Chapter Text
The halls of the Yong’an imperial palace smelled of incense and cold stone, even in the height of summer. Silk banners in crimson and gold hung limp from the rafters, as if they too had given up on pretending this union held any warmth.
Qi Rong stood at the center of it all on his wedding day, back straight, vermilion robes embroidered with snarling phoenixes that matched the venom in his smile. The political marriage to Crown Prince Lang Qianqiu had been arranged for years—two powerful houses, one crumbling, one ascendant. Qi Rong had once foolishly hoped it might become something more. He was young then. Stupid.
Lang Qianqiu’s vows were delivered in that same flat, commanding tone he used for issuing executions. His eyes, sharp as polished obsidian, never lingered on Qi Rong longer than etiquette demanded. When the ceremony ended and they retired to the bridal chambers, duty was performed with mechanical precision. No tenderness. No words beyond what was necessary. Lang Qianqiu took what the marriage required and left before dawn.
Months bled into years. Qi Rong learned to armor himself in sharp tongue and colder pride. He was no simpering consort. He was Qi Rong—cousin to princes, descendant of old blood, and he would not beg.
Then came the pregnancy.
The physicians confirmed it with trembling bows. Qi Rong sat alone in his courtyard that night, hand pressed to his still-flat belly, a strange mix of terror and fierce joy blooming in his chest. *A child.* His child. He would be a better father than the icy bastard who shared his bed on occasion.
The next morning, the rumors began.
“The crown prince has taken a new favorite,” a maid whispered near the outer gates. “A male concubine from the southern provinces. They say he possesses a womb as well. Yun Zhou, his name is. Beautiful as a painting.”
Qi Rong overheard it while walking the corridors, Guzi not yet born. His nails dug crescents into his palms. That *bastard*. Dutiful only in bed for an heir, yet now he paraded another with the same capability openly?
He confronted Lang Qianqiu that evening in the study, where maps and reports lay scattered like fallen soldiers.
“So,” Qi Rong said, voice dripping acid, “you bring a pretty little womb into *my* household while I carry your heir? How thoughtful, Your Highness. Planning a spare already?”
Lang Qianqiu did not look up from his documents. “The marriage produced what it needed. Yun Zhou is a political asset. Do not make this undignified, Qi Rong.”
“Undignified?” Qi Rong laughed, sharp and ugly. “You dare speak to me of dignity while the entire court whispers that the consort is nothing but a decoration? Fine. Keep your secret lover. I will raise *my* son without you.”
He swept out before the crown prince could reply, robes flaring like flames. Behind closed doors, he pressed both hands to his swelling belly and whispered promises. “You will never want for love, little one. Never.”
-----
The birth was long and brutal.
Qi Rong screamed curses through the pain, sweat soaking his hair, midwives fluttering like frightened birds. When the child finally came—small, red-faced, squalling—Qi Rong reached for him with shaking arms.
“Guzi,” he named him on the spot, voice hoarse. “My Guzi. My everything.”
Lang Qianqiu visited the birthing chamber as duty required. He looked at the infant for a long moment, expression unreadable.
“He is healthy,” the crown prince said at last. “Well done.”
That was all. No touch. No name spoken with pride. He left shortly after, and Qi Rong heard later that Yun Zhou’s quarters had been redecorated with fresh silks that very afternoon.
Qi Rong held Guzi closer, pressing a kiss to the soft, dark hair. “I will name you myself, then. And I will love you enough for ten fathers.”
-----
The years that followed carved Qi Rong into something fiercer and more brittle.
He poured every drop of himself into Guzi. The boy grew into a bright-eyed toddler with his father’s sharp little smile and a stubborn tilt to his chin. At three years old, Guzi could already toddle through the private gardens on chubby legs, babbling questions that never stopped.
“Baba, why is the sky blue? Baba, can we see the horses? Baba, where is Father?”
Qi Rong would scoop him up, spinning him until giggles filled the air. “The sky is blue because it is jealous of your eyes, little scourge. The horses are for tomorrow. And Father… Father is busy with important crown things.”
He shielded Guzi from the worst of the court. When nobles sneered behind fans about the “consort’s bastard” or whispered that Yun Zhou was the one who truly warmed the crown prince’s bed, Qi Rong met their eyes with a smile sharp enough to cut glass. He taught Guzi letters in the evenings by lamplight, sang rough lullabies, and stayed awake through fevers and nightmares.
His own heart he buried deep. Lang Qianqiu’s visits to their shared wing grew rarer. The crown prince performed his marital duty on occasion—cold, efficient couplings that left Qi Rong staring at the ceiling afterward, jaw clenched. Sometimes Qi Rong would provoke him deliberately, just to feel something.
One night, after Lang Qianqiu had risen and dressed without a word, Qi Rong sat up in bed, sheets pooled around his waist.
“Name your damn son yourself if you care so little,” he snarled, voice cracking with three years of swallowed rage. “Or do you plan to let Yun Zhou do it when you finally replace me?”
Lang Qianqiu paused at the door, broad shoulders tense under his robes. “Guzi is the heir. That is enough.”
“Enough?” Qi Rong’s laugh was bitter. “For you, perhaps. Get out.”
The door closed softly. Qi Rong buried his face in his hands and did not cry. He had stopped crying long ago.
-----
Guzi was three years and two months old the night everything ended.
The palace was quiet under a sliver moon. Qi Rong had dismissed the servants early, preferring to rock Guzi himself after a nightmare. The boy clung to his robes, small fists twisted in scarlet silk.
“Baba… the shadows were scary. Will Father make them go away?”
Qi Rong stroked his hair, heart aching. “Father is very strong. But Baba will keep the shadows away tonight. Sleep, my heart.”
Guzi drifted off with a thumb in his mouth. Qi Rong stayed beside the small bed, humming softly, when the door to the inner chamber slid open without a sound.
A shadow detached from the darkness—cloaked, blade glinting. The assassin moved like smoke.
Qi Rong’s instincts screamed. He lunged, snatching a decorative dagger from the table and throwing himself between the intruder and his son.
“Guards!” he roared, voice carrying the full venom of his reputation. “Intruder! To the consort’s wing!”
Steel met steel in a frantic clash. Qi Rong was no weakling—he had trained in secret, fueled by paranoia and pride—but the assassin was professional, silent, relentless. A slash caught Qi Rong across the ribs. Blood bloomed hot and fast.
He fought like a cornered beast, driving the attacker back, buying seconds. From the bed, Guzi woke and began to cry.
“Baba! Baba!”
“Stay there!” Qi Rong gasped, parrying another blow. Pain flared white-hot as a second wound opened on his arm. “Don’t look, Guzi—close your eyes!”
The assassin feinted, then struck true. The blade sank deep into Qi Rong’s side, twisting. He crumpled, but not before driving his own dagger upward into the attacker’s throat. The man gurgled and fell.
Qi Rong collapsed half across the bed, blood soaking the sheets. Guzi’s small hands patted his face desperately.
“Baba… wake up… Baba, it hurts?”
Through fading vision, Qi Rong saw his son’s tear-streaked face. The boy was only three. Too young. Too small.
“My Guzi…” he whispered, blood bubbling on his lips. “Baba loves you. So much. Live… for me…”
Grief for the child he would never see grow. Bitter regret for the man he had once—foolishly, desperately—loved. *Lang Qianqiu, you bastard… if there is a next life, I will never make the same mistake.*
Darkness swallowed him whole.