Work Text:
Mobei-jun emerged from the shadows in the darkest corner of the room, like night mist slipping through a wall of light.
The air froze the moment his body took form, solid, imposing, cloaked in the deep blue of his royal mantle. No sound announced his arrival. No warning. Only the faint crackle of melting frost beneath his feet.
The technique was rare among ice demons. Shadow-travel demanded power, precision, and an unshakable calm. But for Mobei-jun, becoming one with the dark was as natural as breathing.
He had chosen this room for a simple reason: it was the only one in An Ding’s residence without protective talismans against demonic movement.
Perhaps an oversight. Perhaps no one imagined that a prince of the Northern Realm would choose this place, not a battlefield, for an infiltration.
But he had his reasons.
And when his eyes adjusted to the room’s soft light—when he saw—time seemed to hold its breath.
Shang Qinghua was seated in front of a tall, beautiful mirror Mobei-jun was certain had never been there before. Its silver frame was adorned with green accents, delicate as jade leaves pressed into metal. A recent gift, perhaps. A whim. A luxury that stood out sharply from everything else he knew of his servant.
But the mirror wasn’t what made him stop.
Shang Qinghua wore a simple white robe, soft and plain. A sleeping garment that revealed narrow shoulders, pale collarbones, and slender wrists slipping from the wide sleeves. He sat straight-backed, his hair down in soft, loose waves that spilled over his shoulders—longer than Mobei-jun had expected. He’d never seen it like that before. Shang Qinghua always kept it tied up carelessly, or hidden under ridiculous hats during their time in the Northern Realm.
Now, it fell in dark cascades, glossy as ink, almost silken. A lock was caught between his fingers, as if he’d been brushing it, or perhaps just... admiring.
The moment he caught Mobei-jun’s reflection in the mirror, Shang Qinghua’s eyes widened like a startled deer caught in a spell.
“M-My prince…” he said in a whisper, rising quickly to his feet.
He bowed low. Too long. And Mobei-jun’s chest tightened.
His long hair swayed with the motion, releasing into the air a light, sweet scent—fresh like sun-warmed leaves.
Plum blossom?
Camellia?
Something rarer?
It didn’t matter.
He inhaled—and that was a mistake. He lost his breath. But his face remained unchanged, cold, composed, like steel beneath snow.
“Rise,” he ordered, his voice low like distant thunder.
Shang Qinghua obeyed quickly, twisting the edge of his robe in his hands as if to cover himself. He didn’t meet his eyes, as though unsure what he had done wrong.
“I... wasn’t expecting any visitors at this hour, my prince. But of course, you’re always welcome, it’s a pleasure to have you.” A nervous smile crept across his face—familiar. “I was just... trying to untangle this.” He held up the lock of hair, shy, almost guilty.
Mobei-jun turned his gaze to the mirror.
There was Shang Qinghua, reflected—fragile, beautiful. And himself: harsh, cold, controlled.
“The mirror is new?” he asked. Mobei-jun was not one for idle chatter, but he couldn’t keep looking at Shang Qinghua directly. His poor servant was... beautiful. And that unsettled him in ways he couldn’t name.
He had helped him once, long ago. Shang Qinghua had followed him ever since. Mobei-jun had spared his life, and Shang Qinghua had given him his loyalty in return—a loyalty that had never once faltered. Not after all the things he’d offered in exchange.
“A gift... from me to myself, I guess,” Shang Qinghua replied with a short, muffled laugh. “I never had a proper mirror here. One of my martial brothers helped me choose the best one.”
Mobei-jun gave a slight nod, as if approving the object. But inwardly, the questions began to burn.
Who helped you choose? Who saw you like this before I did? Since when are you close to a martial brother? Didn’t you say your sect overlooked you? When did that change?
He didn’t ask.
“I need to speak with you,” he said instead, returning to his purpose. “It’s about my brother. The Crown Prince.”
Shang Qinghua’s expression shifted instantly. Serious, focused—but remnants of the previous moment clung to him: the loose hair, the scent, the white fabric. The image carved into Mobei-jun’s memory like frost across glass.
He wasn’t sure he’d sleep that night. If he closed his eyes, that vision would be waiting.
He drew in a breath. Another mistake. But he was used to discomfort.
“It seems the second brother is scheming again. And he’s not alone. He has allies all over my father’s palace.”
Shang Qinghua’s eyes widened slightly.
“Internal conspiracy?” he asked quietly, as if the walls might be listening.
Mobei-jun nodded.
“I need you to find out how deep it runs. You have access to information I don’t. And you know how they think.”
Shang Qinghua swallowed hard.
“Understood. I’ll do what I can, my pri—” He stopped. Corrected himself: “My future king.”
A brief silence.
Mobei-jun liked being called that by Qinghua. He wasn’t the heir to the throne, not officially. But every time Shang Qinghua said it, it felt more real. Closer.
And then, as if he couldn’t help himself, Mobei-jun said, voice lower than it needed to be:
“You can keep your hair like that.”
Shang Qinghua blinked, confused.
“Huh?”
Mobei-jun turned, already moving to leave, before the other could see any trace of emotion on his face.
“It doesn’t look bad.”
And he disappeared the same way he’d come, vanishing into the shadows, the cold with him.
Shang Qinghua stood still for a moment, his heart pounding.
Then he turned to the mirror.
And smiled to himself.