldn't make that mistake again.

And holy shit, did he look good, was he always this handsome?

This was a problem. People noticed him even more than before.

When Shen Minhua, her childhood friend and rival, appeared on screen, Vivian’s hand stilled on the lip of her teacup. She didn’t breathe harder. She didn’t blink too fast. But the pulse under her skin skipped a beat, and the non existent wind that curled across her mountain plateau suddenly felt less cleansing and more biting.

Vivian remembered Minhua’s words, which seemed like a lifetime ago:

"Vivian. You know what I’m going to say. You’ve made your position clear—no one faults you for that. But you can’t ignore what he’s becoming. If you don’t claim him, someone will. Are you really okay with him having a second or third wife?"

Vivian had not claimed her husband; she didn’t have any plans to…still…

Minhua moved with elegance. Not the elegance of stillness, like Vivian’s. But the elegance of orchestration—grace shaped by calculation and presentation. She walked like a spell performed in public: fluid, deliberate, and meant to be witnessed.

Vivian recognized it. She had watched Minhua hone her act and movements in mirrored halls, during state training rituals, and late-night scroll debates that always devolved into whispering matches and stubborn silence.

Vivian and Minhua. Sword and theory. Precision and potential.

That had been them.

Vivian had memorized every form of the Li Sword series before she turned eleven. Minhua had broken three artifact circuits before she turned twelve, just to prove a professor wrong.

They had grown together. Then they had grown apart. Not from resentment or anything shallow, just from trajectory and life. The Princess of the Peacock Clan and the Heir to the Warrior House of Li. They walked similar paths, but not really together.

Vivian regretted that she and Minhua had drifted, especially when Minhua crossed the ballroom and went directly to Ethan. It struck Vivian harder than she expected.

Not because Minhua was there or because she was beautiful. But because of the way she smiled at her husband— too sincere to be dismissed, too practiced to be trusted.

But the worst part, was how Ethan smiled back. It wasn’t wide. Or open. But it was real.

She saw him tilt his head, a little quirk, which she had noticed he did when genuinely engaged. She saw him nod. Respond. Not perform. He was polite and engaged and considerate.

And then Minhua touched his sleeve. Casually, like she had the right. It was such a natural movement Vivian doubted Minhua even realized she was doing it. But Vivian noticed.

Her jaw tightened. Not because she was jealous. Do not get it twisted, Vivian Li of the House of Li does not get jealous. But because Minhua should have known better. This wasn’t some court flirtation. This was her husband. Maybe not in love. Maybe not in connection. But in structure and form. It didn’t matter if they hadn’t had been intimate yet. He was still her husband.

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Vivian paused.

They haven’t had been intimate yet…like she was planning it.

Vivian pushed that thought away. She was not planning to sleep with her husband. They didn’t have that type of relationship. Still, Minhua shouldn’t have acted that way.

The contact lingered longer than etiquette allowed. Vivian didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. But her hand dropped from the teacup, and her fingers slipped briefly to the hilt of her sheathed sword.

She wasn’t angry, not exactly, but she was something close. It was something heavier.

A strange feeling coiled beneath her ribs—a slow, deliberate tension she did not yet recognize. He wasn’t hers, not in the way the world understood the word. But he wasn’t supposed to be this. Not visible. Not admired.

She had allowed this relationship for her mother's sake and his silence. She had hoped for his restraint. For his ability to move within the boundaries of their alliance without threatening them.

Now, the world had started to look again and the gaze was no longer indifferent.

Vivian could see when the atmosphere in the room shifted. Even from a thousand leagues away, her senses prickled. The resonance in the air grew tighter, more defined. The ballroom’s illusion canopy flickered with subtle auric correction. The lights adjusted automatically, recentering focus without command.

Vivian sat straighter.

She already knew who had entered.

Princess Sophie Virelyn moved like she was not born, but conjured—assembled from the echoes of empires and trained to make silence feel like favor or disappointment.

The feed realigned as the Princess descended the stairs, her constellation-threaded gown shimmering like captured prophecy. Her veil obscured all but the eyes, and even they seemed to carry their own light—golden, luminous, unblinking.

Sophie did not pause. She walked directly toward Ethan.

Vivian watched the entire approach with increasing incredulity. She counted every step. She felt the drum of every heartbeat.

They spoke briefly, Vivian couldn’t hear what was said, but she saw the confusion and something like amusement on her husband’s face.

And then, on the ballroom floor, the Princess of the Empire held out her hand.

She was asking him to dance. Vivian’s jaw dropped. Not only Minhua, now the Princess? What the hell is happening? Is her husband the only man in the damn Empire now?

When Dathan entered the frame, Vivian almost looked away. He moved with the fury of someone too young to understand his own irrelevance. Suddenly, everything was quiet at the Gala, and it made everything much easier to hear.

He shouted, which could be heard but it was the rantings of an idiot, a handsome, vapid idiot.

Dathan accused and declared himself and his fiancé, the Princess, wronged.

The implication was obvious, and it was a very clear insult thrown at her, at her house, Ethan, and the Princess all at the same time.

If Vivian had been there, she would have run him through on the spot.

The commotion and soundtrack of the confrontation were clear now as the whole space went deadly quiet. Dathan acted, a thrown glove. An insult. Empty theatrics with very real consequences.

Then Ethan responded.

He stepped forward—and punched Dathan in his stupid, pompous face.

The impact felt satisfying even from across the distance.

Damn, it was sexy and reckless. It made Vivian hold her breath. But it was what followed, when her father got involved as Dathan’s retainer demanded immediate corporal punishment, that made something inside her soften.

“Because he insulted my wife. And the Princess. And I couldn’t stand for that.”

He had said it clearly. Without irony. Without defense.

He said it as a truth and consequence, like his actions were the obvious reaction to Dathan's idiocy.

Vivian’s hand closed slowly around the jade teacup on her tray. Her fingers pressed just slightly too hard. The ceramic cracked. A thin, deliberate fracture along the base of the handle.

She didn’t react.

Didn’t drop it.

She simply set it aside, as if the break hadn’t happened.

The commotion continued. A duel to commence at the Imperial Martial Tournament.

Then something, or should she say something else, unexpected happened. The Empress stepped down next, her presence like a tide washing over the court.

Vivian dropped once more.

She watched as the Empress, the untouchable ruler of their world, poked Dathan’s forehead. The mark. The silencing.

Then—Sophie’s mother turned to Ethan.

She reached out. Vivian thought for a moment she might strike or at least discipline in some way.

She didn't; she simply reached out to bless.

Her fingers touched his cheek. Soft. Almost tender. The kind of contact one might expect between a queen and a favored son. Or a woman and secret lover.

Vivian inhaled sharply as the Empress kissed Ethan on the cheek, then gave him a warm smile.

Vivian watched as her husband’s face went bright red.

No time to react.

Back on the screen, magic filled it. The duel pact was set. Ethan and Dathan would fight in three months' time.

Vivian wasn’t thinking about that. She kept picturing the Empress kissing Ethan on the cheek.

Her mana field flared without warning. Frost snapped along the edge of her sleeves. The tea in her cup iced over in a single breath.

Her control reasserted quickly. The spike vanished as soon as it had risen.

But she knew what it was.

Jealousy.

Not for love.

Not for affection.

But for control. For command. For the space he occupied.

She had allowed him to be chosen. A choice that ignored desire and sentiment. He was meant to remain hers—invisible, and undisputed.

That was no longer possible. The Empress herself had marked him and in doing so, turned him into the most visible person in the whole damn Empire.

Vivian flipped off the feed. She couldn’t watch anymore. She rose to her feet and moved back to her training stance. Her sword waited, balanced and unforgiving. She didn’t draw it. Not yet.

A gust of mana behind her told her someone had arrived.

Then—

“Ice Queen!”

Liu Anmei’s voice crashed into the silence like a drumbeat in a temple.

Vivian turned slowly. Anmei landed with no regard for etiquette, arms wide, braid bouncing over one shoulder.

“Why is your non-warrior husband so freaking hot?”

Vivian blinked.

“Excuse me?”

Anmei flopped onto the training bench like it owed her rent. “I watched the gala. All of it. He was perfect. Dangerous. Quiet. If that alone wasn’t sexy, then boom—right hook to that cheeky noble’s stupid face, Princess purring approval, and don’t get me started on the Empress touching him like she wanted to brand him.”

She leaned forward.

“If you don’t want him, can I have him?”

Vivian didn’t dignify that with a reply.

Anmei grinned. “You’re mad.”

“I’m not.”

“You are,” she said, ice in her voice. “You just don’t know what kind of mad yet. You’ll figure it out.”

Vivian turned away, sword in hand.

“If you came to spar, draw your blade.”

“Yes. I am worked up. Let's fight!” Anmei said as she flared her mana and brandished her fans.

Vivian exhaled and took up her fighting stance.

After two hours of very vigorous fighting, Vivian sheathed her sword.

The courtyard had long since dimmed into shadow, and the training stones no longer reflected her movement. Only the quiet remained—solid, unyielding, and mercifully still.

She picked up her cracked teacup with one hand and turned to leave.

The glow of the Path Icon fee had long faded, but another light pulsed against the edge of her wrist.

A soft chime. A familiar signal with a private directive and encryption key.

Her pulse didn’t change, but her breath caught—just slightly—as she drew the small charm from the folds of her outer robe.

One message.

From Jun.

She hesitated, then opened it.

The text flickered into view in golden script, clean and careful. What she read made her heart skip a beat.

Jun:

I waited. I really tried. But I couldn’t anymore.

I miss you.

I don’t care what your family says. Or what you’ve told yourself to believe. I miss your silence. I miss your stubbornness. I miss the way you made me feel like I was always two steps behind—and still wanted to catch up.

I know it’s complicated now. But I had to say it. Before this year swallows us both.

Vivian stared at the words for a long time.

Then—without thinking—she pressed one finger to the edge of the charm and closed the message.

No reply.

Not yet.

She slipped it back into her sleeve and turned toward the path leading down the mountain.

She didn’t say anything.

But for the first time in her life that could remember, her sword felt heavier in her hand.