Chapter 17 - A Name to the Gaze

The Silk of Fate

Chapter 17 – A Name to the Gaze

“Do you know who sits behind the chrysanthemum screen?”

Idran posed the question with casual precision, his hands folded on the marble tea table beside a palace pond. His tone was light—polite, even—but Hasan, seated across from him, narrowed his eyes.

“Why?”

Idran shrugged. “She’s always present. Always still. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t fidget. She watches without… wanting.”

Hasan’s brow arched slightly. “Without wanting?”

“Yes. Most people observe to gain. She observes to understand.”

Hasan sipped his tea. “You are not used to being watched honestly, then.”

Idran didn’t respond.

He didn’t need to.

Later that day, Idran wandered through the imperial gardens alone, escorted only by a single court guide whose shoes squeaked too often to be discreet. He pretended not to notice.

He passed a stone pagoda, then paused before a carved tablet etched with Confucian teachings. Not far from it, a few women stood under the shade of cherry trees, attending to scrollwork and polite conversation.

He didn’t look directly.

But he felt her again.

A shape.

A silence.

The quiet between footsteps.

Back in his quarters, Idran turned to Karim—who had arrived earlier that morning with new ink, dried mango slices, and the latest whispers from the outer court.

“There is someone here,” Idran said slowly, “who does not fit.”

Karim raised a brow. “Besides you?”

Idran allowed the corner of his mouth to lift, just briefly.

“She’s hidden. Behind silk and propriety. But not… dimmed. Just waiting.”

“Waiting for what?”

Idran shook his head. “I don’t know.”

He paused. “But I’d like to.”

The next day, Idran approached the recordkeeper at the scholar’s pavilion—a quiet man with thinning hair and a habit of writing names in beautiful, unnecessary flourishes.

“May I request a copy of the court seating records?” Idran asked, as if it were protocol.

“Of course, my lord,” the man said, bowing slightly. “Would you like the guest listings or the imperial family side?”

“Both.”

He spent the afternoon cross-referencing names, titles, positions.

And there she was.

Princess Lianhua.

Daughter of the Emperor’s cousin. Known for grace, not ambition. Attends most formal functions, rarely speaks unless prompted. No formal betrothal. No major scandal.

But Idran read between the lines.

He noticed the absence of citations. The lack of official patronage. The essays published under pseudonyms in the palace library’s “private section.”

One name caught his eye: Jun Cao.

He asked Hasan about the pseudonym during their next walk.

Hasan’s mouth twitched with something between pride and amusement.

“You’ll like her mind more than her face,” he said. “And I suspect you’ll like both.”

That night, Idran sat under the camphor tree again, watching the koi circle in slow, soundless loops.

He thought of her.

The stillness behind the screen.

The way she turned—not to be admired, but as if she, too, had sensed something familiar in him.

He whispered a verse to himself, the words curling like smoke:

There are gazes that do not burn,
Only warm.
That do not grasp,
Only name what already belongs.

And for the first time since arriving in Dadu,
Prince Idran of Tumapel wanted to be seen.

Not by the court.

But by her.