Chapter 15 - The Prince Without Noise

The Silk of Fate

Chapter 15 – The Prince Without Noise

Curiosity was dangerous in the Yuan court.

It could be mistaken for ambition. Or worse—affection.

So Lianhua told no one.

Not her cousin. Not her maid. Not even her journal.

But she began to notice things.

In the days following the reception, the Tumapel prince attended every function he was invited to—but never lingered. He bowed when expected—but never too low. He smiled politely—but never too long.

And he never spoke unless he had something to say.

That alone set him apart.

She saw him again at a poetry recital hosted by the Emperor’s third son. Idran stood at the back, arms folded, eyes half-lidded—not bored, but distant. When an older poet recited a Tang dynasty verse on fate and rivers, Lianhua caught the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.

A knowing smile.

Not for the poem.

But perhaps for the way everyone else misunderstood it.

Later, she asked Yenli to deliver tea to the guest quarters where the southern envoys were staying.

A quiet courtesy, nothing unusual.

“Did the prince say anything?” Lianhua asked when her maid returned.

Yenli hesitated. “He asked which flower the tea leaves were blended with.”

“And you said?”

“Osmanthus. He nodded and said… ‘Ah. I thought so.’”

That was all.

But it stayed with her longer than it should have.

She tried not to think about it.

But she began walking past the guest garden more often than necessary.

She once caught sight of him sitting beneath a camphor tree, alone, with a scroll in his lap—but he wasn’t reading. He was watching the koi in the pond like they were speaking secrets.

Another time, she passed the scholar’s terrace and heard him discussing language with a junior minister.

He was correcting a mistranslation in a maritime agreement.

Gently. Without condescension.

That evening, she returned to her room and lit a single candle.

She opened her journal.

And for the first time in weeks, wrote a poem not meant for anyone but herself.

Some men arrive with drums.
Some with silk and fire.
But one walks in like a question,
And leaves without asking for anything.

She stopped halfway through the next line.

Then slowly closed the book.

It wasn’t desire.

Not yet.

It was interest.

The kind that felt like a silk thread brushed against skin—not enough to bind, but enough to make her turn.

Enough to make her wonder:

Who taught him to walk like that?

What silence does he carry that even the court cannot swallow?

And—

Why, when I see him, do I feel less alone in a room full of people pretending to be wise?