The Phoenix that devours fate

CHAPTER 5

HAOFENG

Beijing loomed ahead, an expanse of grandeur wrapped in the golden light of dawn, its towering gates standing like the ribcage of some ancient, slumbering beast, holding within it the heartbeat of a thousand souls, the murmurs of fate, and the whispers of history carved deep into stone and earth alike. The vast city stretched beyond the horizon, a breathing entity of silk and steel, of power and fragility, where destiny itself seemed to be woven into the very air. As the Yu Jiao swayed forward upon its gilded poles, borne by men whose backs had long since been hardened by the weight of nobility's whims, I remained still, my form rigid, my arms curled protectively around the sleeping child pressed to my chest. Outside the veil of silk that concealed me from the common folk, life pulsed in restless cadence—the clatter of hooves against uneven stone, the rhythmic cries of merchants extolling their wares in tones that rose and fell like ocean waves, the mingling fragrances and ink-grit parchment, of fresh rain upon cobblestone and the distant perfume of noblewomen drifting past in carriages lacquered in red and gold. The scent of horses mingled with the damp air, and through the thin fabric, I could almost glimpse the world beyond—the lanterns swaying gently in the morning wind, the banners bearing the imperial sigil fluttering like solemn prayers to the heavens. But I was no longer one among them, no longer a mere wanderer upon the worn streets of this kingdom. No, I was a man carrying the weight of a life that was not my own, a soul tethered to a destiny I had not woven, a fate that had been thrust upon me like the cold edge of a blade pressed against an unguarded throat.

The child murmured in his slumber, his tiny fingers tightening upon the fabric of my robe, as though seeking reassurance even within dreams. I hushed him gently, my voice barely more than a breath, and yet, in that moment, it struck me—how foreign this all felt. To cradle another life so fragile, to bear the weight of duty that had once been mine alone, to know that the blood of royalty flowed within this child's veins while my own had been shaped by nothing but the toil of a commoner's hands. Once, I had known only the simple burdens of a laborer's toil—the ache of muscles well-used, the certainty of days spent beneath the open sky, my fate dictated by the calloused grip of my own hands. But now, I sat within a royal carriage, bound for an audience with the Son of Heaven himself, and I carried not only my own life, but that of the child who bore her blood. Lumin's child. The thought of her name, unspoken yet ever-present, struck me with an ache that had no remedy, a sorrow that nestled itself within the marrow of my bones, a wound that no passage of time could mend. And as the lull of the Yu Jiao's swaying pulled at the edges of my wakefulness, as the murmurs of the world beyond faded into a distant hum, sleep found me once more. And within that sleep—

She appeared,in my dream.

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There are scents that never depart from a man's soul, fragrances woven into memory as indelibly as ink upon parchment. The sharp tang of freshly hewn timber, the acrid sting of lacquer upon calloused fingers, the faint musk of rain-kissed earth after a long day's labor—these were the scents that had accompanied me through the years, the quiet reminders of a life before it was tainted by the touch of fate. Yet none of them clung to me as fiercely, as irrevocably, as the golden perfume of osmanthus in bloom. It was the scent of our first meeting, the fragrance that even now haunted my dreams, the ghost of a past that refused to be buried. And as I walked once more within the corridors of my mind, the memory unfolded with the clarity of water reflecting the moon. It had been three years since that fateful summer, and yet, even now, the image of that day rose before me with a vividness that defied time. I had been a younger man then, though no longer a boy, my hands roughened with toil, my days dictated by the steady rhythm of honest labor. The palace had been but a distant world to me then—one of untouchable grandeur, a realm belonging to those whose lives were spun from silk and gold, while mine was carved from sweat and wood. And yet, on that day, fate wove our paths together beneath the boughs of an ancient tree, its blossoms scattering like flecks of sunlight upon the ground, the wind carrying their fragrance through the air like an unspoken promise.

I had been tasked, alongside my fellow workers, with the delivery of finely carved wooden chairs to a noble estate near the Forbidden City. The summer air had been thick with heat, the weight of our burden pressing heavy upon our shoulders, and so, I had sought solace beneath the shade of an osmanthus tree, its fragrance a welcome balm against the labor-worn exhaustion that clung to me. It was there, in that moment of respite, that I had heard it—laughter, bright and unburdened, ringing through the air like the chime of silver bells. It was not the laughter of noblewomen, refined and restrained, nor the weary chuckles of laborers accustomed to hardship. No, this was something else—something untamed, something that did not belong in the confines of this world.

And then, I saw her.

She was but a girl then, no more than fifteen summers old, yet there was something in the way she moved that set her apart from those of her station. Her robes, dyed the color of lilac dusk, shimmered with embroidery so fine that it seemed woven from moonlight itself. Strands of dark hair had slipped free from their careful braiding, dancing against her cheeks as she ran, laughter still upon her lips. She was playing—not in the careless manner of children, but with the reckless joy of one who had never known the freedom to do so. Her feet barely kissed the earth as she twirled, her hands brushing against the leaves, as if drinking in the sensation of it, as if memorizing the very touch of the world beyond her own. But then—she froze. Her laughter died upon the wind, her body going rigid as her head turned sharply toward the palace gates. I did not know what she had heard, what had sent such urgency rippling through her frame, but in the next heartbeat, she was running once more.

This time, toward me.

Before I could even react, she reached me, her small hands grasping at the sleeve of my robe. Her breath was quick, uneven, her voice barely more than a whisper, yet laced with a quiet urgency that left no room for hesitation.

"Gege, is there a place I can hide?"

The title startled me. Older brother. A term of respect, of familiarity, and yet between us, there was none.

Still, the plea in her gaze was undeniable. Without a word, I reached for her wrist, guiding her swiftly toward the hollow nestled between the roots of the ancient tree. It was no more than a small cave, carved by time and earth's quiet patience, yet it would suffice. She pressed herself into its shadows without question, the rise and fall of her breath the only sound between us.

I heard the guards before I saw them. The heavy stomp of boots upon gravel, the sharp murmur of voices as they combed the grounds. They passed by, their eyes skimming the surface of the world but never seeing beyond it. Silence.

And then, she exhaled—a breath caught between relief and something else. Slowly, she stepped forward once more, the sunlight kissing the edges of her face.

"Thank you," she murmured. "The guards were near me."

I frowned. "Guards? Why would they be after you? Are you a criminal?"

She hesitated—just for a breath. Then, tilting her chin, a mischievous smile across her lips.

"I am the princess."

And with that—she ran.

I stirred, the echoes of laughter and the lingering scent of osmanthus clinging to me like the dying embers of a fire, fading yet refusing to be extinguished. For a fleeting moment, I was still there—beneath the ancient tree, the golden petals falling around me, her voice a whisper against the wind. But as my eyes fluttered open, reality pressed down, heavy and unrelenting. The dim glow of morning seeped through the silk curtains of the Yu Jiao, casting shifting shadows across the wooden frame, the creak of the carriage wheels a stark contrast to the dream's ephemeral beauty. My arms, instinctively curled around the child, tightened, grounding me in the present, though my heart still lingered in the past. Foolish. It was foolish to allow my mind to drift into old memories, to let myself be swept away by a vision of a girl who had once twirled beneath the sunlight, untamed, untouched by the weight of the world. I was no longer the nameless carpenter who had stood in the shadows, no longer the man who had marveled at her laughter as though it were the first light of dawn. No—now, I was a man carrying a child not my own, bound for a fate I had not chosen, shackled to a duty that had long since ceased to be my own. I drew a slow breath, steadying the storm within me. The past was nothing more than a whisper in the wind, and yet, even now, I could not silence it.

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