Chapter Text
The moon hung low and pale above the Inner Palace, its light slipping quietly through carved windows and falling gently across polished floors.
It was the same moon that had watched them for years.
Seven-year-old Moon Prince Ka Zuigetsu stood by the open lattice, his robe only half-set over his shoulders, his silky hair catching the dim glow like something unreal.
Even as a child, his beauty had already begun to settle into something distant—something that made others lower their gaze without thinking.
But not her.
“Zuigetsu!”
The door slid open without warning.
Six-year-old Kan Maomao rushed in as if the Palace had no rules and no walls at all. Her steps were light, unrestrained, her sleeves dusted faintly with crushed leaves.
She smelled—not of perfume—but of herbs and soil and something strangely calming.
Zuigetsu turned immediately. His expression softened.
“You came again,” he said.
“I found something new,” she replied, as if that alone justified everything.
It always did.
Maomao moved closer, completely ignoring the fact that he was still in the middle of changing. Her bright eyes scanned the room, then him, then back to the small bundle in her hands as if comparing priorities.
“To you, everything is ‘something new,’ isn’t it?” Zuigetsu murmured, adjusting his robe more properly.
“That’s because you never go outside,” she said bluntly. “You’re missing life.”
“I have you. That’s enough.” He said it simply. Like a fact.
Maomao blinked, then grinned without thinking too deeply about the meaning. “That’s true.”
She hopped onto the low platform near him, already opening her bundle.
Leaves. Roots. Something that looked suspiciously like it should not be touched.
Zuigetsu sat beside her, the distance between them nonexistent, as it had always been.
“Try this,” she insisted, holding something up to him.
He didn’t even ask what it was. He trusted her. He always had.
Their shoulders brushed lightly, familiar, easy. The kind of closeness that would have shocked any court official—but here, under the quiet watch of the moon, it was simply—them.
After a while, Maomao looked up again, tilting her head. “You’re different.”
“In what way?”
“You’re always different lately,” she said, studying him with open curiosity—too direct, too honest. “Everyone says you’re growing into a proper Moon Prince.”
“And you don’t like that?”
“I liked you better before,” she replied without hesitation.
He let out a small breath—half a laugh, half something softer. “I am still the same.”
“No, you’re not,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “You think more now. You hide things.”
He paused. That—was true.
“I can’t tell you everything anymore,” he admitted quietly.
“Why not?”
“Because I’m the Moon Prince.”
Maomao frowned immediately, as if that answer were unacceptable. “That’s a terrible reason.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
She leaned closer, her voice firm with childish logic. “You said before you would share everything with me.”
Zuigetsu stilled. He remembered. He remembered very clearly.
“—I did,” he said.
“Then you should keep your promise.”
Her eyes were bright, unwavering. She meant it completely.
And for a moment—just a moment—Zuigetsu felt something tighten in his chest.
Because he wanted to. He wanted to give her everything. Anything.
If she asked—
Even if it made no sense, even if it was impossible—
He would find a way.
“—Alright,” he said softly.
Maomao’s face lit up immediately.
“You mean it?”
“Yes.”
“I’m serious, you know.”
“So am I.”
There was no hesitation in his voice. And that, perhaps, was exactly why it was dangerous.
Maomao laughed, satisfied, already turning back to her collection of strange plants.
Zuigetsu watched her instead. Not the herbs. Not the leaves.
Just— her.
The way her brows furrowed when she concentrated. The way her smile came without restraint. The way she existed so freely in a place where everything else was carefully controlled.
“—Maomao?” he said quietly.
She looked up again.
“If one day you leave the Palace—what will you do?”
“Leave?” she echoed, surprised. “Why would I leave?”
He didn’t answer immediately. Because this time—he knew something she didn’t. “—Just answer me.”
Maomao thought for a moment, then shrugged. “I’ll find more plants. Learn more things. Maybe become really good at medicine.”
Then she smiled again. “And you?”
“I don’t leave,” he said simply.
“Then I’ll come back and see you.” The words settled between them, light as air.
A promise. One that neither of them understood the weight of yet.
.
.
Another day Maomao came to visit the Moon Prince without announcement.
The sliding door had barely whispered open before Maomao stepped inside, wholly uninvited and entirely unbothered by that fact.
Zuigetsu froze.
He stood in the center of his chamber, robes half-shed from his shoulders, caught in that undignified interval between one garment and the next.
The afternoon light fell across him in pale gold ribbons, and for a moment neither of them moved—one mortified, one simply curious.
Maomao tilted her head.
Her gaze traveled downward with the same clinical detachment she reserved for examining a particularly novel herb or an unfamiliar rash.
No flush crept into her cheeks. No sharp intake of breath. Only the quiet, methodical assessment of a scientist girl cataloguing something she had not yet filed away in her mental records.
Maomao pointed at his manhood—with the straightforwardness of a physician and none of the delicacy of a lady. “That—I don’t have one of those.”
Zuigetsu snatched his robe closed. “Maomao—?”
“Why don’t I have one?”
“That is—because you are—that is simply how it is.”
She considered this answer for exactly as long as it deserved, which was not long at all. “You always share things with me.”
He blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“Your food. Your books. Your medicines when I run short.” She said it plainly, as one might recite an inventory. “You share everything.”
“That is entirely different—!”
“Is it?” She was already scanning the room.
Her eyes landed on the small writing desk by the window, and beside the inkstone—a pair of scissors, slender and sharp, the kind used for trimming document seals.
She crossed the room and picked them up with the ease of someone accustomed to handling instruments.
Something cold moved through Zuigetsu’s chest.
“Maomao—!!” His voice had changed register entirely. “What are you—?”
“If you have more than you need,” she reasoned, opening and closing the blades once with a quiet snick, “—then it is only logical—”
“Absolutely not—!”
“You said yes.”
“I did not—when did I—?”
“You didn’t say no.” She turned to face him, scissors in hand, expression as serene as a morning pond. “In my experience, silence implies consent to a reasonable proposal.”
There was a terrible, suspended moment in which Zuigetsu’s entire understanding of personal safety reorganized itself.
“Maomao—!” He held up one hand, backing slowly toward the wall. “Let us discuss this like—”
“Hold still. I’ll be precise.” Maomao demanded.
The door suddenly slid open again.
“YOUR HIGHNESS!!!”
The shriek that tore through the corridor could have shattered lacquerware.
The door slammed open with a force that sent the hanging ornaments swaying, and Suiren stood in the frame—Zuigetsu’s nanny, his keeper, his most vigilant guardian—face drained of every last drop of color.
Her eyes went from the scissors to Maomao’s calm face to Zuigetsu pressed against the wall, and something behind her expression made a sound like a drawn bowstring.
“What—?” she said, in a voice louder and therefore far more terrifying than the shriek, “What is happening in this room—?”
Maomao lowered the scissors with perfect composure. “A reasonable redistribution, Lady Suiren.”
Suiren crossed the chamber in four steps, removed the scissors from Maomao’s hand with the practiced authority of a woman who had confiscated dangerous objects from small children for thirty years, and placed herself bodily between the two of them.
Then she rounded on Zuigetsu. “You—?” she hissed, “Your Highness—! You said yes—?”
Zuigetsu opened his mouth.
Closed it.
“He didn’t say no,” Maomao offered weakly.
Suiren turned away from the naughty little girl, closed her eyes for a long, pained moment—the look of a woman renegotiating her relationship with the choices that had led her here.
Behind her, Maomao was already eyeing the letter opener on the desk.
Suiren’s gaze landed on the two of them—far too close, far too comfortable—and her expression immediately tightened.
Her voice cut sharply through the room. “Princess Kan, it is not appropriate to enter the Moon Prince’s private chambers unannounced.”
Maomao turned, unfazed. “It’s fine. He said I could.”
“That is not the point, my lady.”
Suiren stepped in quickly, already guiding the situation back into proper shape—the way adults always did.
“Your Highness, your attendants are waiting. And Princess Kan, it is time for you to return.”
Maomao sighed, clearly unwilling. “—You always interrupt,” she muttered.
Suiren chose not to respond.
Zuigetsu stood, composed once more, every trace of softness slipping neatly back behind his princely mask.
Only his eyes lingered on her a second longer. “You’ll come again?” he asked.
Maomao grinned. “Of course.”
She said it as if it were obvious. As if nothing in the world could change that.
That night, the moon watched silently.
It did not warn them that promises made in innocence—could one day turn into something far more painful.
.
.
The news spread faster than it should have.
By the time Great Commandant Kan Lakan and his wife arrived the Palace to pick Maomao up, the entire corridor outside the Moon Prince’s chambers had gone eerily quiet.
Gaoshun stood at attention, his expression perfectly composed—if one ignored the slight tension at the corners of his eyes.
Lakan did not waste time. He asked flatly. “What did my daughter try to do?”
Gaoshun paused for the briefest second. “—She attempted,” he said carefully, “to conduct an—experiment. On His Highness.”
A long silence followed.
Lady Fengxian closed her eyes. “Of course she did.”
Maomao stood in the center of the room like a defendant who didn’t understand why she was on trial.
“I was not doing anything wrong,” she said immediately.
“That is not the issue,” Fengxian replied, her voice dangerously calm. “The issue is that you do not understand what is wrong to begin with.”
“I understand perfectly,” Maomao argued. “I was curious.”
Lakan’s gaze sharpened. “Curiosity does not give you the right to experiment on people.”
“He did not say no.”
That stopped them—briefly.
All three adults turned to look at Zuigetsu.
The Moon Prince stood quietly at the side, fully composed now, his earlier softness completely hidden behind a calm expression.
“—That is not the point, my lady.” Gaoshun interjected gently.
“It is, Master Gaoshun,” Maomao insisted. “He shares things with me. I share things with him. That’s fair.”
Fengxian pressed her fingers against her forehead. “Maomao,” she said slowly, “You nearly caused serious harm to the Moon Prince. You almost made him become—a eunuch—!”
Maomao blinked. “A what?—How so?”
All three adults stared at her.
Maomao repeated, genuinely confused, “How is that harm him? He was just sharing something I don’t have.”
For a moment—no one spoke.
Lakan exhaled sharply, turning away as if physically pained. “—I have failed,” he muttered.
Fengxian, however, did not retreat.
She stepped forward.
“That is enough,” she said firmly. “You will return to the La Mansion immediately. You will remain there—confined—for one week.”
Maomao froze. “A week?!”
“Yes, Maomao!!”
“That’s unreasonable, Father!”
“That is lenient.”
“I didn’t even do anything yet!”
“That is precisely the problem.”
Maomao’s fists clenched at her sides. “I hate this! I did not do anything wrong!”
“You will reflect on your actions.”
“I am reflecting!”
“Clearly not effectively.”
“I’m not going!”
“Yes, you are.”
“No, I—!”
A few seconds later.
“You can’t.” The voice came sharp and clear.
Everyone turned.
Zuigetsu had stepped forward.
His posture remained elegant, his expression calm—but there was something different now. Something firmer.
“This is a matter involving the Moon Prince,” he continued, his gaze steady. “Any punishment concerning it falls under my authority.”
Lakan raised a brow. “Your Highness—?”
“You cannot confine her,” Zuigetsu demanded. There was no hesitation. No softness. Just a simple statement—delivered like an order.
The room stilled.
Maomao’s eyes lit up instantly. She turned to him with a bright, victorious grin.
“Thank you, Your Highness!” There was no restraint in her voice at all. Just pure satisfaction.
Gaoshun closed his eyes briefly.
Fengxian sighed.
Lakan let out a low breath that sounded suspiciously like defeat. “—You are going to be a problem,” he said, though whether he meant Maomao or the Moon Prince was unclear.
Zuigetsu did not respond.
His gaze rested on Maomao—just for a moment longer.
Softened, almost imperceptibly.
In the end, the outcome was—compromised.
Maomao was not locked away. But she was ‘strongly supervised.’ Which she ignored as much as possible.
Her parents gave up arguing.
Gaoshun pretended not to see things he absolutely saw.
And Suiren began watching both children far more closely than before.
.
.
That evening, as the Palace settled into quiet once more, Maomao slipped out under the fading light, completely unrepentant.
Zuigetsu found her again beneath the familiar stretch of moonlit garden.
“You caused quite a disturbance today,” he said.
“You started it,” she replied easily.
“I did?”
“You didn’t say no to me.”
He paused. “—That’s true. I never say no to Maomao.”
Maomao flopped down onto the grass, staring up at the sky. “Adults are strange,” she declared. “They get angry over things that make perfect sense.”
Zuigetsu sat beside her. “They just worry.”
“They worry too much.”
“—Yes.”
For a moment, silence settled between them. Comfortable. Familiar. Unchanged.
At least—for now.
Maomao turned her head slightly. “You really meant it, right?”
He looked at her. “Yes.”
“You won’t ever say no to me?”
A pause.
Just a fraction too long to be noticed by her—but not by the moon. “—I won’t,” Zuigetsu said.
And once again, she believed him without question.
The moon remained high above them, quiet and distant. Watching. Always watching.
As promises—made so easily in childhood—slowly began to take shape into something far more fragile than either of them understood.