Veil of Crimson Lotus

The garden smelled of rain and peonies. Morning dew clung to the jade leaves, shimmering like the tears of the sky, while the soft rustling of the wind carried whispers of a world she did not yet understand. The red-crowned cranes strolled leisurely by the koi pond, dipping their heads in slow, elegant movements, while the distant hum of the court still lingered beyond the stone walls.

Lian Yuhua walked beside her father, Emperor Lian Wenzhao, struggling to match his long strides. Her tiny fingers clutched at the embroidered sleeve of his robe, as if holding onto a piece of certainty in an uncertain world. She was barely seven, yet the weight of the future already loomed over her like a storm on the horizon.

Her father sighed, his voice heavy as he glanced down at her.

"It will not be easy for you, Yuhua."

She tilted her head up, her golden eyes searching his face.

"Because I am a girl?"

His expression darkened, but he did not answer right away. Instead, he reached out and tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. Her raven-black hair, thick and flowing, was adorned with delicate silver hairpins shaped like falling lotus petals. The strands shimmered in the pale morning light, cascading down her back in silky waves. A few stray locks clung to her round cheeks, still soft with childhood.

Her robes were a pale shade of lilac, embroidered with golden cranes and plum blossoms, the silk smooth and weightless against her skin. The sash around her waist was a deep violet, tied neatly into a bow at her back. She wore delicate silk slippers, barely making a sound as she stepped over the pebbled path.

Her father exhaled slowly.

"Yes," he admitted. "Because you are my only child. When an emperor has no son, the throne becomes a battlefield."

She frowned. "But… this is our home. Why would they fight over it?"

He knelt before her then, his large hands resting on her small shoulders. His once-mighty frame, draped in imperial yellow, seemed heavier than she had ever seen before.

"Because power is never simply given, Yuhua. It is seized."

A gust of wind swept through the garden, rustling the bamboo trees as if to agree.

For the first time, she noticed how tired he looked. The fine lines beneath his dark eyes, the silver creeping into his hair, the way his lips pressed together as if hiding the weight of unspoken grief. Grief for her mother.

Empress Zhen Yuxiu had died two winters ago. Killed in the war while carrying the child who would never be born.

Yuhua did not remember much of her. Only faint glimpses—her mother’s laughter, the warmth of her hands, the scent of jasmine lingering in the air when she hugged her. She had been told it was an arrow that struck her down. An arrow meant for the emperor.

"If Mother were here, would it still be difficult for me?" she asked, her voice quiet.

Her father’s expression turned unreadable, his gaze drifting toward the horizon.

"Perhaps," he murmured. "But she is not."

The words stung, but she did not cry. Instead, she straightened her back, trying to appear taller, stronger—like the warrior princesses in the old stories.

"Then I will be strong enough for both of us."

A sad smile touched his lips.

"One day, you may have to be."

The wind carried the scent of rain once more, and as they walked deeper into the garden, the storm on the horizon grew ever closer.

Later that evening, Yuhua sat in the imperial study, her legs tucked beneath her as she listened to the murmurs beyond the silk-screened doors. She wasn’t supposed to be here. She knew that. But curiosity had always been a fierce thing inside her.

The ministers were speaking in hushed tones. She could barely make out the words, but she understood the meaning beneath them.

“King Harun of Zhaotai grows bolder with each passing month,” one voice said. “If His Majesty does not solidify his heir, the court will fracture before we even prepare for war.”

“She is but a child,” another scoffed. “Seven years old. She cannot rule an empire.”

“And yet, she is all we have,” a third voice countered. “Unless His Majesty remarries and sires a son, the princess remains our only option.”

Yuhua clenched her fists in her lap.

They spoke of her as if she were a pawn. A piece to be moved across the board, bargained for, married off, used for their ambitions.

And yet, she was the daughter of an emperor. Did that not mean something?

“She will learn.”

Her father’s voice was calm, steady.

“She will learn, and she will be stronger than you believe.”

There was silence after that. No more arguments. No more hushed concerns.

And in that silence, Yuhua made a promise to herself.

She would become what they doubted. She would carve her own place in history.

Even if the world was against her.