The grand hall was bathed in the pale light of the early morning, a soft mist hanging outside the palace windows. Inside, the air was thick with the musty scent of parchment, incense, and the faint traces of ink that lined the Emperor’s court. The magistrates were seated in their customary positions—six of them, each a figure of authority in their own right. Half were dressed in dark purple robes, the other half donned maroon robes, but all embroidered with symbols of their jurisdiction, their eyes sharp, their minds set on the weighty matters of the day.
At the center of the hall sat Emperor Li Tianming, his presence as commanding as the crimson silk robe draped over his shoulders. His seat was raised, towering over the assembly. Before him, a row of scribes stood, hands poised over scrolls, ready to record every word.
The Emperor's gaze swept over the room—a deliberate, measured movement. Every magistrate instinctively straightened, the room falling silent in anticipation.
“Begin,” the Emperor said with a quiet command, his voice carrying the authority of the heavens themselves.
“Your Majesty,” the War Minister stepped up, cupped his hands and bowed deeply. “The Ashekan Tribe has yet claimed another piece of land. While our Northern border is adequately guarded and there are no signs of the Ashekan Tribe approaching our cities in the North but given their rate of expansion, it will be a matter of time that they will come knocking on our door.”
“What do you think, Councillor Du?” The Emperor asked.
The Right State Councillor broke the line formation and stepped into the center space. Before answering, with hands cupped in front of his chest, he offered a low bow.
“Your Majesty, the Ashekan Tribe would have exhausted their warriors and supplies by the time they expand anywhere near our northern border cities. Thus, I believe that they will not take the risk and attack us. However, with that said, I still think that we need to lay out a safety net.” Councillor Du answered.
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“What do you suggest?” The Emperor asked.
“I suggest a marriage alliance. The princess of the Ashekan Tribe has yet to marry.” The Right State Councillor responded with his head still slightly dipped.
“Everyone knows that the princess is Ashekan Temur’s beloved daughter [掌上明珠], why would he marry off his one and only daughter to a faraway land?” The Minister of Personnel questioned.
“Who said that we need her to marry into Chang’an to form a marriage alliance?” The Right State Councillor’s words intrigued everyone present, including the Emperor himself, who shifted to sit closer to the edge of his throne.
“Go on.” The Emperor urged.
“We could marry off a prince to the Grasslands.” The Right State Councillor said. Murmurs filled the hall right after he finished his sentence.
“How can we marry a prince off to such a faraway land?” The Left State Councillor exclaimed.
“We have a prince now sitting in prison awaiting exile, don’t we?”
The murmurs swelled into a low roar, like the distant rumble of an approaching storm. Even the scribes momentarily paused, their brushes hovering just above the parchment.
The Emperor did not speak immediately. He tapped the armrest of his throne in a slow, rhythmic beat, the sound echoing faintly across the vast hall.
“Which prince do you refer to, Councillor Du?” he asked, though everyone already knew the answer.
The Right State Councillor straightened. "Li Xian, Your Majesty."
At the name, a few magistrates exchanged glances. Li Xian—the son of the fallen Empress, the prince–more accurately, former crown prince–better known for his poetry and pride than any martial prowess.
Again, the Emperor did not speak immediately. The slow, rhythmic tapping on the armrest of his throne turned into a fast, constant beat.
"Very well," he said at last. "Draw up the decree. Summon Prince Li Xian to the court."
The Emperor leaned back into his seat, his gaze lingering on the far end of the hall, the weight of his unspoken regret pressing down upon him.
