Chapter Text
THE MOUNTAINS DISAPPEAR BEFORE YOU REALISE YOU’RE LOOKING FOR THEM.
One moment, they’re there. The next, they’re only memory.
You stare through the carriage window long after the last snow-covered peak has vanished into the horizon. Your eyes glide across the lands, searching for a familiar silhouette among the distant clouds — but there is none. Only open sky. Only the long road ahead.
The carriage wheels rattle over stone, steady as a heartbeat.
Home slips farther away with every turn.
The realisation settles over you quietly. Not like grief, not quite there yet. But more like snowfall. Slow. Unavoidable. Silent enough that you don't notice, until everything has already been covered.
The interior of the carriage smells faintly of cedar and mountain mint. The sachet tucked into your sleeve has long since lost its fragrance, but you keep reaching for it anyway, fingers brushing the worn fabric as though it might somehow transport you back.
Back to Xuehua. Back to frost-covered rooftops and winding mountain paths. Back to snow lanterns glowing against winter darkness.
Back to home.
A sharp jolt rocks the carriage. Outside, someone shouts an order. You hear hooves thundering against the frozen ground.
The delegation has been traveling for days. You should be used to it by now. Instead, every mile only seems to make the distance feel more real.
Princess of Xuehua. Diplomatic envoy. Gesture of peace.
The titles feel foreign in your mouth, like they’re clothes tailored for someone else's body.
Your father had spoken them easily, though. As if sending his youngest daughter across half the continent was no more remarkable than discussing the weather.
You remember the day clearly. Snow had been falling, because of course it had been. In Xuehua, there was always snow. The palace gardens had been buried beneath white; the world reduced to silver branches and drifting snowflakes. Your father had stood beneath the pavilion overlooking the mountain valley. The one that you used to gaze up at as a child, trying to fit the magnificence of the landscape between the frame you made of your fingers.
The wind had caught in his robes, blowing his hair in the wind. For a moment, he had looked impossibly tired. Older, than you had ever seen him be.
Not a king. Just a father.
Just a man carrying too many burdens.
The trade routes were failing. The roads, flooded. Harvests were especially poor this season. The merchants sent out only return with less and less. Some didn’t even return.
You had known things were difficult. You simply hadn't realized how difficult they were.
“You are afraid.”
The memory is so vivid you can almost hear his voice. Right beside you, clear and grounded. Familiar. Safe.
You had laughed. A terrible attempt to.
“Should I not be?”
A pause.
Snow gathered on dark wood. Silence stretched between you. Almost as if you had all the time in the world to spare.
“Do not think of this as exile, daughter.”
Your father’s gaze had drifted toward the mountains. Toward the kingdom beyond them — the Empire. You’ve never seen the Empire before, no — it had always been a thing of wonder, a murmured legend in your small town, in your small life. But you know it stands, behind the mountains, all the same. It stands, and it awaits.
“Think of it as planting a seed.”
You hadn't understood his words then. You still aren't certain you understand now.
The carriage slows. The delegation ahead begins to stop.
Your attendant pulls aside the curtain.
“We've reached the capital, Princess.”
Your stomach drops. For a moment, you consider asking them to keep driving. Straight through the city. Straight through the Empire. Straight back to Xuehua.
Instead, you smile. Because princesses do not flee. Because daughters do not fail. Because the mountains are already long gone.
Only the capital stands before you. Awaiting.
Then the carriage starts moving again, and all coherent thought abandons you.
The city is enormous. Not merely large, that word alone simply could not capture the city in all its magnitude.
The city feels impossible.
Towering pagodas pierce the winter sky. Countless tiled rooftops stretch toward the horizon. The walls seem capable of swallowing entire districts back home. Red lanterns sway gently beneath carved eaves, while smoke curls upward from thousands of chimneys. And the people — so many of them. Nobles. Merchants. Soldiers. Travelers. All blending together into the landscape of the Empire.
The city seems alive. Breathing. Watching. Waiting.
It seems impossible.
You find yourself pressing closer to the window.
The roads leading into the capital are crowded. Yet despite the sheer number of vehicles and people, movement never descends into chaos.
Because everyone seems to know exactly where they belong.
The realisation comes to you gradually. A banner. Then another. And another. Blue. Gold. Red. White. Different coloured standards line the roads, directing streams of traffic like rivers flowing through carefully carved channels. Officials follow gold banners. Merchants follow blue. Military convoys follow red. Foreign delegations, yours included, travel beneath white. No one deviates. No one hesitates. No one appears confused. For a moment, you think it feels a little less like a city, and more like a machine. An enormous, well-oiled one. Perfectly ordered, perfectly maintained, perfectly controlled.
You can’t stop staring.
In Xuehua, roads simply… existed. They emerged naturally from use. Villagers carved paths through mountain passes; merchants followed rivers; children created shortcuts through forests. Roads bent around obstacles, around homes and around people. Nature decided the route through its own course. But here, it's the opposite. It feels as though someone dictated where every person should go. And everyone obeyed.
It’s curious, how different everything appears to be. You’re not sure how to feel about it.
The carriage continues forward. Toward the palace, toward your future. Toward whatever sort of seed your father believes you are supposed to become.
The Imperial Palace appears gradually. First come the walls, then the gates, then the rooftops beyond them. Gold catches against winter sunlight, dazzling enough that you have to squint. For one absurd moment, you almost think the buildings are on fire.
The sight of the palace alone steals the breath from your lungs.
Xuehua's royal palace is beautiful, you cannot deny. It was built into the mountainside, carved from stone and made to belong. It is beautiful in its own way, in an entirely different way from the Imperial Palace — because the Imperial Palace was not built to belong.
It was built to impress. To dominate. To remind every visitor exactly where they stand, and what exactly lies before them.
The gates open, slowly, deliberately, as though unveiling something sacred.
Your delegation passes through. And suddenly, you feel very small.
The courtyards seem endless, unfolding one after another like nested paintings. Towering halls rise from stone terraces, watching over the land with authority. The roofs stretch upward like wings — great, sweeping structures preparing to take flight. Every building is larger than the last the deeper you go, as though the Empire is simply incapable of moderation. It’s as though there is always something beyond, something greater, something more than whatever opulence has already been displayed. The palace is less a residence, and more of a city hidden within a city.
The carriage stops. Before you, a receiving party waits at a set of gates.
The crowd is not particularly large — just enough to be polite. Just enough to remind you that you are expected. Nothing more, and nothing less.
You smoothen your robes before exiting the carriage. The cold winter air kisses your skin as you step out. For a moment, the world falls silent.
The journey is over. You have arrived.
There’s no turning back now.
From the carriages before and after yours, your delegation steps out. A few minsters that you had brought along with you, simply for ceremony’s sake — meaning, they will leave once you have formally settled into the palace. Unlike you, who will stay.
You do not know how long you will remain.
The welcoming officials bow.
“Welcome to the Imperial Palace, Princess [Name] and envoy delegation of the Xuehua Kingdom.” An elderly minister steps forward. His smile is courteous, practiced — the sort worn by a man who has greeted hundreds of foreign envoys before you. “I hope your journey here was comfortable.”
“It was,” you reply. It’s a lie, because how could a week’s worth of mountain roads, river crossings and endless travel ever be called comfortable?
The minister nods anyways, as if he expected no other answer.
Formal introductions follow. Names. Titles. Ranks. Departments. You try to listen. You really do! But your attention keeps drifting. To the unfamiliar architecture, to the servants scurrying through the courtyards, to the sound of bells ringing in the far distance. To the realisation that every face around you belongs to a stranger.
You repeat greetings, exchange pleasantries and smile where needed. The conversations blur together almost immediately. None of them ask about Xuehua, or about you. You’re just a political obligation, nothing more and nothing less. You simply stand politely at the centre of it all, letting your ministers take over the conversation.
The loneliness hits you all of a sudden, arriving all at once. It’s like you’re stepping through thin ice — one moment you're standing, and the next, you're already sinking in.
But you smile through it. Years of training ensure that much.
No one notices.
Eventually, a palace attendant gestures for you to follow.
“Your residence has been prepared, My Lady.”
Residence, huh.
The word feels far too permanent.
Regardless, you follow. You travel across bridges above frozen ponds, through courtyards lined with bare trees and winter flowers, beneath towering archways painted red and gold. The palace seems determined to continue forever, and you begin to suspect it might just be so.
At last, you arrive before a secluded courtyard tucked away from the palace's busiest districts. It’s not grand, yet you can’t say it’s insignificant. Just… somewhere in between. The sort of place reserved for someone important enough to house comfortably. But nowhere important enough to place near the center.
You’re just a diplomatic princess. A foreign guest.
An afterthought, maybe.
The attendant pushes the gates open.
White snow rests upon charcoal-tiled rooftops. Curved lattice windows sit in frames of polished wood and elegant eaves. A plum tree grows in one corner of the courtyard. Its branches are bare, waiting for spring. The sight makes your chest ache unexpectedly.
The attendant bows respectfully.
“Welcome home, Princess.”
Home.
You stare at it wordlessly. The unfamiliar walls, the unfamiliar sky, the unfamiliar future stretching endlessly before you. You know, somewhere out there, beyond the mountains, beyond the snow, beyond everything you have ever known, Xuehua continues on. Without its princess.
Without you.