Chapter Text
The winter wind howled down the face of a soaring mountain range, its icy blades whipping down sheer stone cliffs, impaling itself mercilessly in any life it encountered along the way.
Mother Nature cowered, shedding her trees, hiding her animals, protecting her beauty for when the sun warmed her skin once again.
But while the rivers froze and the flowers wilted, a small village, tucked away at the base of the mountains, rattled with every gust of wind, and shivered during every merciless night of ice.
Winter that year had been worse than usual.
It was obvious. At least to Minji.
A girl of ten years old, her ruddy cheeks and missing teeth reflected her still childish character.
Like other children, she liked to play with her friends, tease her siblings, and go to school.
But unlike other children, she lived in a poor rural province north of nowhere, in a small farming town named Taisin.
So when the farm stopped providing enough food for her family that winter, unlike other children, she had to be okay with that.
When she had to walk through the icy mud to get to the local school three days a week, she never complained.
When the school closed because their teacher had left to the south to escape the cold, she had to be okay with that too.
And when the last crop wilted, their last hen died, and money ran out, Minji knew something was wrong.
In the village of Taisin, people had a word for winters like this: tàn diệt. A season of reduction. A season that did not kill fast or generously, but chipped away slowly at the things that made life livable, till life itself had fled. The village people knew that they had to worry about the season not only taking their farms, but also their lives.
She also knew, even if no one said it, that something was about to give.
Minji lived in a one-room hut made of sturdy pale mountain stone and roofed with wood that her father patched every spring with resin-soaked bark. Their hay beds lay together in the corner of the room on top of a dirt floor. A dented kettle sat above a small fire in the middle of the room.
The hut sat on the northern slope of the valley, with a view of the pine-covered ridges curling behind it like folded paper. To the left was a small well, dug four years ago with the help of neighbors. To the right: a lean-to for their ox, an empty chicken pen, and a squat storage shed lined with baskets of dried herbs. Along the slope leading up to their house was their modest farm, where they grew rice.
There were three children: Minji, the eldest; Vu, her younger brother, whose loud and energetic personality had slowly diminished along with the sun's warmth, and little Lien, who was too small to carry a basket but not too small to understand when dinner was thinner than usual.
Outside of the house, down a small beaten trail, lay a hidden opening. Knowing there would be no dinner, Minji decided to visit the path on that particular evening, in an attempt to ignore the gnawing hunger in her stomach.
The path was covered in twisted roots, and jumped a small creek. But just when the canopy felt too dense overhead, its shadows too looming, the path broke out into a large clearing of swaying grass, an impenetrable mountain face enclosing the area, hiding it away from the rest of the world.
In summer, gentle rays of sun would shine into the area, warming the earth and blooming an array of beautiful flowers.
But in winter, the grass was limp, and the flowers were gone.
But one feature remained. All year round, in the center of the clearing, lay a grand willow tree.
She approached the tree alone.
Every inch of her body was bundled up, her nose and cheeks red from the stinging cold. But the clearing was like a little oasis—the surrounding mountains kept the angry winds out, and a gentle warmth in.
Maybe that’s why her mother had loved it so much here.
Minji approached the base of the tree, kneeling silently in front of a rectangular gravestone carved from moutain rock.
The grass rustled around her knees, like a silent acknowledgment of her presence.
Minji let her forehead rest against the cool stone, closing her eyes. She could almost imagine her mother was still there next to her.
She let her mind wander to a different time, now many years ago.
In the years before her mothers passing, they would often come down to this tree together.
Sometimes, she would tell Minji stories.
About how when she was a little girl, she discovered this hidden oasis and always came here to escape when life became difficult.
And how, many years later, she took Minji here as a baby, before she could even hold her own head up. About how she took her first steps right under this very tree.
Together, they would lie together in the soft grass under the shade of the willow tree, her mother gently combing through Minji's hair as she dozed off in her lap.
Minji was younger then. Some of the memories were fuzzy. Others were still so clear that Minji forgets about the time in between, like it happened yesterday.
Minji loved her family, and she knew her mother felt the same way too. They were both very excited for the birth of her younger sister. But they both knew what they had together was special. Minji would always be her first baby, and nothing could ever quite replace that. Her mother never played favorites, but she still knew.
Her mothers passing had been a terrible burden on all of them, but Minji felt that weight particularly heavy.
She fell into a terrible grief, and couldn’t bring herself to walk down their beaten path alone. But it was also one of the things that she felt still kept them connected, so, on days like these, she would seek what was left of her mothers memory.
But the passing years still sat heavy on her shoulders. The summer breeze no longer lingered on her skin, and her mothers loving warmth was forever buried six feet below the ground.
There would never be another moment for them to sit beneath the tree together. It would only ever be Minji, alone.
Minji did not cry in the cold anymore. Not because she didn’t want to. Because her tears froze before they fell.
Minji went to the village square every morning. It was ritual more than reason. Her boots skidded over the icy stones, past the dried husks of the herb vendor’s stall, past the shuttered teahouse, to the old map post that hadn’t held anything new in years. There was a single parchment nailed to it, yellowed and soft with age.
The seal was still clear, though: the emperor’s dragon, stamped in red ink.
Minji struggled to read what it said.
An older woman approached her side, perhaps noticing her predicament.
“I can read what that says, if you’d like”
Minji nodded meekly
“Voluntary Enrollment to the Southern Corps — Han Dynasty Royal Army
By decree of the Emperor Han Duy Minh, all children aged 10 to 19 of peasant birth are eligible for enlistment under the Provisional Wartime Compensation Act. Any child admitted will serve the Southern Corps under imperial tutelage and receive:
• 20 taels of silver per annum
• a goat, 2 sacks of rice, 1 bolt of silk, and a tin of medicine delivered to their family yearly
• Lifetime merit status for military service upon reaching 10 years of service
This order shall be enforced with due grace and reward, in gratitude for the service of the people.”
The signature at the bottom was in a long, curling calligraphy she couldn’t read. But the words above were already burnt into her mind like a prayer.
It’s not like she wasn’t aware of the existence of the military mandate.
The first child to go had been Bao Linh, from the ridge farm closest to the eastern edge of the valley. She had been eleven, tall for her age, and known for climbing trees faster than the boys. Her father had brought her to the enrollment post at the district town of Hội Kinh eight months ago, and though he returned with coin and silk, he never smiled again.
Minji had not seen Bao Linh since.
But she saw how her siblings stopped looking gaunt from a lack of food, how they were able to afford firewood, and how their livestock grew generously.
Minji chewed on her lip as she trudged towards her house, observing the empty rice paddies and thin ox.
Something had to give.
She waited until the fourth night of the windstorm to say it aloud.
They were all huddled around the stove, the flame so weak it barely glowed under the pot of rice gruel. Her father had hung burlap across the windows, and Vu and Lien were bundled together under their shared blanket, faces pink from cold.
Minji’s voice came out low, flat. Like a spoon tapping stone.
“I want to go.”
Her father didn’t answer. He was stirring the pot slowly, not looking up.
“I can do it,” she said again. “The papers say from age ten. I’m ten now.”
This time Vu looked up, mouth half-open, but Lien buried her face deeper under the cloth.
Still, her father didn’t speak.
Minji waited until the next morning. She rose at dawn, quietly leaving the house so as to not disturb her younger siblings. Her father was already toiling away on the field.
She walked to her mother’s grave.
The sky above was steel-colored, heavy and wide. The air cut into her lips and cheeks like salt.
She didn’t kneel. Just stood there, head hung in resignation.
“You wouldn’t have let them starve.”
She said it aloud, though the wind took most of the words away.
“I’ll protect them for you.”
She stood for another second. Waited. Like she thought her mother might appear in front of her. But only for a beat.
She turned on her heels, making her way back into the forest. But before her mothers tree disappeared from sight, she turned back one last time, knowing it would be the last time she would visit for a very, very long time.
“Goodbye” she whispered.
And then, she vanished from the clearing entirely.
She returned to the house, face frail but her eyes determined beyond her years.
Her father was waiting inside. He had taken his winter cloak down from the hook and folded it. He simply looked at her, his face ghosted with pain but set with resignation.
There was no ceremony. Her father gave her his old riding cloak—thick, worn, patched at the collar—and a satchel made from one of her mother’s old dresses, the fabric sun-faded to a muted blue. Inside: four rice cakes wrapped in bamboo leaf, a strip of dried venison, and half a flask of chili oil. They’d boiled the oil twice to get the bitterness out.
Minji didn’t cry. She bowed to her father and kissed Lien’s forehead while she slept. Vu walked her halfway down the ridge path before turning back, face pinched in a poor attempt not to cry, arms folded tight to keep from waving.
Her father led her to the edge of the village. The path was known and well worn, but still long for a little girl.
“I can’t take you any further.” He said, his voice cracking.
Minji cast her eyes downwards, before looking back up.
“I know. But don’t worry about me. Take care of Lien and Vu for me”
Her expression startled her father.
It was like seeing a ghost—she couldn’t have looked more identical to her mother in that moment.
And somehow that brought peace to his heart. Somehow, somewhere, he knew her mother would always watch out for their daughter.
“Goodbye, Minji” he said through their last hug
Minji smiled. Then, she turned and started to walk.
She didn’t look back.
Hội Kinh was two days’ walk downhill, the road twisting through farmlands and cedar groves. She passed shepherds wrapped in horsehair cloaks, old women carrying baskets of ash wood, and once, a shrine maid sweeping snow off a road marker carved with the emperor’s sigil.
None of them asked her why she was alone. They had probably seen a hundred children on the same path as her now.
She stayed the first night at a river bend, curled under her cloak beside a stone outcrop. The moon was pale and wide. The sky above it cloudless. She counted the sounds: the shift of deer hooves in the brush, the call of an owl, the snapping of a branch that made her sit upright until her heart settled again. Then, only wind.
The second morning, her legs ached, but she didn’t stop. By noon, the hills opened up to a flat valley basin, and she could see Hội Kinh ahead: a walled town with smoke rising from tiled rooftops and a line of flags flapping over the west gate.
It was bigger than any place she’d ever seen. It was dense, both in terms of people, houses, shops, and vendors.
Minji entered with the next group of travelers—mostly farmers hauling carts of hay and dried fish. A guard in a red vest checked her satchel but didn’t speak. Inside the walls, the streets were lined with stalls covered in tarps, and the smell of frying sesame oil clung to everything. She paused once in front of a stall selling lacquer hair combs, watching a girl her age try one on in a murky hand mirror. Minji had never seen a mirror before. She tried not to gawk, especially at all the nice things on display that she could not in a million years afford. She moved on reluctantly.
The imperial enlistment office sat beside the grain house near the north end of town. It was a squat stone building with green-painted doors and a carved plaque over the arch that read:
“The strong serve. The willing lead.”
Minji didn’t know what it said, of course. But there were already four others in line—two boys, one older girl, and a man with no left foot who seemed to be negotiating something with the clerk through the barred window.
Minji waited.
When it was her turn, the clerk, a man with thinning hair and an ink-stained sleeve, squinted at her face.
“Name.”
“Minji, daughter of Minh Quyen, village of Taisin.”
“Age?”
“Ten. Just turned.”
He raised his brow. “A little young to make this choice yourself.”
“I know what the decree said. The minimum is ten.”
A pause. Then he shrugged and reached for the paper forms.
“Sign here.”
Minji hesitated. “I don’t know how.”
He didn’t look up. “Make your mark, then.”
She took the brush, dipped it in ink, and pressed a straight vertical line at the bottom of the parchment.
The man blotted the signature dry.
“Go inside. They’ll record your height and weight. If you’re not lying, you’ll get your coin and departure date by tomorrow.”
The back room was colder than the front. A woman in a quilted robe stood with a ledger and a measuring stick. She asked no questions. Just recorded her name and placed her thumbprint in red wax next to it. Then she took a small sack from a lacquered chest and handed it over.
Inside: Five silver taels, a clean uniform, and new boots.
Minji felt spoiled beyond comprehension, never having owned her own set of anything before.
Before she forgot, she asked about her family's rewards. She was told they would receive it within the month.
“Go to the east dormitory tonight,” the woman said, not unkindly. “You’ll leave with the next supply caravan at dawn.”
That night, Minji shared a room with ten other children. Most were older. Some had done this before, rotated between forts for years, sent home only to gather their next siblings. A boy named Namjun showed her how to wear her boots so they didn’t blister on forced marches. A girl named Thi from a fishing village in the south said she once saw a corpse pulled from a trench in spring.
Minji didn’t say much. But she listened.
She slept on her back, one hand on the satchel beneath her head. At some point before sleep claimed her, she thought of her sister’s tiny fingers, curled in her blanket like shoots of ginger.
She closed her eyes and held the picture there until it faded.
At dawn, the supply caravan rolled out of Hội Kinh in a staggered line of wagons and mule carts, all creaking under the weight of dried grain, iron tools, and thick canvas crates of salt. Minji rode in the second cart, seated between two boys from another district. One of them was pale from the rocking, the other fell asleep with his chin on his knees. She stayed upright the entire ride, hands clenched around her satchel.
They traveled for three days, following the river southward until the land opened into flat scrub plains broken only by narrow trails and old stone boundary markers. On the fourth morning, they passed under an iron gate flanked by two rusted statues of cranes—one with a cracked beak.
A banner hung from a crooked pole overhead:
LANG SU TRAINING FORT — 17th PROVINCIAL BATTALION, SOUTHERN CORPS
No drums. No horns. No welcome.
Just the bark of a sergeant who looked like he hadn’t slept in days.
“Out. Line up. Now.”
The children stumbled from the wagons and stood in uneven rows. Minji adjusted her cloak, stepped forward, and took a place near the front.
“No speaking unless spoken to. Anyone caught stealing from the stores will lose a finger. Anyone caught running will be returned and whipped. Anyone who fights without orders will be punished by the field marshal directly.”
“This is a military compound, not a rice field. You are soldiers now. Act like it.”
Minji’s assigned quarters were in Block D, an old wooden barrack with narrow beds stacked two-high and a draft that crept through the floorboards at night. Her bunkmate was a silent girl named Nga who kept a needle hidden in her sleeve and muttered prayers before bed.
The food was a bowl of rice, broth, and boiled roots. Breakfast and supper were the same. Water came from a tin jug shared by three rooms.
She memorized the daily routine within the week.
It was a blur of harsh wake up calls before dawn, attendance in the freezing cold courtyard, running laps barefoot, a measly lunch, weapons drills, grueling full body endurance, discipline drills, dinner, cleaning up the lavatory’s and dorms, then lights out.
Minji did not speak much. Not because she was afraid, but because she had nothing to say. She watched. She learned. She listened when older cadets whispered how to avoid the quartermaster’s wrath or which training instructors handed out bruises without reason.
She was the smallest in her group. But not the weakest.
By the third week, she could run longer than the older boys. She stopped crying when her fingers split from the cold. She learned how to roll after a fall, how to take a strike across the collarbone and keep moving. Her feet bled from calluses. Her knuckles grew thick and hard.
Her favorite time was dusk, after the final bell. She would sit just outside the barracks and stretch her legs beneath the crooked pine tree. No one else liked the spot, the roots jutted up from the dirt like knives, but it faced the open field, and when the sky turned gold-orange, the light felt almost warm again.
She thought about home, then. Not with longing, but with discipline. She pictured Vu feeding the ox. Lien running in real shoes to fetch firewood. Her father resting his hands over the large fire to chase the feeling back into them.
She let herself remember—but only for a moment. Then she pushed the images away.
The winter only got worse.
Some could not bear the cold any longer. The oldest boy, a fifteen-year-old from Kim Đan named Thanh, coughed blood into his pillow for three nights before a medic was called. By the time help came, two more cadets had collapsed. The staff doubled the drills to keep them from freezing.
Minji tied strips of rag around her feet at night. She bit her tongue to stay silent during push-ups in snow. When the skin peeled from her palms, she used ash and vinegar to keep them clean.
On the coldest night of the year, she woke to find Nga, her bunk mate, shivering too hard to breathe. The girl’s lips were blue.
Minji didn’t ask permission.
She wrapped her own coat around Nga and climbed into her bunk to press their bodies together for warmth.
Neither of them spoke.
When the bell rang the next morning, they stood together.
In her second year, Minji received her first real blade—a half-length training sabre worn at the waist. She learned to clean it with crushed bark and to hold it loose, not tight, in her hand. She was assigned to the field squad under Captain Bảo, a heavy-shouldered woman with a scar across her jaw.
Captain Bảo said only one thing to her the first week:
“You look small, but your eyes don’t lie.”
By her third year, she was promoted to junior lead. She was much taller now, at least compared to the other girls.
She could climb rope walls, hold a horse’s reins with her knees, and throw a spear farther than half the squad. At twelve, she rode for the first time into the highlands for field drills. She didn’t flinch when an arrow tore her sleeve or when a horse collapsed mid-charge. She was already something else—sharpened, but not hardened. Not yet.
And she never once asked to go home.
Notes:
I have absolutely no talent at spacing out lines so if the flow is off I’m genuinely so sorry 😭😭
Chapter 2: Bound by Blood
Notes:
Hey guys I’m back! Sorry for the wait on updating, just finished sloughing through multiple horrendous assignments. Anyways I’m back to my usual schedule of updating at 3am now🩷🩷
A/N try imagine the palace as the irl forbidden city 😭I was trying so hard to describe visually what I saw there because it really was just wow. Even though it was packed with tourists. Great place
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The girl who left Taisin with frost-bitten knuckles never returned.
Not exactly.
Minji was taller now. Her shoulders had broadened from drills and saddle-work. Her skin, once delicate and soft with youth, had bronzed under sun and hardened with countless years of training. Her jaw was sharper. Her posture was straight. Her voice, when she chose to use it, was low and rough like a captain’s.
She was seventeen years old and the youngest field sergeant in the 17th Northern Corps.
Her return to the province of Bak-Son came without ceremony.
It was coincidence, at least officially. Her commanding officer—Field Captain Bảo—had requested her squad to escort a group of imperial inspectors traveling along the western trade routes. She was assigned to oversee the northern patrol zone, covering a string of rural waypoints… including Taisin.
No one had planned it.
But when the list was read aloud at morning formation, Minji blinked only once.
Taisin.
Sector D-12.
Temporary station: 3 weeks.
She said nothing. Accepted the order. Packed lightly. And left at sunrise as a group of twenty soldiers led by one captain.
Taisin hadn’t changed much.
The well had been rebuilt again, its stonework newer than she remembered. Some families had mended their roofs. The herb vendor’s stall was gone and replaced by a place selling lamb. She saw a girl who looked like Lien but wasn’t. A boy who might’ve been Vu’s friend, grown taller.
The air in Taisin carried a sharper chill than Minji remembered, though perhaps it was only because she had grown used to the warmth of the barracks fires, the endless stench of steel and sweat. Here, the cold held something else: woodsmoke curling from thatched chimneys, the sweet bite of pine carried down from the ridges, and underneath it all the faint earthy musk of damp soil.
She tightened her cloak as she passed the familiar bend in the dirt road, her boots sinking into grooves carved by cartwheels years before she left. The village lay spread before her as it always had. Low, patched-roof houses crouching against the mountain’s shoulder, smoke trails stitched into the dusk, dogs barking at the sight of a figure in armor.
But the armor was hers now. The uniform was stiff, the insignia too polished for a girl who had once run barefoot through these same lanes. And the girl who left had been ten years old, ribs sharp beneath her tunic, volunteering because she had run out of options. Now she returned a soldier, taller, shoulders squared, carrying the weight of responsibility that no child of Taisin should have known.
Her heart pounded as she reached the edge of her family’s yard. The house looked smaller than she remembered, the wood darker with age. A small patch of vegetables grew stubbornly in the frozen earth beside it, shielded by a makeshift fence.
She barely had time to draw breath before the door slid open.
“Minji?”
Her father’s voice cracked in disbelief. The years had bent his back further, gray thickening in his hair, but his eyes, dark and searching, were unchanged. Behind him, her younger siblings crowded in the doorway, taller now, faces longer, their surprise giving way to joy.
“Appa,” Minji said, and the word nearly broke her.
Then they were pulling her inside, a flurry of hands and voices. Her sister, now a spry young girl, pressed her face into Minji’s chest as though to make sure she was real. Her little brother, no longer so little, grinned wide enough to show the gap in his teeth, tugging at the edge of her cloak. Her father stood back for a long moment, as though afraid the vision would dissolve, before he stepped forward and gripped her shoulders with trembling strength.
“You’ve come home,” he said. “My brave girl has come home.”
The rest of the evening blurred in warmth. They insisted she sit close to the fire, piling bowls of rice and stewed greens before her though she knew such plenty cost them dearly. Her father asked about her service, his voice tight with pride and worry. Her siblings bombarded her with questions: what battles were like, whether she’d seen the capital, if the generals rode horses as tall as the mountain gates.
Minji answered as best she could, tucking away the blood and smoke and screams, offering instead the stories that made their eyes shine: the training excursions through beautiful valleys, the endless rows of soldiers in local parades, the sheer glory of the empire, even out in this small, frozen section on the country. For once, she allowed herself to be more than a weapon. She let herself be their sister again.
By the time the moon climbed high, her siblings had fallen asleep against her side, their small breaths warm on her sleeves. Her father sat opposite, watching her with a gaze that carried both gratitude and guilt.
“You’ve grown strong,” he said softly. “Stronger than I ever wished for you to be.”
Minji swallowed, her hand smoothing over her sister’s hair. “It’s worth it,” she whispered. “If it means you can eat. If it means you’re safe.”
Comfortable silence stretched between them. For the first time in years, Minji felt whole.
It didn’t last.
The pounding at the door came sudden, urgent. Minji’s body reacted before her mind caught up, carefully disentangling from her siblings as she rose. A fellow soldier stood outside, face pale in the moonlight.
“Scouts just returned,” he said breathlessly. “Raiders are approaching the north ridge. They’ll be here before dawn.”
Minji jumped to her feet “Where’s the captain?”
The soldiers looked at each other, faces pale with the fear creeping up their necks
“Missing.”
Minji’s stomach clenched with fear. She glanced back at the hut, which held the sleeping forms of her siblings, her father’s weary frame silhouetted against the firelight.
She took a deep breath. This was why she had put on the uniform. Why she had learned to wield a blade until her hands bled.
She nodded once, firm. “I’ll take the front line.”
The soldier hesitated, then hurried off.
She looked back into the hut, her siblings now awake and scared.
She looked at her father, her voice clipped as to hide the anxiety she felt simmering in her stomach
“You must hide, quickly. Take them to mothers tree, nobody will find you there.”
Her father nodded.
Minji glanced at them once more
“I’ll protect you. Stay safe for me too.”
Minji urged her horse to gallop faster, meeting the rest of the squadron at the ridge, a the front section of the town.
Minji’s eyes narrowed as soon as she saw it. There were no registered fires permitted after dark this close to the forest.
Then came the screaming.
A child’s cry echoed across the field, swallowed and repeated by the slope of the valley.
The smoke thickened. A second trail flared to life behind the first.
“They’re torching the grain!” one of her men shouted.
“Go wide,” she ordered. “You, with me.”
She drove her horse toward the source, pulse steady, her sabre drawn before she reached the rise. The first outlaw emerged from the trees a breath later—masked, broad-shouldered, swinging a club laced with metal.
She didn’t hesitate.
She dismounted at speed, slammed into him with shoulder and blade, and sent him crumpling to the snow. The second attacker came at her from the left—taller, quicker, a hooked knife in hand. He aimed for her throat.
She ducked, turned the blow aside, and drove her elbow into his ribs hard enough to hear a crack.
“Taisin is under imperial protection!” she shouted into the dark. “Withdraw, or die here!”
They did not withdraw.
Ten. Fifteen. Maybe more.
Bandits. Deserters. Ragtag mercenaries, half-starved and desperate. They came through the east woods like insects, swarming over fences and into huts. Smoke rose from three rooftops. A cow wailed in the pen.
She rallied her squad at the central square, regrouped with one man wounded and one missing.
“We hold the grain stores. We cut the fire trail. Nothing touches the well.”
She drew the line on the dirt with her blade and took position.
Then she fought.
The battle lasted twenty-seven minutes.
Twenty-seven minutes of ash, blade, and muscle memory. Of snow blackened by firelight and the howling of terrified children. Of doors kicked in and sabres crashing against makeshift shields. Of Minji—fury-coiled, bloodstreaked, unswerving—defending her birthplace with the fire of a woman twice her age and twice her rank.
In the end, only three bandits survived. The rest fled or were felled.
Her squad had one fatality. A boy from Tam Rung. He died protecting a farmer’s child.
Minji stitched the wound in her own leg without flinching and ordered her men to begin triage and assessment. She hadn’t sat down in hours. Her cloak was burned at the shoulder. Her hair, wet with sweat and soot, clung to her jaw.
But the storehouse still stood.
And the well still ran clear.
Later, instead of resting, she made her way to a familiar spot she had not been to for a very long time.
She stood and walked, once more, back toward the slope of the village she had nearly died to protect, to her house, then further.
She stopped under the willow tree.
She rested her hand on the trunk and whispered into the bark:
“That’s one more winter we lived through”
Two and a half weeks later, approaching the end of her assignment in Taisin, a letter arrived from Field Captain Bảo.
He hobbled to meet Minji at her house. She sat with her family inside, all of them still shaking the last remnants of the scare, but safe nonetheless.
She walked outside to greet him. He was hunched over a walking stick, one leg bandaged. He had been wounded by the attackers in the forest, hence why nobody could find him. Minji was grateful he was alive.
The letter was brief. Her captain read it out loud to her.
“Saw the report. Emperor’s committee wants to meet the ‘savage flower of Taisin.’ Make sure you wear clean boots.”
Minji’s eyebrows rose in surprise.
It took all her willpower not to gape at the second section of the letter.
Attached was a second notice, an imperial summons from the emperor's most elite and trusted committee.
Her captain furrowed his eyebrows before his face morphed into something between shocked and pleased.
The writing was scrawling black ink on a rather large piece of parchment, the border of the scroll red patterns flaked in gold and its handle of rose wood. At the bottom corner was a complicated red square stamp to prove its authenticity.
“Ahem.” her captain started, trying to compose himself
“By decree of Emperor Han, soldier Kim Minji of the 17th Northern Corps has been summoned to stand as a candidate for official service in the Royal Palace in light of her outstanding bravery and competency. The expectation is that the candidate understands they must swear an oath under the circumstance that they are selected for this opportunity. The ceremony will take place in Longjing during the New Year celebrations at the Royal Palace. Accommodation will be provided for all guests.”
Minji blinked, trying to process what she had heard
There would be a ceremonial selection. An honor. Possibly a permanent reassignment.
Possibly, her life would never return to what it had been.
But for what position exactly, Minji wasn’t quite sure.
Minji turned to her captain quizzically.
“Do you know what they could be selecting me for, specifically?”
Her captain nodded
“Aye. I know what these Royals are like. I’ve heard about these summons before, distantly, but never up close like this. Every time a Royal turns 17, the Emperor's closet selects the most skilled fighter from every region to stand before a Shaman, who then decides which of the candidates is suited for the role of guarding the Royal child.”
Minji pauses, frowning “So, then… who am I expected to guard?”
”The Princess, I assume. The eldest daughter of Emperor Han. I’ve heard many rumors of her… apparently, she is the spitting image of her late mother.”
Minji cocked her head. She almost had a hard time imagining the Emperor and his family as real people. They seemed more like a figment of her imagination than of reality.
She vaguely knew pieces of information about them. It had been several hundred years since the Han Dynasty had taken power. They lived in the capital city, Longjing, inside of a massive red-walled palace. The Emperor had married a woman so beautiful that rumors of her appearance had entered even the most isolated of villages. She had one son, and died giving birth to her youngest daughter.
Minji turned to her Captain
“I could be doing this for the rest of my life.”
“Yes.”
“Do you know her name?”
He scratched his head, trying to remember
“She likes to go by Hanni”
The road to Longjing city was unlike anything Minji had ever seen — a great spine of stone, ancient and unwavering, laid across the continent like the bone of some sleeping dragon. Paved with broad, fitted slabs of weathered stone, it shimmered in the early spring mist like a thing half-remembered in a dream. The locals called it the Emperor’s Vein, and when her horse’s hooves first touched the stone, Minji felt something in her ribs tighten. Like crossing a line from the world she knew into the one she did not.
Minji had bid farewell to her family early that morning, unable to contain her tears. She felt like she was ten and seventeen all at once, but now, she would be saying goodbye for good.
They left her with a small silver ring they had secretly prepared as a gift. It was expensive for her family, and she knew they could hardly afford something this nice. That was until Minji glanced down at her fathers hand, now bare.
“I can’t… I can’t take this”
“And I can’t leave you again, but still I must. Your mother… she would have wanted you to have it.”
Her sister took her hand, grasping the ring between their joint palms.
“I miss you everyday. I can’t imagine how it must feel for you to be all on your own. With the ring, we’ll be by your side, always.”
Minji felt her heart ache as she twisted it around on her ring finger, her carriage bumping restlessly.
Her escort consisted of two dozen riders: military candidates, minor nobles, provincial ministers — all summoned for various imperial ceremonies. Their uniforms gleamed with oiled leather and polished crests. The men from the Northern Corps bore tiger-tooth pendants on their belts; the naval cadets wore white gloves even in the saddle. Minji’s uniform was new — navy blue with a silver-edged collar, its weight still unfamiliar on her shoulders. Her sabre hung in regulation fashion against her hip, newly sharpened.
She didn’t speak to the others. Nor did they speak to her.
But she could feel their glances. The girl from the provinces. The rumored Taisin flame. A wildcard compared to the rest of the hand-curated candidates.
When they finally crossed the final bridge into Taisin, it hit her all at once.
The capital was alive.
Not just populated — teeming. A storm of silk and hoofbeat and copper bells. Banners in six colors danced from every post. Shopfronts spilled onto the streets with garlands of lotus, sesame cakes, and chilled wine. Scholars crossed traffic on lacquered chairs carried by footmen. Children in pressed linen shouted news of the festival and tossed petal-confetti into the wind.
A courier zipped past on a white mare, yelling something about the empress’s cousin arriving from the eastern harbor. No one flinched. This was just another Tuesday.
The city towered over itself — nested rings of stone and gold, coiling inward, denser and cleaner the farther they rode.
It felt endless.
And then, through the mist, Minji saw the palace.
They passed through the front gate, now leaving the city and entering the Emperor's tightly guarded grounds. They went through the westernmost entry to the imperial compound, beneath a vaulted arch overrun with stone chrysanthemums. Guards in red and gold stood six to a post, spears crossed at the base. Minji tried not to stare. Everything was too much — the sheer height of the walls, the sound of water flowing from gorgeous fountains, the scent of jasmine oil and sandalwood permeating the clean wind.
And above it all, as if seated in the clouds themselves, rose the roofs of Longjing.
The main palace lived up to the rumors.
Each wing stretched like the arm of a deity, curved at the corners with gold-tiled eaves that reached toward the heavens. Painted dragons and sunbeams adorned the beams, but not garishly — like a memory pressed into the architecture itself. The stones were pale quartz, veined with silver. The windows glowed with lattice-carved screens. Her village didn’t have glass. These windows were rimmed with crystal.
Minji caught herself holding her breath.
The procession stopped at the Southern Assembly Yard, a smaller section of the grounds, much further away from the main palace.
The ceremonial candidates were to be briefed and quartered. Pages in scarlet tunics approached with scrolls, names, and room assignments.
“Minji, 17th Northern Corps,” one called, with just the faintest surprise in his voice when he found her name. “Block Four. You’ll be housed with the Southern Division.”
Her room was more beautiful than that of the head house of her village.
The floors were pale stone, cleaned to a high shine. The bed was carved from polished rosewood and inlaid with pearl tiles in the shapes of cranes. On the far wall stood a folding screen painted with ink-wash mountains and a silver moon. A tray of fresh fruit and a carafe of hot plum wine sat untouched on a lacquered table. Silk curtains lined the windows
Even the silence felt sacred here.
That night, she slept in the bed she was allocated, but still felt like a stranger.
The morning of the Guardian Selection Ceremony, Minji was awake before the temple bells.
She had been instructed to wear her full regalia: sword polished, boots cleaned, uniform crisp. The Southern Division had provided a ceremonial outer robe, heavy with silver embroidery. Its pattern depicted two herons circling a branch of plum — the symbol of vigilance. She wore it without protest, grateful for the warmth from the residual winter leading up to the new years.
She donned these items as the evening drew close, sick of pacing and worrying the whole day.
Finally, a page arrived to escort her, knocking on her quarters. She followed him in silence through a long corridor of carved beams and silken screens, her footsteps muffled by layers of red lacquered tile. Eventually, they were led out into a courtyard so grand Minji could barely describe it.
It was a massive area that sat at the foot of the looming Palace of the Emperor, the setting sun sending elongated shadows across the courtyard.
Minji felt her breath catch as she was led into the middle of the ceremony. The palace was elevated by massive stone stairs on either side, with a massive procession of soldiers, officials, and others filling up the ranks.
It hit Minji that they were there specifically for the ceremony she was selected for.
Each was a study in poise: the proud northern cavalryman with the scar across his chin; the tiger-eyed tactician from the east, rumored to have saved a prince’s life. Minji did not know them by name. But she recognized a few by reputation. She could feel them sizing her up as she joined the line.
She stood in the last position.
And when the trumpets began, the world tilted.
The twelve selected candidates stood in formation as they were led up the stairs, the loud banging of enormous drums marking their every step.
The Emperor's official meeting chambers was visible through an open entrance way at the very center of the Palace, a smaller room visible inside.
As they began their ascent, Minji felt her pulse in her ears.
The guards standing at the base did not move.
Nor did the rows of courtiers lining either side of the square, all draped in dark silks and holding ceremonial fans against their chests. Ministers. Scholars. Nobles. Temple lords. People who would never care to know her name.
Until now.
As she climbed, the sounds of the capital faded. The air thinned, becoming cooler. Smoother. Like it had passed through layers of purification. Even her footsteps felt smaller here. Less grounded. Or maybe she was just nervous.
By the time they reached the upper platform, her legs burned.
And yet, she barely felt them. All other thoughts left her mind when she entered the chambers.
The floor was pitch black and shiny, the roof, a gold and green combination, was detailed to the last hair. In the center of the roof was a hole, a dragon made of pure gold aimed downwards with a ruby in its mouth so big Minji had to resist the urge to rub her eyes to confirm what she was seeing. But the most impressive thing was the throne. Red pillars stood on each side of a golden throne, each cushioned seat low to the ground. The back was high, and was detailed to resemble mountains.
At its center sat the Emperor of Han.
His robe was deepest crimson, embroidered with black threads so fine they caught the light like oil on water. His beard was cropped close, his crown tall and fan-shaped. He said nothing. He didn’t need to.
Beside him, not at his feet but at his right, stood the figure Minji had not let herself imagine too clearly.
Princess Hanni.
Minji hadn’t expected anything so vivid.
The portraits she’d glimpsed growing up showed royal women as distant, translucent figures — all similar expressions, faces, and outfits. It could be hard to tell them apart from each other. Maybe that was the point.
Because in person, Minji felt her breath catch. Hanni was nothing like the subdued, small woman that the male artists were so inclined to portray her as.
Her presence felt untouchable.
She had a dominating aura, and a sharp intellect glinting behind her eyes, as if she herself were Emperor. Minji truly felt like a country bumpkin at that moment, afraid Hanni would see right through her luxurious outfit and see a tanned, poor farmer.
She thought back onto the captain's words, about Hanni having a striking resemblance to her gorgeous mother. Minji would never know for sure what this mysterious woman looked like, but if she looked anything like Hanni, Minji truly understood why the nation was captivated by her beauty.
Her robe was white silk over sky blue, embroidered with clouds that stretched from hem to shoulder. A sash of deep jade fastened across her chest, and a wide collar of mother-of-pearl shimmered with each breath she took. Her hands were hidden in her sleeves. Her back was straight. And at her throat sat a single, unmissable stone — the Gia Minh sapphire, said to be carved from the sky itself.
She wasn’t smiling.
But her eyes, dark and clear, held a stillness that pinned Minji in place from across the hall.
And for a single, absurd second, Minji thought:
She looks lonely
She caught herself before her mind could wander any further
The command was given, and each candidate stepped forward one by one.
The other candidates stood out in various ways, in ways that would usually overshadow someone like Minji.
Some were obviously very rich, minor nobles themselves. Others, older than her, more experienced. Each and every one of them was able to leave a lasting impression.
Minji approached last. The black marble underfoot was cold, enough to sting through her boots. As she reached the final arc of the hall, she lay on her knees, bowing deeply as each candidate did before her. She wasn’t anything special. But she was just herself. And maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing.
The silence around her was total.
Then, a voice spoke.
“Your name.”
Her own voice came out steadier than she felt. She raised her head.
“Minji, daughter of Minh Quyen. Of Taisin, in the province of Bach-Son.”
She stepped back into line, having being the last to have presented herself.
Suddenly, the murmur of ministers died as the doors creaked open, and an old woman shuffled forward, her back bent but her steps deliberate. She wore many dazzling necklaces with unusual symbols, and was surrounded by smoking incense sticks, powders, and objects. A black veil hung over her head, so low that her face was hidden from sight, only the faint curve of her chin visible in the smoke.
Minji had the feeling she didn’t want to make eye contact.
Incense burned in copper bowls at each corner of the hall, smoke curling and folding in strange, restless shapes. The woman knelt directly before the dais where the Emperor sat with his daughter at his side. With a slow, rasping breath, she pressed her palms flat to the stone floor.
The hall was utterly silent.
Then came the sound: a low keening, halfway between chant and moan, as if her voice belonged to something older than her body. Her hands began to trace patterns on the tiles, fingers trembling in ways that seemed both frail and deliberate. The incense smoke thickened, curling into whorls that almost resembled forms—faces flickering in the haze, hands reaching and vanishing.
“Paths… tangled,” the shaman whispered, her voice distant, almost as though something else spoke through her. “The daughter of the dragon and the child of the white mountains… they walk toward fire. A bond not easily carried. Heavier than most. Wounds upon wounds… yet still—” She froze, as though seized. The bowls rattled, ash scattering. “Still the cord holds. Stronger than blade, stronger than blood. They cannot sever it.”
Smoke started to rise abnormally, and Minji felt her heart jump to her throat as it approached her feet, thin strips coiling around her body.
And then, without being prompted, the shaman raised one shaking hand and pointed through the haze—straight at Minji.
“This one,” she hissed, her veiled head never lifting, her voice hoarse and certain. “This one is chosen.”
The silence that followed was unbearable. The smoke hung low now, clinging to the floor, carrying the bitter scent of resin and ash.
“Rise, Minji.”
She did.
“Step forward.”
The blood in her hands tingled as she rose, nervous but sure in herself. She walked the final steps toward the center of the circle, toward the seal carved into the floor — a blossoming flame surrounded by lotus petals.
From the dais above, the emperor raised a carved scepter.
“You are chosen.”
Minji did not hear the applause.
She did not bow again.
She was staring, for a single moment too long, at the princess.
And Hanni, for the first time, looked back.
Notes:
Hey guys hope u enjoyed!🩷 also this is a bit random but GUYSSS I went out last night to a gay club and said fuck it, I’m just gonna kiss a girl. I just said yes to the first chick that came onto me and I’m gonna be honest I wish I didn’t. My psa is that kissing people irl is not what fanfics chalk it up to be (well duh. Also my bad). I really regret feeling pressured to kiss someone just for experience, and I wish I had waited till I found someone I actually liked. I just felt inclined to share this because I know the majority of published works on ao3 are romantic and there might be a lot of people on this platform mentally in the same boat as me. Basically it’s okay to not have kissed anyone it genuinely can be a negative, uncomfortable experience. It’s something you can choose to save, as I feel like society pressures you to exist in a certain way. However I’m not going to let that experience deter me from writing romance and that, but basically don’t rush into kissing ppl irl because it can influence your perception of it negatively, which for me is something I’ve been battling with because I love writing about romance and don’t want one bad experience to throw me off.
Basically what I’m saying is that I’m pretty off put by pursuing actual romance irl etc and I’m now more happy to focus on myself and updating my fics. YES I know that makes me sound like a sweaty incel trust 😭 but honestly I’m happy just to focus on myself and that’s okay 🩷✌️
Chapter 3: Her Shadow
Notes:
This chapter is a little short but I promise the next one will be much longer xx I’m totally hooked on writing this series so here’s another update in like a day lol.
Was tempted to wait until I’m done with the next chapter because it could technically fit into this chapter, but as I’m writing I’ve realized both chapters together would be way too long, and since I’ve already written this section I just decided to post it. The next chapter is a small time skip so I also felt it would be more natural in terms of pacing. Anyways enjoyyy
Chapter Text
They took her after sunset.
Two silent attendants led Minji through the lantern-lit corridors of the palace, past lotus ponds shrouded in mist and pavilions that glowed like low stars. The capital was quiet by then, hushed beneath a thick blanket of stillness. Even the wind seemed subdued, as if the palace itself knew something sacred was about to happen.
She was told not to speak.
They brought her not to a grand hall or temple, but to a shrine behind the Inner Garden, nestled within the farthest wing of the palace, a place no soldier or courtier ever stepped foot in unless summoned. Its walls were white stone, covered in crawling jasmine, and its roof was curved with unpainted wood. A single pair of red doors marked the entrance, so small and unadorned they could have been mistaken for part of the garden fence.
But when they opened, the air changed.
It smelled of cedar oil, wet stone, and burning ink. The floor inside was obsidian tile, and the ceiling low enough to bow one’s head. A circular altar of carved jade stood at the center, flanked by three witnesses: the blood-sealer, the court scribe, and the high priest of celestial rites.
Minji squinted, her eyes adjusting to the dim lighting.
Then she saw, behind them, stood Princess Hanni.
This time, she wore no crown.
Her robe was pale. It was a dove-gray silk trimmed with silver leaves, the sleeves long and unbound. Her hair had been braided over one shoulder. She stood still, hands folded, her face bare of powder or paint. In this small room, with no throne, no golden throne, no crowd of attendants constantly flocking her — she looked younger, but no less commanding than before. Her eyes still held a sharp look behind them.
She didn’t greet Minji with a nod or smile. She only watched.
Minji knelt before the altar without being told.
The priest lit a cone of powdered incense. The smoke rose in a single, steady line.
“The Oath of Khế Ước,” the scribe began, “is sacred. Once sealed, it may not be revoked by word, ink, or blade. It binds not body to body, but soul to soul.”
Minji lowered her eyes. She felt her heartbeat in her teeth.
“Minji, daughter of Minh Quyen,” the priest intoned. “Do you vow to protect the princess Pham Ngọc Han of the divine Han Dynasty with all that you are — your sword, your strength, your obedience, and your life — without question, without pride, and without end?”
“I do,” Minji said, her voice steady.
“And do you vow to never betray her, nor speak her secrets, nor forsake her in the hour of her need?”
“I do.”
“And do you vow to hold your oath even if your command is to turn against your own kin, your blood, or your emperor?”
Minji did not hesitate.
“I do.”
The scribe turned to Hanni.
“Princess Pham Ngọc Han. Do you vow to accept the life and loyalty of your chosen guardian? To trust her with your body, your word, your death? To honor her sacrifice, to not misuse her devotion, and to stand beside her until your final breath?”
“I do,” Hanni said softly.
“Do you vow to protect her, in turn — not as servant, but as equal? As witness, as shadow, and as bond?”
“I do.”
The blood-sealer stepped forward with a shallow, silver dish.
Two blades were drawn.
Each of them — Hanni first, then Minji — pricked the pad of their right thumb, letting three drops of blood fall into the bowl. Then they reached across the altar and touched palms, smearing the blood between them.
Minji’s hand was cold. Hanni’s was warm.
“This is your seal,” the priest said. “Until death.”
Then he marked their joined hands with a line of dark ash from the incense burner.
“You may speak,” said the scribe. “If you wish to offer last words before the oath is closed.”
There was a silence.
Minji looked up, their hands still pressed together.
Minji felt herself searching Hannis eyes, searching for even the slightest sign of the girl behind those composed features.
“You’re not what I expected,” she blurted out.
Hanni tilted her head just slightly.
“And neither are you.”
The scribe looked startled. The priest said nothing.
But Minji held the gaze, and Hanni did not look away.
The priest bowed. The altar bell was rung.
A final slip of parchment, marked with both their names, was burned in the censer. The seal was complete.
They rose together.
And from that moment on, Minji was not her own.
She belonged to Pham Ngọc Hanni, the divine princess, in both her body and soul.
And Hanni, from that moment on, would never be alone again.
And maybe that wouldn’t end up being such a bad thing.
Minji’s quarters were located close to the princess, in a small room hidden in the wall outside of Hannis sleeping quarters.
What she once would have considered a life of unimaginable luxury slowly began to feel like a prison. She absolutely could not leave the palace gates, unless she was attending the Princess. She always had to prioritize proximity to the Princess over her own self autonomy.
She didn’t mind the small space, the early wake-up bells, or the mandatory weapons checks. She had lived in worse places, survived harder conditions. What she struggled with was the silence.
In the barracks, people yelled. Laughed. Argued. There was no shame in noise — it was the rhythm of living. But here, even the clatter of a dropped spoon drew looks. Servants spoke in hushed tones. Officials glided past like ghosts. At meals, no one ate before the senior commander took the first bite.
Minji kept her head down. She spoke only when addressed. She reviewed the Guardian’s Code of Conduct until she could recite every clause in her sleep.
She felt like she was becoming a shell of her former self. Her only companion in the world couldn’t be more distant. She reminded herself everyday.
“You are not her friend.”
“You are not her equal.”
“You are her blade.”
Her training resumed immediately.
Each morning began with drills — combat sequences refined for close-quarter palace protection. Silent disarming. Shield formations in hallways. Defensive posture on stairs. Her old skills were remolded into something cleaner, quieter, deadlier. A gesture of the hand now meant: shield her. Another: retreat. Another still: kill.
She never saw Hanni during training. That part came later.
In the early mornings she would train. She was used to intensity, but even for her, this was next level. The dojo was packed full of brutal training circuits, and her trainers were even worse.
But she never faltered, never stopped.
After training, Minji stood outside Hannis room like she was supposed to. Hands behind her back. Eyes forward. Listening.
Hanni’s attendants came and went — giggling softly, whispering behind their sleeves. Minji clenched her jaw, trying to remind herself that she was chosen for this.
Perfumed robes rustled with every footstep. Servants brought fruit bowls on carved trays, took away scrolls, changed the incense, closed the windows, opened them again. It was a universe of small, quiet things, none of which she belonged to.
On the sixth day, the princess paused at the threshold before entering her chambers.
She glanced at Minji.
“Do you read poetry?”
Minji blinked.
“No, Your Highness.”
“Hm,” Hanni said. “That’s a shame.”
She disappeared into her room.
By the second week, Minji had learned to count Hanni’s steps by sound.
The way her silk shoes whispered on polished stone was different from any court lady’s shuffle or servant’s brisk clip. She moved with the confidence of someone who had never been told to wait in a line or bow to another soul. Her stride was even, unhurried. Authority made her graceful.
Minji had also learned that she liked mango slices more than plums, that she ate the petals of white chrysanthemums from her tea, and that she sometimes hummed under her breath when she thought no one could hear.
She never hummed the same tune twice.
But yet, Minji still felt like she was following a stranger.
The first time Minji was summoned inside Hannis private chambers, she thought she had done something wrong.
A maid appeared, pale-faced and nervous.
“Her Highness asks for your presence inside,” she said, bowing low.
Minji blinked. “Did she say why?”
The maid just shook her head.
She entered with the restraint of someone expecting to be scolded.
Hanni was sat in the middle of the floor, legs crossed under a square table low to the ground. On it, were strange looking pieces that Minji vaguely recognized as a game the old men from the town outside the barracks would play together.
Minji bowed deeply
“You summoned me, your highness?”
Hanni motioned to the other end of the wooden table
“Take a seat”
Minji shuffled over, tense but curious. She kneeled on a soft cushion, remaining professional. Her back was pin straight and arms folded neatly over her legs.
“Have you ever played Mahjong before?” Hanni asked as she shuffled pieces into place on the board
Minji shook her head
“No, your highness.”
Hanni tilted her head, a smile playing faintly at her lips. “Then I suppose I’ll teach you. It isn’t so difficult once you’ve learned the rules.”
She placed the final tile into her row with a satisfying click. The ivory faces were inked with neat black characters and delicate painted symbols, like tiny worlds pressed into bone.
Minji’s gaze lingered. She recognized the shapes vaguely, but the markings themselves meant nothing to her. She clasped her hands a little tighter in her lap, hiding the twist in her stomach.
Hanni noticed.
“Here,” she said, lifting a tile and holding it out across the table. “Each playing piece is represented by its corresponding character, so you only need to learn what the pieces themselves do.”
Minji took it between careful fingers, as though it might shatter under her touch. The green paint swirled into fine lines, too precise, too deliberate. She swallowed. “If you say so, Your Highness.”
“Do you not see the character?” Hanni leaned forward, her voice softening, as if coaxing a child. “The wind pieces, that one is north.”
Minji studied it. Her mouth pressed into a thin line. “I… cannot read the markings. Not like this.”
The confession slipped out before she could stop it. Heat rose up her neck; she bowed her head quickly. “Forgive me. I should not be wasting your time—”
“Wasting?” Hanni interrupted. There was no sharpness in her tone, only surprise. “Who said anything about wasting?”
Minji blinked at her, unsure if this was a test. Hanni’s lips curved again, smaller this time, almost private.
“Then we’ll start with the characters,” she said, lifting another tile
“Luckily, there aren’t many.” She placed it gently in Minji’s open palm. “This one is South. Do you see the character drawn here? Repeat after me.”
“South,” Minji echoed, voice unsure.
“Good.” Hanni’s eyes glimmered, pleased. “And this one—” another tile slid forward, “—North again. And this one, the character for East.”
The table slowly filled with careful piles, Hanni arranging them like a teacher sorting flashcards. Minji listened, stiff at first, then leaning in despite herself, her brow furrowed in concentration. She repeated each name softly, stumbling over a few, correcting herself when Hanni tapped the tile with a finger.
“You learn quickly,” Hanni said after some time.
Minji looked down, embarrassed. “I only remember the sound. Not the written form.”
“That is how it begins,” Hanni answered simply.
They played slowly, Hanni guiding each of Minji’s moves. Minji’s large hands dwarfed the delicate pieces, yet she placed them with care, brow tense as though her life depended on winning. Hanni hid a laugh behind her hand when Minji accidentally revealed a tile she should have kept secret, muttering an apology under her breath.
By the time the game was halfway through, Minji no longer sat ramrod straight. Her shoulders had eased, her palms rested more naturally on the table. Hanni noticed with a quiet satisfaction.
At one lull in the game, Hanni lifted her chin and asked, almost idly, “Do you like poetry, Minji?”
Minji froze. Her gaze flicked to the tiles, to her folded hands. “…No, Your Highness.”
“No?” Hanni tilted her head. “Why not?”
“I have never had the chance to learn to read it.” Her voice was low, almost apologetic. “In the province, we worked. The army—” She stopped herself, glancing away. “There was no time for such things.”
Hanni’s expression shifted, the lightness gone. A small frown drew between her brows.
“You ought to be more educated,” she said finally, her tone soft but resolute.
Minji’s chest tightened. She bowed her head once more.
“If that is your wish.”
Hanni studied her for a long moment, the game forgotten.
“Then we will make time.”
The tile clicked softly against Minji’s palm. She looked down at it, then up at the princess. Their eyes met, and for the first time since she had sworn her oath, Minji felt something other than duty pulling her forward.
And so it began.
The very next morning, Minji was quietly informed that Her Highness had instructed her personal tutor to take on an unusual pupil. The arrangement was discreet, spoken of in whispers, but carried the weight of the Princess’s seal. Twice a week, Minji sat stiffly on the lacquered floor in the tutor’s study, scratching out shaky characters under the patient hand of a gray-robed scholar who seemed both bemused and impressed by her diligence.
She returned from each session with ink stains on her fingers and the faint crease of embarrassment in her brow. But when evening fell, and the princess beckoned her into her chambers for another round of mahjong, there was something new in her eyes—a trace of shy pride when she managed to read out a tile’s character without prompting.
Hanni noticed every detail.
At first, the two sat across from one another, the kotatsu table a neat barrier. Hanni explained patiently, correcting Minji when she mixed up nine and ten, laughing softly whenever Minji cursed under her breath in her provincial dialect while making a foolish move.
Minji tried her best, she really did. But even regardless of Hanni's extensive experience, her mind was just too crafty. She always lost to Hanni's superior skill, slightly stumped but having a good time regardless.
Weeks turned into months, and the barrier between them shrank.
What was once a polite gesture on Hanni's behalf had become routine. Despite Minji acting as her shadow for most of the day, she felt like the time spent together playing mahjong was the only time she truly got to know her better.
As Minji’s education progressed, she often had to read small and simple books as homework. Usually, they were reserved for children. Which is why Minji felt her face burn in shame when Hanni asked about what work their tutor had been assigning her.
However, Hanni was more than willing to help.
After mahjong, they would move the board aside and place their books there instead. Minji would move closer to Hanni's side, so they were positioned somewhat diagonally, so they could properly see what the other was reading.
Minji would stumble through passages as Hanni would gently correct and guide her from across the table. After, Hanni would then read poetry, books, really anything she found interesting.
Minji loved to listen. She hadn’t understood how magical fiction books could be, or how reflective she often found philosophical poetry.
The months stretched on towards nearly a year. Minji had improved immensely in her reading ability. She even won a Mahjong game against Hanni (although she suspected Hanni had let her win).
She could often understand some of what Hanni was reading, too. They’d abandoned the baby books and read the same passages together.
They’d also grown more accustomed to each other's presence. What had once been an intentional distance, both physically and emotionally, had dissolved into something akin to friendship.
Hanni would sit next to Minji, her long silky hair brushing against Minji’s uniform. Hannis' jasmine perfume followed Minji long after she would retire to her bed, a small room located just outside Hanni's quarters.
As the evenings drew on into night, Hanni would grow tired. At some point, both of whom had forgotten when, Hanni would lean her weight against Minji’s arm, eventually resting her head absentmindedly on her shoulder. She would continue to murmur gentle corrections when Minji couldn’t read a large character.
One night, as Minji was reading, she felt Hanni's breath even out against her shoulder.
Minji had secretly hoped it was just because she was tired and not because her monotone reading had bored the princess to sleep.
Minji gingerly lay the book down, and took a lingering glance at Hannis sleeping face. She seemed less like regal nobility and more like a regular girl at that moment. Her long eyelashes fluttered peacefully against her porcelain face. Minji hadn’t noticed the subtle amount of freckles dusting her cheeks before, or how nice her hair smelled.
Minji yawned, now feeling tired herself.
She gently hooked one arm under Hanni's legs, and the other under resting behind her back.
She lifted Hanni with ease as if she weighed nothing. Hanni's sleeping expression stirred slightly but she did not wake up.
Minji gently lowered her resting figure onto her bed, which rested in a nook in the wall on the far right corner of the room. She kneeled onto the base of the mattress, as there was no room for her in the side.
“Good night, princess” she bid quietly.
The winter they met slowly melted into summer, and then to winter again, a cycle that had repeated multiple times before they had even realized
Minji had learnt much about Hanni in that time. She learnt she could be cold and calculated when engaging with politics, but beneath that necessary facade, held a gentle heart.
Her policies and solutions for problems in the country were ingenious, which had earned her popularity amongst the common folk in the past few years.
Now approaching 21, Minji had watched Hanni make her tentative debut into politics soon after they met at 17. She had only flourished in the role since then.
Together, they toured the schools she had opened in her name, the hospitals she ordered to be built, and so much more.
Hanni didn’t avoid difficult topics. She funded money into night guards to keep sketchy figures off the streets, which lowered crime rates immensely. She ordered education mandates for all children to attend school until they were 15, fought for all workers to receive a minimum wage and for the elderly to receive a pension, and launched corruption investigations charges into courts all over the nation.
Despite all her success, Minji also saw the amount of work she invested into her projects. Hanni truly wanted to help improve the living standards for everyone living in her country because she felt an inherent responsibility for their well being, even if this meant sleepless nights, long, exhausting tours across the country, and weeks fighting tirelessly with old male law makers who didn’t share her vision. Minji knew because she was there through all of it.
It was a strange position for Minji to stand in, objectively. She was objectively the closest person to Hanni's inner circle because of her title, which surrounded her life in luxury.
But, visiting the poor, rural villages that Hanni ran her charity work in reminded Minji of her roots. Minji found herself deeply invested in Hanni's endeavors, much like many people in their country had become.
They saw Hanni as the only high ranking official to ever care about the poor living conditions for those both inside and outside of the capital. They praised her willingness to visit even the furthest regions and meet with the common folk.
Of course, Hanni knew about Minji’s past. She had asked one day about the ring, and Minji shared, although conservatively, about her life before enlistment.
Minji didn’t think much of it. She didn’t ask for anything either. But Hanni still made word, behind Minji’s back, to send extra aid to her home village, and specifically, to provide Minji’s family with a comfortable life.
Minji only found out when she received a letter months later from an unknown sender. She opened it, confused by the mail. She never received letters.
The contents were a message from her father and siblings thanking Hanni graciously for the new house and upgrades to their farm. This also included their local school which now ran year round.
Minji didn’t know what to say. She glanced over at Hanni, and although she didn’t make eye contact, held a small knowing smile on her lips.