Each time his shoe

squelched

against the sickly sticky streets, Jinshi tried to keep his visible repulsion minimal.

The ‘paved’ path glimmered like gemstones had been embedded in their filth, wet with the afternoon’s rain and bathed in the golden haze of lanterns.

The Verdigris House stood proud despite being surrounded by curved alleyways of hidden horrors that terrorize the night. Thick ivy walls marked the entrance, half-hidden from the average eye - as if the city itself conspired to protect its most precious secret.

It was more legend than location to someone of his family's stature, and there were plenty of rumors to go with the tale. They said the Four Princesses of Verdigris did not perform - they ruled. He laughed aloud when the emperor said as much.

Each had her title etched in whispers and myth:

Pairin, the seductress, was known to bring men down further than their knees all while they begged for more.

Meimei, the angel, had many enthralled with her kind smiles and stories.

Joka, the cursed tongue, while immeasurably beautiful had a regal untouchable air to her.

And then Maomao, the executioner.

Jinshi was not the type to be impressed by rumors, especially not the ones of the inebriated. The words meant close to nothing to him; neither was he tempted by the garish parade of red-painted eaves and silk-draped courtyards as they approached.

He walked two paces behind a retinue of generals too drunk to remember propriety and beside a man who was technically his brother, if one ignored the weight of the crown he normally wore.

In truth he saw little of his elder brother, a man who had the title through blood connection alone. In fact, beyond the surprise summons of this mandatory outing he saw more of his brother's

special

companions than him on any given day.

The disguised Emperor - hooded, amused - grinned sidelong at him.

“Don’t scowl so much,” he murmured. “You’re making the petals wilt.”

And it was true, several women who had approached in the courtyard shied away and pulled their sheer shawls tight over their shoulders when they saw his less-than-pleased expression. Still, Jinshi wouldn’t dignify a comment like that with a reply.

He hadn’t wanted to come in the first place. He had said as much,

multiple

times, before being half-coerced, half-dragged from the palace under the pretense of a “celebration.” Some military success, some border treaty - he hadn’t been listening. The wine had flowed too freely at court; this was the consequence.

“Time you learned how to enjoy yourself, pretty boy!” one particularly intoxicated general bellowed, already untying his overcoat as the ornate doors opened. “Shame you don’t have the proper equipment, but you’ll appreciate the view nonetheless.” The vulgar wagging of eyebrows that accompanied the statement repulsed him.

A ripple of sound met them from within - laughter like wind chimes, music soft as birdsong, and the flush of perfumed air. It was the same as the outer court, drenched with scent and future disillusion.

The Matron of the house greeted them with a bow so fluid it resembled dance. Her face was powdered pearl-white, but her eyes were sharp with calculation. The wrinkles of her face smoothed into an impossibly youthful expression when she took in the sight of them.

“Sirs,” she drawled with her tone flitting, lips curling, “the House welcomes you. May your hearts be light, and your pockets heavy.”

Jinshi felt the shift immediately as she led them further in the building - a trap of silk and candlelight, threaded with jasmine smoke and the impossible stillness of wealth.

Everything shimmered in gilded luxury. Carpets stitched with painted golden thread. Lattices inlaid with emerald shaded stones. Lanterns of mother-of-pearl casting shadows like koi swimming across the floor. In a way it was beautiful.

The large entertainment room they were brought to was beautiful as well.

“Gentlemen, your company for the evening,” the matron clapped her hands twice before stepping out of focus.

The Curtains parted.

Four women appeared.

Pairin led them, radiant in crimson and gold, her eyes smoldering beneath a fan heavy with feathers.

Meimei followed with her soft, lilting laughter and hands that moved like water.

Joka, tall and severe, walked as though she ruled the world - or at least the men who inhabited it.

And then there she was, the final princess.

Maomao.

She was the last to enter, a position of honor that seemed out of place given her appearance. No jewelry, no bright paint on her face. Her robe was pale green, nearly blending into the drapery which hung loosely from the walls.

She didn’t smile. Didn’t bow. Her gaze passed over the room like a blade of grass bending in the breeze - gentle, forgettable.

Until her eyes landed on him.

Just for a heartbeat, she looked directly at Jinshi; in her line of sight he felt as though she had him pinned by the throat.

He forgot to breathe until his chest burned in protest.

It wasn’t beauty - not in the traditional sense. But there was something unbearable in the quiet of her, something that reached past silk and scent and went straight to the bone.

He looked away with a flush on his face.

His brother chuckled under his breath.

“Careful,” the Emperor murmured. “That one’s expensive in ways that have nothing to do with coins.”

“I’m not here for any of them,” Jinshi spoke quickly and stiffly.

“Mm,” the Emperor replied, clearly amused. “You’ll change your mind.”

Jinshi didn’t take the bait. But he kept his gaze down, burning with the strange, sharp awareness that someone across the room

still

hadn’t looked away.

The music began the way moonlight creeps across still water - soft, slow, silver-sweet as it ripples out.

Conversation in this grand hall dimmed as their party fell to an occasional murmur, as the attendants parted like petals around the main dais. Gilded lanterns flickered in time with the low, pulsing drums, and the air thickened with jasmine and sweat. Heads turned.

The four of them moved as one for the opening dance.

The music changed - low flute, echoing drum. They circled each other in a slow spiral, veils brushing, eyes catching, fingertips ghosting across space but never touching. Each had her rhythm, her part to play.

Pairin danced like a chase, quickly moving her legs and arms in sweeping motion that sent the loose fabric of her robe spinning. Meimei, like a riddle, maneuvered the space with a knowing smile and playful movements. Joka danced like she was trapped in a painting you weren’t allowed to touch.

Maomao moved like the undeniable force of gravity.

She didn’t spin or sway. She manipulated her limbs just enough that each rise and fall looked perfectly crafted. Her sleeve dipped, her hip turned, her fingers traced the rim of an invisible teacup in the air - and somehow, it felt like the most intimate motion in the room.

She didn’t look at him again.

Which meant Jinshi couldn’t

stop

looking at her.

When the dance ended applause rippled like thunder over water, and he would have joined if the prickling tingle didn't leave his fingers frozen - locked in their place. The generals and nobles began rising from their seats, spreading out the room into smaller groups - eager for their time alone with the beautiful trained women. The Princesses split apart, each drawing in the hungriest men like perfumed flames.

Pairin perched herself atop a tall table, teasing two admirals with the tip of her fan as she traced the side of their faces with the longest feathers.

Meimei slid into a man’s lap, laughing behind her sleeve before feeding him sugared ginger with her fingers - quick to pull them away before she made contact with his lips.

Joka settled beside a scholar and began asking questions in a voice that made even arithmetic sound suggestive. It took all of ten seconds to lead him into a tense debate.

Maomao… didn’t move.

She remained standing near the back of the room, head slightly bowed, eyes on her hands. No one approached her.

They rarely did.

It was another rumor he’d heard in a career where the clients attracted determined the worth of the women, Maomao was in the aspired position of having uniquely loyal customers. The men who paid for her time never went to another courtesan after, even if they had previously frequented

Jinshi stood.

One of the generals slapped his shoulder. “Going to Meimei for your first time? She’s a wildfire, but she goes easy on the youngins.”

Jinshi didn’t answer.

He crossed the room like a man sleepwalking.

The matron intercepted him midway, eyebrows raised. “Going somewhere?”

He handed her a full coin pouch the emperor had ensured he had on hand before they departed.

“An hour,” he spoke without looking away from the woman who caught his eye.

“This way.”

It was a unique feeling to turn away from her, to be led out the room and through the halls; he didn’t see a thing as he moved.

The room they gave him was quiet despite the noise just outside.

Not just in design - though it was that, too, padded with thick screens and the faint rustle of incense smoke - but in spirit. The kind of silence that begged to be broken, explored. A hush that settled like dust on the skin.

Jinshi sat, spine straight, fingers steepled over his lap. He didn’t sip the wine in front of him. Didn’t reach for the pale plum fruit arranged just so on a wooden tray. Didn’t bother with the silk robe they’d offered him at the door, still dressed in the formal black and white of his faux courtly position - though tonight, technically, he was no one.

Could he be Jinshi here? Or someone else?

He hadn’t wanted company.

But that

was

the point.

He’d chosen her - the strange one, the quiet one - out of defiance.

Let the others sink into velvet laps and saccharine laughter. Let the generals fight over who got Meimei’s coy flirtations or Pairin’s fiery gaze

He had asked for Maomao.

The matron’s brow had twitched, just faintly, when he spoke the name to confirm the time and payment.

“She’s not for everyone,” she had warned with a little twinge of a smile.

“Perfect,” he had answered, because it really was.

She entered with a rustle of pale green robes and no fanfare.

Maomao bowed, just enough to mark formality, and stepped inside with no perfume trailing her, no jewels to flash, no painted lips. She didn’t flutter. She didn’t giggle. She didn’t perform.

She didn’t even really look like she wanted to be there in the first place.

And Jinshi - who had spent his entire life watching people perform for him - felt the imbalance immediately in the most delectable way.

She poured the tea without a word, as if she was serving just herself on any given day. The steam rose in slow ribbons between them, eventually filling the stagnant room enough to form something like a curtain between them when paired with the incense that had been burning from the time he walked in.

Then she knelt across from him, settled onto her folded legs.

And looked him in the eye.

He expected a smile. A line. A demure inquiry into his health, his pleasure, his needs.

But Maomao said nothing at all.

She simply folded her hands into her lap, perfectly still, seeing

through

him rather than looking at him.

The tea was too hot to drink. The silence stretched, thin and taut as golden thread. Jinshi had spent years refining himself into a man who never blinked first, never flinched - but this...

This wasn’t a stare. It was a presence, imposing and powerful in its own right. A quiet so full it made the rest of the world feel cheap.

He cleared his throat. “You’re not very talkative.”

Her lips barely twitched. “There’s no value to be found in idle conversation, unless that’s what you think this time is worth.”

He puffed out a breath of air; “Is that how you win over your clients?”

Because it was working on him irrationally quickly.

“I don’t win anyone,” she spoke evenly. “They simply stay, or they don’t.”

She looked away, then - only then - settling her gaze on the steam rising between them.

Jinshi wasn’t sure why he didn’t leave.

He could have.

He’d meant to.

But instead, he stayed.

And after a beat, when the silence stretched into comfort rather than tension -

He finally asked, without thinking:

“…Do you like to dance?”

Maomao blinked once, then looked at him - not through him this time, but at him.

“I like the music,” her eyebrow raised. “It doesn’t ask anything from me.”

Jinshi didn’t realize he was smiling until she looked away again and he felt his lips fall.

Since when did such an expression come so easily?

He watched her trace the rim of her teacup with one slender finger, slow and absentminded. Her eyes were heavy-lidded, her posture relaxed to the point of near indifference.

She wasn’t ignoring him. She simply wasn’t waiting for him to decide what he wanted.

And that, somehow, was his undoing.

Not dramatically. Not obviously. Just a small unraveling, thread by invisible thread pulling on a string he hadn’t even realized was loose.

She didn’t even ask his name.

Didn’t ask why he was here.

Didn’t try to touch him, didn’t even glance at his hands or his mouth.

It should have felt like rejection.

It didn’t.

It felt like sweet, sweet relief.

Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen. The tea cooled. Jinshi still hadn’t touched it.

“I was told you were expensive,” he let an elbow make solid contact with the table between them to rest his cheek on his closed fist.

Maomao blinked. “Does that bother you now?”

“No. It makes sense now.”

They sat in silence for a long while after, until a small bell chimed from the corner. He stood, slowly, unsure why his limbs felt strangely heavier than before. She didn’t rise with him. Didn’t see him out. Just remained, like a figure carved from still water.

“That was only the half-way bell. The last one is much louder.”

He paused at the door.

“I may come back,” he tried to tease.

She didn’t answer. But something about the angle of her head - just the slightest tilt - felt like acknowledgment.

He left before he could think better of it.

Outside, in the garden, with the moon caught between the lattice screens, he realized with a soft, disbelieving breath:

He

wanted

to see her again.

Wanted to know what topic could make her speak without restraint; what would make her eyes sparkle or recoil in disgust. He wanted to know what her clients usually did, what

they

discussed.

There were moments Jinshi prided himself on his discipline.

He could write reports for hours without error. Endure meetings with sluggish old ministers without once allowing his expression to slip. Handle delicate palace politics, military tensions, and the frequent, exhausting performances of nobility with absolute poise.

Which made it all the more irritating that -

He kept thinking of

her

long after they dragged the last or their respected generals out from the red light districts' insistent claws.

The first time it happened was an early morning. He was alone in his private study, pouring over troop movement reports brought back from the southern garrison. His tea had gone cold, untouched, and a curl of sunlight slanted across the page.

He reached for the ink brush automatically.

And paused.

The tea.

That scent - green and faintly bitter.

Like the cup she’d poured.

Steam rising. Silence blooming.

Her eyes treated him like a pane of glass.

His hand froze.

For a full minute, he forgot what he was reading. He forgot

to read

the incredibly important dispatch request in front of him.

The second time he was in a meeting. Not just any meeting - a

military council

, no less, with two generals, one ambassador, and the Emperor himself seated a few chairs away, watching Jinshi with a critical eye as he lounged under the guise of his latest pseudonym.

At first many questioned his seat there, careful to not speak out against the Emperor as they all treaded eggshells to keep their heads from rolling. That’s when the rumor that the Emperor kept a pretty eunuch by his side began to spread.

General Raikoku was mid-rant, gesturing wildly with a meat-thick hand.

“…And if they think they can push our scouts past the floodplain - ”

Jinshi blinked.

The room shifted, just slightly.

He could almost feel her gaze again: level, quiet, undemanding. The strange hush she brought into the space.

Not submissive. Not shy.

Still.

He remembered the way her finger traced the rim of the cup. The way she hadn’t smiled. The exact tilt of her head when he said,

I may come back.

His jaw tightened.

Focus

.

He turned his attention back to the council, just in time to offer a perfectly timed nod. No one noticed.

Still, he hated himself a little.

He told himself he wouldn’t return. That one visit had been enough. A curiosity, now satisfied. She hadn’t touched him. Had barely spoken.

There was nothing to fixate on.

And yet -

He thought of her when a consort he barely tolerated tried to charm him in the garden. She was on the far side of the outer court, had never even been visited by the emperor and she still tried to cause mischief.

He thought of her when he caught sight of an empty teacup, rim kissed with red from someone else’s lips.

He thought of her when his hand brushed another’s by accident, and he pulled away too fast, as if contact with his skin had already been reserved.

He thought of her in his dreams, sometimes, but never vividly - only the sensation of quiet breath and unreadable eyes.

What haunted him wasn’t beauty. He was surrounded by it, living in it.

It was the absence. The restraint shown from a woman who lives in the same world he does - a world drenched in indulgence.

The unbearable intimacy of not being touched.

That, and the maddening suspicion:

He had not left a single mark on her.

But she’d branded him, somehow, like smoke clinging to silk.

One night, alone again and restless in the shadow of the palace gardens, he finally exhaled a truth he hadn’t meant to say aloud.

“I don’t even know her real name.”

And it burned.

Because he didn’t

want

to know the Princesses of Verdigris.

He wanted to know

her

.

He supposes that's what all her patrons felt as they walked away, not even an afterthought to her unwavering poise.

Thinking of it now, that ridiculous rumor was truly a warning he should have taken care to heed.

Executioner

was an all too fitting moniker for that beautiful girl; for he truly felt slain by her. Sitting at his desk, Jinshi found himself surrounded by work he’d typically slack off on,

yes

, but would have completed by the end of the day.

Now it was like he was suspended in time, desperately bracing for impact. She had him in shackles, locked him in a pillory.

In truth she had him laid down in a guillotine, impatiently waiting for her to free the blade so he could be free once more.