Chapter 23 - Where No One Speaks in Titles

The Silk of Fate

Chapter 23 – Where No One Speaks in Titles

The morning after the koi pond, Lianhua didn’t sleep in.

She rose before the bell, washed her face in cold water, and braided her hair loosely, leaving one ribbon undone.

She didn’t tell Yenli where she was going.

Didn’t bring a book. Or a flute.

Just herself.

And a thread of hope she refused to name.

The garden was quieter in the morning—sunlight soft and slanted, birds dipping between leaves. The koi pond shimmered, not with lantern light this time, but with the slow warmth of a new day.

And there he was.

Already sitting.

As if he’d been waiting.

Or had hoped, just like her.

He stood when she approached.

Not out of formality.

But respect.

“Good morning,” she said softly.

He nodded. “You came.”

“I thought you might.”

They sat on the same bench.

Not touching. Not speaking right away.

Just breathing the same quiet air.

“I used to hate the palace,” she said, her voice barely above the wind. “Not because of what it asked of me—but because of what it never allowed.”

Idran turned slightly. Said nothing.

Encouraging.

“I wanted to laugh too loudly. To wear red instead of pale blue. I wanted to say ‘no’ without justifying it. But you learn, over time, that quiet women are easier to love.”

She paused.

“Or easier to ignore.”

Idran’s voice came slower this time.

Measured, but not distant.

“I was told I think too much. That a prince should speak in commands, not questions.”

“Do you?”

He glanced sideways. “Think too much?”

She smiled faintly.

“No,” he said. “I think they don’t think enough.”

A quiet chuckle escaped her. Soft, surprised.

It felt good to laugh beside him. Not forced. Not careful.

Just real.

“What were you before this?” she asked.

He looked at her.

“Before?”

“Before the prince. Before the envoy. What were you when no one was looking?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Then:

“A boy who thought prayer was listening, not asking.”

She blinked.

“That’s a beautiful answer.”

“It’s the truth,” he said.

Then turned. “And you?”

She inhaled.

Then said, almost inaudibly:

“A girl who wanted to be believed.”

They looked at one another.

And neither looked away.

Not this time.

A breeze passed through the garden.

Somewhere, far off, a bell rang—marking the hour, reminding the court that the day belonged to structure.

But here, in this little corner of stillness, time did not press.

Here, they were not titles. Not political tools. Not chess pieces moved by older hands.

Here, they were just…

Idran.
Lianhua.

Two souls finally allowed to be known.