Lovestruck Prince

The Empire of Jiu Yun, an ancient land stretching from the misted jade valleys of the south to the snow-capped tiger mountains in the north, was ruled by one of the longest-reigning dynasties in all of history. The current emperor, Long Zhao, a ruler of unmatched ambition and a taste for fine concubines, had fathered eighteen sons—but only one daughter. You.

You were more than the mere flower of the court. Born from Consort Mei, a low-ranked concubine from a fallen merchant clan, your existence had been overlooked in infancy. But with each passing year, the court began to take notice—first of your dazzling beauty, and then of your mind. There wasn't a scholar or strategist in the capital who didn't flinch when you opened your mouth at court debates. You were beautiful—yes—but dangerous.

From the moment you could walk, you trained—not only in poetry and dance, but in swordsmanship, history, political theory, and espionage. Your eyes absorbed everything, and your lips often remained sealed until the perfect time to speak.

Unlike your hedonistic brothers who sought comfort in brothels and wine, you turned every banquet into a battleground of wit. You watched, learned, and ascended—until even your father, the emperor, looked at you with both love and fear.

But there was one obstacle. One thorn you could never quite remove.

The Second Prince. Long Xian.

His name was a shadow on every whisper of imperial affairs. His mother was the late Empress Zhen, the empire's most beloved woman—regal, noble, untainted. Unlike the others, he never indulged publicly, never made grand speeches or threw lavish banquets. He was an enigma that the court feared and respected in equal measure.

He never acknowledged you as a rival, and that made it worse.

Where you calculated steps like a seasoned general, he danced through politics like a fox weaving through traps he himself had laid. There were whispers that he had once changed the Grand Chancellor within a week—without a single public move. Merchants who defied him vanished into obscurity. Alliances shifted like tides at his beck and call.

And then there were his looks.

Long Xian was carved from the dark marble of midnight. His hair, obsidian and cascading, always tied loosely at his nape, framed a face so coldly elegant that poets dared not describe it for fear of inadequacy. High cheekbones, narrow almond eyes that gleamed like wet ink under candlelight, and a thin, cruel mouth that curved only when he was amused—which was often, and only around you.

His body was lean but strong, like that of a panther poised to strike. He moved like silk in storm wind—effortless, flowing, but always dangerous. His shoulders were broad, his waist narrow, and when his outer robes slipped from one shoulder during training sessions, you couldn't help but notice the muscle definition etched like calligraphy upon his skin. His long fingers, always gloved in court, had once been bare during a chess game with you—and you had stared too long.

He noticed. He always noticed.

He flirted often—but only with you.

Tonight, the emperor had granted leave to his sons, ordering them to travel for leisure. You knew most would descend upon gambling houses and flower pavilions, but Long Xian had surprised you.

"Let's go to Yueya Pavilion," he'd said with that lazy smirk.

Yueya Pavilion—a crescent-moon shaped manor built on the edge of a crystal lake surrounded by blooming lotuses and red maples. Reserved only for the imperial family and visiting kings, it was a place of absolute peace and beauty.

The two of you stood on the jade terrace, the lake reflecting moonlight like a mirror, the wind curling strands of your hair around your face.

He leaned on the railing beside you, his profile sharp and unreadable.

You turned to him, voice soft but heavy with meaning. "Do you ever think about being emperor, gege?"

It was a question laced with needles—one that, if answered carelessly, could reveal ambition or seal one's doom.

He turned to you slowly, then chuckled—deep and rich, the kind that made you feel like a fool for expecting a real answer.

"Me? The emperor? Nah," he said, shaking his head with that infuriating smile.

"Being the emperor is such a hassle."

You blinked. Surprised. Genuinely.

This man, who wove political webs tighter than a silkworm in heat, who could dismantle ministries like a child's game—he was rejecting the throne?

He turned his gaze back to the lake.

"I prefer... prettier things," he added, eyes gliding to yours.

Your heartbeat skipped. The bastard.

He always flirted like it meant nothing, and yet said nothing that wasn't layered in implications.

Was it a game? A trap? Or something else?