Chapter Text
The first time they met, You Huo didn’t look like how a crown prince normally would.
He was a boy with torn silk sleeves and dirt on his cheek, sitting beneath a crumbling statue of a forgotten god.
The abandoned shrine stood at the edge of the forest like a warning—its red paint peeled away by rain, its prayer flags long since faded to colorless threads.
For a week, the kingdom searched. Soldiers combed through mountains and riverbanks. The palace gates did not close; messengers rode through the night.
And still, the crown prince was nowhere to be found.
Inside the shrine, You Huo did not cry.
He had done so only once, the first night, when the blindfold was finally removed and he realized the men who had taken him were not coming back—not yet. They had hidden him here, bound his wrists, left him with stale bread and a clay jar of water.
They whispered about ransom. About leverage. About the throne.
He learned quickly to conserve strength.
On the sixth day, rain came. On the seventh, footsteps.
Not the heavy, armored steps of soldiers. Not the careless laughter of his captors.
Lighter.
Cautious.
The door creaked open.
A boy stood there, perhaps a year or two older than him, dressed in worn cotton robes tied carelessly at the waist. He carried a bundle of firewood and froze the moment their eyes met.
They stared at each other in silence.
You Huo straightened his spine.
“I am not a thief,” the other boy said first, defensive, as if he’d been accused.
His gaze flicked to the ropes around You Huo’s wrists. “Did they hurt you?”
You Huo considered lying. He had been taught never to reveal himself. Never to trust strangers.
But the shrine smelled of rain and mold and loneliness.
“Yes,” he said.
The boy’s jaw tightened. He stepped forward without hesitation, kneeling to examine the knots. His fingers were rough, calloused in a way that did not belong to palace hands.
“Who are you?” he asked quietly.
You Huo watched him work.
“…You Huo.”
It was a risk. But something about the boy’s expression—fierce and focused—felt immovable.
The ropes loosened.
“They’re bad at tying knots,” the boy muttered, more to himself than to You Huo. “If they wanted to keep you, they should’ve doubled it.”
You Huo’s lips twitched.
“And you’re good at untying them?”
“I’m good at getting out of places I’m not supposed to be,” the boy replied. Then he paused. “Can you walk?”
“Yes.”
The boy stood and held out his hand.
You Huo hesitated for only a breath before taking it.
They ran through the rain.
The kidnappers returned too late to stop them. The boy—Qin Jiu, he would later learn—knew the forest like it was stitched into his veins.
He avoided main paths, ducked beneath low branches, crossed the shallow river where the current disguised footprints. When You Huo stumbled, Qin Jiu caught him. When You Huo faltered, Qin Jiu did not let go.
By dusk, they reached the outer patrol lines.
Soldiers swarmed.
Voices rose in disbelief and relief. The crown prince had been found.
Only then did Qin Jiu understand.
He tried to pull his hand away.
You Huo did not allow it.
…
The palace changed everything.
Qin Jiu, son of no one important, common-born and nameless in court registries, was summoned before the empress. There were questions. Accusations. Doubts.
Why had he been near the shrine?
How had he known the forest so well?
Was he involved?
Through it all, You Huo remained silent—until the empress finished speaking.
“He saved me,” You Huo said simply.
It was the first time the young prince had ever interrupted his mother.
Silence fell.
“I want him here.”
It was not a request.
The empress studied his son, then the boy standing stubbornly straight despite the grandeur around him.
“So be it,” the empress decreed at last. “He will train.”
And so Qin Jiu stayed.
They grew up side by side.
If You Huo studied statecraft, so did Qin Jiu. If You Huo trained in swordsmanship, Qin Jiu matched him strike for strike. When You Huo learned poetry and strategy, Qin Jiu learned to read the shadows behind every curtain.
They were taught differently.
But they learned the same things.
By the time they reached adulthood, no one questioned why Qin Jiu stood at the crown prince’s side.
He had always been there.
…
Morning light spilled through carved lattice windows, gilding the palace in gold.
You Huo stood at the head of the council chamber, robes immaculate, expression blank.
Ministers lined both sides, voices rising and falling in careful debate. Trade agreements. Border tensions. The matter of tribute from the western territories.
And, inevitably—
“Your Highness,” one minister ventured with a polite bow, “there is also the matter of your marriage.”
The room stilled.
You Huo did not react.
“We have received portraits from the Li, Zhao, and Xu families. All daughters of excellent standing.”
Another voice chimed in, “The people grow eager to see the future queen.”
A subtle shift in the air.
Qin Jiu stood three steps behind the throne platform, silent and still as a blade in its sheath. His gaze did not waver, but his fingers tightened imperceptibly around the hilt at his side.
You Huo’s voice, when he spoke, was calm.
“When I am ready to marry,” he said, echoing words he had already told his uncle, “I will inform you.”
The ministers pressed no further.
They knew that tone.
The meeting adjourned.
The palace corridors were quiet by late afternoon. Servants bowed as the crown prince passed. Qin Jiu followed, close enough to intervene at the slightest threat, far enough to preserve decorum.
When they reached You Huo’s private chambers, the doors shut with a soft thud.
Silence.
The mask slipped first from You Huo.
He exhaled.
Qin Jiu stepped forward, hands moving to unfasten the outer robe with practiced ease. The intimacy of the gesture was hidden from the world, as were so many things between them.
“They won’t stop,” Qin Jiu said quietly.
“I know.”
“They’ll keep pushing.”
You Huo turned to face him.
“Let them.”
There was no hesitation. No fear.
Rumors would spread if the truth came out. A crown prince in love with a commoner. A personal guard elevated not by merit alone but by affection. There would be whispers of impropriety, of manipulation, of weakness.
You Huo did not care.
His gaze softened in a way no courtier had ever seen.
“I didn’t fight my way out of a shrine to live by someone else’s expectations,” he murmured.
Qin Jiu’s expression shifted—just slightly.
“You weren’t scared,” Qin Jiu said.
“And you were the one who held my hand.”
The distance between them disappeared.
When You Huo leaned in, it was deliberate. Certain.
Qin Jiu’s hand came up instinctively to steady him, fingers brushing against silk, then resting at his waist.
Beyond these walls, they were crown prince and guard. Status and duty. The future of a kingdom balanced against tradition.
Here—
They were just two boys who once ran through the rain.
And chose each other again.