Chapter 6: The Emperor's Summons
The Emperor’s gaze settled on Aoife. It was not hatred she saw, but a cold, pragmatic calculation. “The ring. Remove it. Give it to me.”
Her blood went cold. The ring had never left her finger since the spring had bound it to her. “I can’t.”
“You will.” The Emperor nodded. Two guards broke from the ranks and strode forward.
Wei moved. It wasn’t a fight, it was a statement. He stepped directly into their path, his arms spread. “You will not touch her.”
The entire garden froze. A prince directly disobeying the Emperor’s guard in front of the entire court was unthinkable.
The Emperor’s expression darkened. “Chen Wei. Step aside.”
“No.”
In the terrible silence that followed, Wei turned his back on his father, on the guards, on his brother’s triumphant stare. He looked only at Aoife. His eyes held a world of apology and a fury that matched her own. Then he cupped her face in his hands and kissed her.
It was not a chaste or courtly kiss. It was deep, claiming, desperate. A raw testament of possession and defiance performed before the most powerful audience in the empire. She tasted his anger, his fear for her, and a wild, reckless love. She kissed him back, pouring every ounce of her own terror and defiance into it, her hands fisting in the dark silk of his robe.
A gasp rippled through the assembled court. Prince Yong’s smugness flickered into outright disgust. The Astrologer looked as if he might faint.
Wei broke the kiss, his breath hot against her lips. He didn’t look away from her as he spoke, his voice ringing clear in the hushed garden. “She is mine. Her fate is mine. You will not touch her.”
The Emperor’s face was a mask of stormy wrath. “Take him,” he said, the words ice. “Now.”
The guards surged. Wei fought, a whirlwind of elbows and sharp blows, but they were too many. They pinned his arms, wrenching him away from her. His eyes never left hers, burning with a promise that was also a goodbye.
“Aoife!”
The raw terror in Wei’s shout tore through her. His fingers, slick with the sweat from his struggle, slipped from hers as the guards hauled him backward through the dew-laden peonies. Their trampling boots drowned the desperate scrabble of his soles on the gravel path.
Aoife stood alone in a circle of lamplight and hostile eyes. The cold silver band on her finger was no longer just humming; it was a vibrating live wire fused to her bone, a pressure building behind her sternum like a second, furious heart. The Grand Astrologer was shrieking about demonic auroras. Prince Yong simply smiled.
“Take the witch,” the Emperor commanded, his voice final as a stone sealing a tomb.
The two guards who had been repelled by Wei lunged for her. Their hands, clad in leather gauntlets, reached for her arms. Physical contact.
Her control, a thin film over a geyser, shattered.
The claddagh ring didn’t glow. It detonated.
A concussive wave of silent, silver force erupted from her body. It didn’t sound like thunder; it felt like the air itself being ripped in half. The two guards closest to her were lifted off their feet as if kicked by a giant, hurled backward into their comrades. A domino crash of armor and grunting bodies sprawled across the herb beds, crushing fragrant mint and chrysanthemum.
The lantern flames guttered sideways, then streamed upward, drawn toward Aoife as she rose.
Her feet left the crushed gravel. An unfelt wind lifted the heavy, copper weight of her hair, strands floating around a face gone slack. Her eyes, wide open, burned with an opaque, milky white radiance that saw nothing in the present garden and everything in some ancient, green dark.
From her lips, words fell that were harsh and melodic, words of binding and seeing, of earth-deep roots and mountain springs. The language of the draoi, the druids, forgotten by most of the world. It rolled through the garden, and every hair on every arm stood on end.
The Emperor, who had been steadying himself against a guard, froze. His furious eyes widened with a shock that was personal, historical. He stared at her floating form, and his lips parted. “That tongue…” he whispered, the words lost in the swirling energy. “The woman from the western sea… she spoke…”
Before he could finish, the silver light pooling around Aoife coalesced and then burst outward again in a pure, blinding column.
It was not a weapon. It was an unfurling.
It shot upward, piercing the night sky, then fractured into a thousand shimmering threads that rained down not just in the garden, but across the entire palace complex. They were seeker threads, filaments of diagnosis and repair. One streaked into the distant Western Pavilion, where the Dowager Empress lay in a fevered stupor, her body fighting the subtle poison of apricot pits.
In the garden, a guard with a festering sword-cut on his leg from a week prior felt a searing itch, then a coolness. He looked down to see pink, healthy skin. An old scribe’s chronic joint pain evaporated. The light sought, found, and mended.
And in the Pavilion, the Dowager’s eyes flew open. She drew a deep, clear breath for the first time in days, the grey pallor receding from her face as the invisible toxicity was scoured from her blood.
The column of light vanished.
The unearthly wind died.
Aoife fell.
She dropped the few inches to the ground like a puppet with severed strings, collapsing in a boneless heap on the gravel and trampled herbs. No grace, no control. Just a sudden, shocking stillness. Her skin was waxy pale, the freckles stark as ink splashes. Her chest did not move.
Wei, who had thrown off the stunned guards holding him, was at her side before anyone else could blink. He skidded to his knees, his hands hovering over her, afraid to touch. “Aoife?” His voice was shredded. “Xing’er.”
Then he saw it. The faintest, almost imperceptible lift of her ribcage. A pause that stretched into agony. Then the slow, torturous fall. A breath, but just one. A clockwork heart winding down.
In the absolute silence, a cacophony began. The Astrologer was babbling about celestial intervention. The healed guards were touching their bodies in wonder. Prince Yong’s smile had vanished, replaced by a calculating fury.
The Emperor stepped forward, his gaze fixed on Aoife’s limp form and the now-dull ring on her hand. He looked from her to Wei’s ravaged face, then toward the direction of the Dowager’s quarters. The conflict in his eyes was a war between protocol, memory, and the undeniable evidence of a miracle.
“Bring her,” he said, his voice hollowed out by awe. “Carry her to the Hall of Compassion. Gently. Post my personal guard. No one else enters or leaves.”
He turned his dark, weary eyes on his eldest son. “Yong. You will attend me. Now.” The command left no room for debate, only a cold, paternal dread.
Wei gathered Aoife into his arms, her head lolling against his shoulder. She was ice-cold, a terrifying doll of wax and bone. As he stood, cradling her, he looked at his father. Not as a prince to an emperor, but as one man to another, his own eyes blazing with a feral protectiveness.
The Emperor held his gaze for a long moment, then gave a single, shallow nod. It wasn’t permission. It was an acknowledgement of a changed battlefield.
Wei turned and walked through the parted crowd, following the Emperor’s guard, carrying his heart away in his arms. Behind him, the garden was left in ruins, whispering with the aftermath of a power that had rewritten the night.
The Hall of Compassion smelled of dust and distant incense, a place reserved for retired concubines' ghosts and discarded things. Wei laid Aoife on a daybed, his hands trembling as he brushed the cold hair from her forehead. “Fetch the physician from my household,” he barked at the Emperor’s silent guard, who merely shook his head, remaining posted at the door.
Hours bled. The only sign of life was that torturous, minute rise and fall of her chest. He chafed her freezing hands, wrapped her in his own robe, poured warmth into her through skin-on-skin contact that felt terrifyingly insufficient. The memory of her floating, eyes full of primordial light, was a scar on his mind. He’d seen power before, but this was a surrendering. A hemorrhage.
Just before dawn, her breath hitched. A flicker behind her eyelids. Her fingers twitched in his.
“Aoife.” He leaned close, his voice sandpaper rough. “Come back to me.”
Her eyes opened. Hazel-green, not white, but deep with a bottomless fatigue. She focused on his face, and a weak, sardonic smile touched her lips. “Did we win?” she slurred, the words thick.
A cracked laugh escaped him, edged with relief so sharp it hurt. “You rewrote the heavenly mandates. My father is… reconvening with his ministers. Yong is in seclusion. The Dowager Empress is sitting up and taking broth.”
“Good.” Her eyes drifted to the high, dark ceiling. “I feel like I’ve been disemboweled. Gently. By a very skilled artisan.”
“You drained yourself.” He brought her hand to his lips, kissing her knuckles, the cool metal of the ring. “Never do that again.”
“No promises.” She turned her head, wincing. “They saw everything.”
“Yes.”
“And I’m not in a dungeon.”
“No.” He hesitated. “My father recognized the language you spoke. He said, ‘the woman from the western sea.’ He knows something.”
Before she could process this, the door slid open. It was not a physician, but the Emperor himself, alone, his imperial robes exchanged for simple dark silk. He looked older in the grey morning light, the lines around his eyes not just from power, but from memory.
Wei moved to stand between them, but the Emperor raised a placating hand. “I come without guards, son. Let me look at her.”
Reluctantly, Wei shifted. The Emperor stood over the daybed, his gaze studying Aoife’s pale face. “The tongue of the draoi. A coastal village, half a lifetime ago. A shipwreck. A woman with hair like autumn bracken and that same silver ring, pulling a drowned child from the waves with a song that commanded the water itself.” His eyes were distant. “They called her a sea-witch. My father had her executed.”
The silence in the room was absolute. Aoife’s breath caught.
“A mistake,” the Emperor said quietly, more to himself than to them. “A fearful, stupid mistake. One I have regretted in quiet moments for decades.” He focused on Aoife. “You healed my mother. You healed men in that garden. Not with demonic arts. With a giving. A sacrifice.”
He straightened, his decision solidifying in his posture. “You will remain here, in this hall, under the protection of my personal guard. You will be treated as a… a rare scholar. A physician. Chen Wei will attend you. The official court record will state the Astrologer misread the heavens, influenced by…” he paused, “...undue ambition from certain quarters. The matter of the apricot pits will be investigated quietly.”
It was a staggering political shield, woven from guilt and pragmatism. Wei bowed deeply, truly, for the first time that night. “Thank you, Father.”
“Do not thank me,” the Emperor said, his voice weary. “I am containing a wildfire. That one,” he nodded at Aoife, “is a spark in a room full of dry tinder. You must dampen the fuel.” With that, he left, the door whispering shut behind him.
The tension in Wei’s shoulders unraveled all at once. He sank to the floor beside the daybed, his forehead resting on the edge of the mattress. Aoife’s hand came up, her fingers weaving into his hair. “A spark, huh?”
“An inferno.” He turned his head, pressing his lips to her palm. “You died. For a moment, you were just… gone.”
“I’m here.” Her voice was gaining strength, a familiar stubborn ember glowing in the ash. “I’m not going anywhere.”
He looked up at her, and the fear in his eyes transmuted into something hotter, more desperate. The adrenaline of the night, the brush with loss, the sudden reprieve—it all coalesced into a raw, physical need. His gaze dropped to her mouth.
“You’re supposed to be resting,” he murmured, but his hand was already sliding beneath the covers, finding the curve of her waist.
“Fuck resting.” The obscenity, in her accent, was a weapon that cleaved the last of his control. She tugged his hair, pulling his face to hers.
The kiss was not gentle. It was a collision, a reclaiming. He groaned into her mouth, his tongue sweeping against hers with a frantic hunger. She tasted of salt and iron and herself. He shoved the heavy covers aside, his hands roaming over the thin shift she wore, finding the heat of her skin beneath.
“Wei,” she breathed against his mouth, arching into his touch.
“I need to feel you’re alive,” he growled, his voice ragged. He gripped the neckline of her shift and pulled, the fragile silk tearing with a sharp, satisfying sound. The cool air hit her skin, pebbling her nipples, and then his mouth was there, hot and wet, sucking one deep into his mouth while his hand roughly palmed the other.
She cried out, a sharp, unfiltered sound that echoed in the sparse hall. Her hands scrambled at his robes, tearing at the sash, pushing fabric aside until she found the hard plane of his stomach, the line of hair leading down. He freed himself from his trousers, his cock springing out, thick and already leaking. He was brutally hard, veins standing in relief.
“Now,” she demanded, her own hands diving between her legs, finding herself slick and ready. The brush with death had left her hypersensitive, every nerve screaming for the solid, sweating reality of him. “Don’t you dare be gentle.”
He didn’t need telling. He hooked his hands under her knees, pushing them back and apart, spreading her wide open on the daybed. The morning light fell across the juncture of her thighs, glistening. He positioned himself, the broad head of his cock nudging against her entrance, and watched her face.
“Look at me,” he ordered.
She did, her hazel eyes dark, wild. He drove into her in one deep, unyielding thrust, burying himself to the hilt.
The air left her lungs in a punched-out gasp. He was so deep, stretching her gloriously, filling the awful hollow emptiness the magic had left. He didn’t move, just let her feel the full, possessive weight of him inside her, her body fluttering around his girth.
“Mine,” he whispered, the word a vow and a curse. Then he began to fuck her.
It was a hard, driving rhythm, each thrust a punctuation mark against the terror of the night. The daybed rocked, its joints creaking in protest. His palms slapped against the backs of her thighs, the sting a bright counterpoint to the deep, internal friction. He leaned down, capturing her mouth again, swallowing her moans. She could taste herself on his tongue.
She wrapped her legs around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back, urging him deeper, harder. “There, right there, you bastard,” she gasped, and he grunted, adjusting his angle, hitting a spot that made her vision spark.
One of his hands slid between them, his thumb finding her clit, rubbing rough, tight circles. The dual assault was too much, too good. The pressure built, not from magic, but from pure, animal biology. Her nails scored down his back, and she felt him shudder, his rhythm faltering.
“Come with me,” he gritted out, hips pistoning. “I need to feel you come.”
It broke her. The orgasm ripped through her, a convulsive, silent scream tightening her entire body, milking his cock in relentless waves. He swore, a filthy, beautiful string of words, and followed her over, his own release pumping deep inside her, hot and endless.
He collapsed atop her, a welcome, crushing weight. Their sweat-slicked skin stuck together. His breath was ragged in her ear, her own heartbeat thundering against his. Slowly, the world seeped back in: the dust, the distant birdsong, the reality of their precarious sanctuary.
He finally rolled to the side, taking her with him, keeping her anchored to his body. He traced the line of her spine, his touch now reverent.
“The guard outside heard everything,” she muttered into his chest, a belated thread of embarrassment weaving through the satisfaction.
“Good,” he said, and she could hear the smirk in his voice. “Let them report that the Crown Prince is thoroughly attending to his rare scholar.”
A low laugh vibrated in his chest beneath her ear. “Thoroughly,” she echoed, tracing the fresh scratches she’d left on his skin. The sweat was cooling. The frantic, desperate edge had softened, but the need hadn’t vanished; it had simply changed shape, becoming a deep, addictive thrum.
She shifted her hips, feeling him slip from her body, a slow trickle of his release following. A pragmatic, clinical part of her brain, the medical student from another world, flickered online. She propped herself on an elbow, looking down at him. His eyes were closed, face softened in the aftermath, but a muscle still ticked in his jaw.
“You know,” she said, her voice casually conversational, as if discussing the weather, “my people have certain herbs. Teas. Things to prevent certain… outcomes.” She let her finger trail through the sticky mess on her lower belly, then brought it to his lips. He took her finger into his mouth, sucking it clean without opening his eyes. The act was so intimately filthy her breath hitched.
“My people have their own methods,” he murmured against her skin. “Withdrawal. Timing.”
Aoife snorted. “Historically unreliable. Across all cultures.” She leaned closer, her lips brushing his ear. “If you keep flooding me like this, Wei, I’m going to find myself pregnant with your child.” She said it lightly, a tease, but the words hung in the air between them, sharp and real as a blade.
His eyes snapped open. The languid satisfaction evaporated, replaced by an intensity that pinned her. He didn’t look afraid. He looked… considering. Possessive. His hand slid from her spine to splay across her lower abdomen, as if measuring the possibility.
“Is that a threat?” he asked, his voice low.
“It’s biology.” She held his gaze, the humor fading from her own. “A very possible consequence of what we just did. What we keep doing.”
For a long moment, he was silent, his thumb stroking a slow circle on her skin. The weight of dynasties, of bloody succession wars, of his brother Yong’s hatred, settled in the space around them. A child would be a weapon, a target, a political earthquake.
Then his hand moved, sliding down through the wet warmth between her legs. He pushed two fingers back inside her, where his seed still lingered. “Then let it be,” he said, the words rough. “Let it take root.”
Her mind blanked. The sheer audacity of it, the defiance, stole her breath. Before she could form a reply, he was moving again, rolling her onto her back and covering her body with his. He was already hardening against her thigh. The conversation was over, subsumed by a darker, more primal agreement.
This time was different. It was slower, deliberate. He entered her again with a deep, inexorable pressure, his eyes locked on hers. Every thrust was a claiming, a deliberate planting. She wrapped her legs high around him, pulling him deeper, accepting the silent vow. Her teasing had summoned something vast and terrifying, and now she was thrilled by it.
He fucked her with a profound, focused intent, as if the act itself could shape fate. The slick, rhythmic sound of their joining filled the quiet hall. She came again, a rolling wave that left her trembling, and he followed, groaning her name as he spilled into her once more, his body utterly spent.
They lay tangled, the reality of what had just been said and done settling over them. The sun was fully up now, painting bars of light across the floor. From beyond the door, a cleared throat shattered the silence—a guard, reminding them they were not truly alone.
Wei’s arms tightened around her. “We will face whatever comes,” he whispered into her hair. It wasn’t a promise of safety. It was a statement of shared consequence.
Aoife closed her eyes, feeling the phantom pulse of his release inside her, the cool metal of her claddagh ring against his skin. A spark, the Emperor had called her. But some sparks started wildfires that could burn down palaces, and in the ashes, something new could grow. The thought was no longer a fear. It was a secret, burning ember in the dark of her womb, and for the first time, she dared to wonder what it might ignite.