As it stood, the only obstacle between Lingbo and the Crabapple Banquet was Female Official Su — and Lingbo had already been scheming through the night on how to win her over. But to her surprise, when they met in the morning, Female Official Su had only one thing to say: “Don’t ask me anything. I know nothing. Whatever Miss Ye wishes to do at the Crabapple Banquet has nothing to do with me.”

That single statement revealed her position clearly — she was also supporting Lingbo’s effort to reconnect the red thread. Lingbo’s spirits soared at once, and even the endless ceremonial protocol of the first day of the Spring Hunt felt less unbearable.

The Emperor had always been concerned with appearances. To make the Spring Hunt seem like a genuine act of blessing for the nation and its people, the entire reception was prepared to the standards of a sacrificial rite. The imperial hunting grounds required no silken barriers along the route, and the reception site had been arranged well in advance — tents had been erected in the style of the Great Zhou founding Emperor’s wartime encampments, with a bright yellow pavilion at the center for the Emperor’s quarters, surrounded by the Imperial Guard cavalry, and beyond that, the royal clan and the Emperor’s closest attendants. Civil officials had come only to observe — much like attending court, though more arduous. On the first day of the reception, they waited a full two hours before the Emperor finally arrived.

The female attendees were spared such waiting. They were settled in a separate garden near the hunting grounds, and only needed to emerge and receive the Emperor when he was ready to review the generals on the field.

Qinglan had been thoughtful enough to approach the Grand Princess several days in advance and request permission for ladies who were practiced in martial arts to join the hunt alongside the men, rather than be confined to the garden with nothing to do.

A palace attendant had been present at the time — a thin, lean woman surnamed Gao, who represented the Empress of the central palace and was said to be one of the Empress’s wet nurses. She objected immediately, saying: “Hunting is hardly a proper activity for young ladies of noble families. Besides, there are accidental injuries every year during the hunt — it would be terrible if a young lady were hurt. And if any impropriety were to occur, the consequences would be lasting.”

Others held their tongues, but Shen Biwei was the first to lose patience, saying coldly from the side: “Those who suffer accidental injuries are those without armor or marker flags. If we wear armor and helmets, how could there be any accidental injuries?”

Nanny Gao was about to argue further, going on about how the young ladies were “precious and delicate, and hunting is a rough affair…”

“Nanny has misunderstood,” Qinglan said without haste, stepping in to speak on Shen Biwei’s behalf: “Our Great Zhou was founded through military valor. The more distinguished the noble family, the more likely their daughters are trained in riding and archery. The Grand Princess herself is a prime example — when she accompanied the late Emperor on hunts, she surpassed the men. The Emperor sets great store by the Spring Hunt precisely to demonstrate Great Zhou’s flourishing martial spirit. When he sees that even our women are this accomplished, he will surely be greatly pleased.”

That left Nanny Gao with nothing further to say. Shen Biwei was permitted to lead a women’s contingent to join the Spring Hunt — under the Grand Princess’s command. When the Emperor saw them, he was indeed delighted and, before the hunt had even begun, moved to reward them. Shen Biwei, ever unyielding, said: “Since ancient times, one does not receive reward without merit. Please wait until this subject’s daughter has followed Your Highness to claim the imperial prizes — then Your Majesty may reward us.”

“What admirable spirit,” the Emperor said, smiling broadly. “I had not expected Advisor Shen’s daughter to have such determination — a true heroine who outshines the men. Very well — I shall add another prize to the pool. Let everyone compete on their own merits, and may the best prevail.”

Several supervising eunuchs carried up the prizes on display. Pei Zhao’s gaze immediately cooled as he recognized among them a painted bow decorated with a leaping lizard — the very bow in question.

“Great Zhou’s martial spirit flourishes, and masters abound,” the Emperor said with a smile. “Internal competition would only be counterproductive. The late Emperor once made a policy of mutual protection among three garrison commands as a strategy for stabilizing the border — so today I shall likewise divide the hunting grounds into three. One group hunts tigers, one hunts bears, and the last shall hunt eagles. Whoever hunts a tiger wins the sword; whoever hunts a bear wins the armor; and whoever hunts the eagle wins the bow.”

Advisor Chen naturally seized upon the moment to extol the Emperor’s wisdom, and the assembled officials followed in a chorus of praise. Only Zhao Yanze smiled faintly and asked: “Imperial Uncle, this arrangement is excellent — but I wonder, how are the teams to be divided?”

As he spoke, his gaze drifted toward Pei Zhao. The two were of similar ages within the imperial clan, yet both had kept to themselves; they had barely crossed paths. This cousin who had so suddenly appeared inspired a measure of curiosity in him.

But it was a royal curiosity — like the tigers kept within the imperial garden, appearing docile and bemused, yet capable of ripping a man open with a single swipe of the paw.

When it came to reading the Emperor’s mind, ten Advisor Chens bound together could not match Zhao Yanze. He asked precisely because he already knew the answer. Advisor Chen, however perceptive, was ultimately a minister treading carefully beside his sovereign — while Zhao Yanze was a nephew of the family. There was no comparison.

Sure enough, the Emperor laughed and said: “That is simple enough. The Zhenbei Army’s generals will hunt tigers. The capital’s young men of rank will hunt eagles. And the imperial clansmen shall follow Yingzhen to hunt bears.”

Pei Zhao said nothing, still wearing that easy smile, sitting lazily on his old horse. Yuan Xiu and the rest of the imperial clan were brimming with ambition, but they were not familiar with him — knowing only the legendary reputation of the Duke of Ying’s household, a young man’s reverence for a figure of legend. They also stood in awe of the Grand Princess, so none dared approach him for conversation. They could only trail behind him, waiting for his command. Watching the other groups set out one after another, their anxiety mounted.

Then the Emperor spoke first: “Yingzhen, come here.”

Pei Zhao urged his horse forward and said: “Your Majesty.”

“Just say ‘Uncle,'” the Emperor said with an easy smile, drifting along on his horse as he studied Pei Zhao. Pei Zhao met his gaze without flinching.

“They say a nephew takes after his uncle. Looking at you now, Yingzhen is considerably better-looking than I am.” The Emperor turned to the attendants and close officials at his side and asked with a smile: “Don’t you think so?”

The attendants and officials immediately exerted their full ingenuity to respond, all in flattering, effusive praise — one saying “wherever the Duke is handsome, it is because he resembles Your Majesty,” another saying “Your Majesty is magnificent and commanding, while the Duke is strikingly refined…” Each had bent their minds to find the right answer. Pei Zhao only listened with a smile, saying nothing.

The slight, thin middle-aged man before him was the master of all under heaven — he had the clean, refined looks typical of the Zhao family, but wine and excess had hollowed out his body. The flesh did not sit well on the bone; his skin and muscle had grown slightly loose, and there were fine lines at the corners of his eyes — he did not look particularly vital. Pei Zhao looked little like the Grand Princess to begin with, and resembled the Emperor even less. It was Zhao Yanze who bore a far stronger resemblance.

Pei Zhao had not lived within the palace and did not know that the slight puffiness and darkness beneath the Emperor’s eyes was one of the most common ailments of court life — liver stagnation and blocked energy. In this vast palace, from the Emperor down to the consorts, eight out of ten medical records cited this very condition. Nor did he know that the seemingly vigorous flush on the Emperor’s cheeks came from taking elixirs that morning to sharpen his alertness, and that arriving an hour late was habitual — arriving two hours late was simply to allow the elixirs to take their effect.

He had no need to know any of this.

He was a descendant of the Duke of Ying — his ancestor had earned a name in the history books, standing alongside Han Xin. Though his ancestor’s end had been as tragic as Han Xin’s, the fierce courage and valor had passed down through his bloodline from generation to generation. This imperial city could not confine him, and if the Emperor wished to put him in his place, he would likely find it difficult.

Zhao Yanze then smiled and said: “Imperial Uncle, you have been so absorbed in speaking with Cousin that the Grand Princess’s group has already entered the dense forest.”

He was reminding the Emperor that while establishing dominance mattered, the Grand Princess was not someone to trifle with — if you harassed her son like this now, she would come to settle accounts later.

But the Emperor was particularly unyielding today. Not only did he ignore the hint, he even teased: “I don’t think A’Yan is concerned about his aunt at all — I think he just has Sun Tzu’s female soldiers on his mind.”

With that, even Zhao Yanze had to let it go. At any rate, he had done his best — the Grand Princess could hardly blame him afterward.

Sure enough, the Emperor continued walking with Pei Zhao for another stretch. Yuan Xiu and the others wanted to follow but dared not stay too close, for fear of interrupting the Emperor’s conversation with Pei Zhao — every one of them seething in silent frustration, casting helpless looks at Zhao Yanze.

By the time Yuan Xiu was nearly sick with impatience, the Emperor finally turned to the matter at hand.

They had just reached the edge of the open field — a slope overlooking the imperial hunting grounds, which spread out before them like a painting: rivers, dense forest, mountain ridges.

The Emperor’s idle talk had just reached “the late Emperor also once rode across these very hunting grounds…” when his tone shifted abruptly, and he turned to Pei Zhao and said: “Yingzhen has not been very well-behaved.”

Pei Zhao, trained since childhood, responded without a beat: “Yingzhen does not understand — he begs Your Majesty’s forgiveness.”

The Emperor still only smiled, then produced a feather — dark gray, unmistakably from the falcon that had been used in the hunt that day — still bearing traces of Dragon Scale Ink on it.

“If we hadn’t found it in the Duke of Yongguo’s stables, I would still be in the dark,” the Emperor said with a smile. “Yingzhen is such a mischievous one — just wait until I tell your elder sister how to punish you.”

Pei Zhao felt no fear — only a cold sadness in his heart.

No wonder the Duke of Yongguo had voluntarily ended his family line, and had not even sought to adopt from within the imperial clan. Under surveillance this thorough, anyone with even a measure of discernment would know it was time to make a choice.

He had grown up hearing the story of the Duke of Ying’s household’s destruction and felt no particular emotion about it. The imperial family was cold and unfeeling — this so-called “uncle” was no uncle of his. It was Zhao Yanze who said a few words to him: “Don’t overthink it. Imperial Uncle is only teasing you because he can see that Aunt cares about you — he’s just playing with you.”

Pei Zhao had no interest in playing out their family “flesh and blood” scenes. Besides, the reason he had captured that bird in the first place was to keep the bow out of someone else’s hands — it was his grandfather’s weapon, after all, and very few of them still existed in the world. Now that the Emperor had produced the bow again, he could not be bothered to care.

The household had already been ransacked. What was the point of caring about a bow?

Of course, none of that stopped him from going to find Ye Lingbo. Ladies of the household always had their ways of gathering news, and Ye Lingbo with all her servants and connections quickly pieced together the full picture — the Emperor had put the bow up as a prize for whoever hunted the eagle, and had sent Pei Zhao to hunt bears instead. Pei Zhao simply did not go, and came back to sprawl on the daybed in Quiet Heart Garden.

A beautiful person who inspires pity only becomes more beautiful in that state — it was as if a divine image had been slightly damaged, making it all the more human. Ye Lingbo could not bear to see it, and immediately did her best to console him: “It’s all right — don’t bother yourself with him. We have plenty of days ahead.”

Had the Grand Princess been present, she would have understood at once: Ye Lingbo had more than one thing in common with Pei Zhao — they were suited to each other in every way. She only knew that Pei Zhao liked Ye Lingbo’s spirit — the kind that never gave up no matter what — and did not realize that even in her winding, seemingly roundabout manner of speaking, Lingbo never mentioned the Emperor directly while making everything about the Emperor, not only dissuading Pei Zhao from engaging with him, but subtly hinting that Pei Zhao would outlive him. Yet that little tail was hidden so well — there was no catching hold of it.

But neither of them had anticipated the Grand Princess’s temperament.

By evening, the hunt was over and everyone had returned to camp. Palace servants had lit bonfires before the imperial pavilion, and a night banquet was held for the assembled officials. It was said to recall the Great Zhou founding Emperor’s tradition of sitting on the ground, though the silks spread underfoot were finer than anything in the palace itself — a remarkable extravagance. There was music and dancing, sword performances, and equestrian archery displays, and the festivities were in full swing when the Grand Princess returned.

In truth, the other two groups had already come back by then, and the Emperor had sent people to inquire — all reports said the Grand Princess had returned long before with her women’s contingent. Everyone assumed she had learned of the Emperor’s morning reprimand of Pei Zhao and had simply chosen not to attend the banquet.

Nearly twenty years had passed, and the Emperor had long forgotten what his elder sister was like when her temper flared.

In the midst of the night banquet’s revelry, the Grand Princess appeared — leading her contingent of female soldiers through the entire length of the gathering. Shen Biwei, unyielding as ever, still dared to follow behind her even now — perhaps because she had heard that the Emperor had taken that falcon from her own father’s stables. The Grand Princess walked through the banquet with her women, wearing full armor and helmet, at her waist the sword awarded by the late Emperor, in her hands the bow once used by the Great Zhou founding Emperor — like a celestial warrior descended from the heavens. She walked directly to the Emperor’s seat at the head of the table, raised one hand, and slammed a bloody, massive eagle down onto the table before him.

According to the palace attendants who served the Emperor, the eagle weighed some twenty-odd catties, with a wingspan of seven to eight feet — heavy and dense as a cannonball. When it crashed down, cups and dishes flew in all directions, and warm, fresh blood splattered across the Emperor’s face.

The Emperor stared in blank bewilderment as his elder sister dropped the eagle and walked straight out, never once looking back. By rights he ought to have erupted in fury — yet he simply stared at the Grand Princess’s retreating figure, as though entranced.

—

Pei Zhao stayed with Lingbo until deep in the night before returning to his own tent.

The moment he stepped inside he did not quite register it, but the instincts of a general had not left him, and he asked his attendant: “Who has been in here?”

“The Grand Princess, Your Grace,” the attendant replied.

Pei Zhao was somewhat puzzled. From childhood onward, he and his mother had never been close — and since his return to the capital, things had remained the same. Just that evening, Lingbo had still been saying that he should listen to the Grand Princess and stop being at odds with her.

He was not truly at odds — it was simply that so many years had passed, and he no longer knew how to be her son.

He walked into the tent and caught the faint scent of blood. Then he turned — and understood where the scent had come from.

In the lamplight, its shadow fell in beautiful angles across the space. There on the table at the center of the tent, lay the very bow that had once been a prize for the hunt — the same bow the Emperor had used that morning to put him in his place, saying it would go to whoever brought down the eagle: the painted bow decorated with a leaping lizard.