A life aligned with the cosmos, so the ancient texts proclaimed, mirrored the harmony of like entities. Silk with silk, jade with jade, a scholar’s wisdom married to a minister’s sagacity. This was the true path to enduring contentment, a principle Jian Li, from his earliest days, had absorbed as truth. He believed in the resonance of similar values, the quiet dignity of corresponding lineage, the shared understanding of equally cultivated minds, the balanced ledger of comparable fortunes, and the subtle accord of agreeable forms. Like, he understood, drew to like, forming a perfect, unbreakable circle. He had been a child of keen observation, quick to grasp these unspoken tenets, recognizing them as the most direct route to the peace and recognition everyone coveted within the rigid echelons of the Imperial Court. Then, in the year he turned eighteen winters, a discordant note had struck, a tremor in his carefully constructed world. He found himself ensnared in what could only be described as a most extraordinary, unsettling connection. Perhaps it had been a sudden, dangerous recognition, a spark igniting at first sight across a crowded hall, but one he was only now forced to acknowledge. His intellect, a meticulously honed instrument, rebelled. He prided himself on rationality, on the precise logic of his arguments and the steady hand of his calligraphy. Such a notion—this profound, unwelcome fascination—he swiftly dismissed as a mere passing distraction, a scholar’s foolish misinterpretation, and brushed it aside with the practiced ease of one accustomed to taming his own unruly thoughts. Yet, the feelings, coiled tightly within his very being, defied his will. They became a persistent ache, lodged in his throat, a silent constriction that threatened to choke him. “Take me to the Azure Willow Pavilion.” Dawn broke over the capital, its grey light creeping through the lattice screens of his study. He watched the city’s silent awakening, its tiled roofs emerging from the pre-morning mist. A message, abrupt and jarring, like an uninvited guest, had stolen the serene quiet of his early hours. It was a small scroll, bound with a strip of raw, crimson silk, sealed with the distinctive mark of the Xuan family—a soaring crane, rendered with aggressive, almost crude strokes. Not the elegant, stylized forms of the Imperial Seal, but something more primal. Its arrival, carried by a panting junior attendant who had vanished as swiftly as he appeared, shattered his peace. He sat on his bed for a long moment, the cool morning air a faint prickle against his skin, before rising with a soft, inaudible sigh. Only the hushed breathing of the slumbering household staff stirred below. No eye would witness his clandestine departure. So, he resigned himself. He would go. Past his garden, where dew still clung to the orchid petals, and through the secondary gate reserved for servants and deliveries, he stepped into the narrow alleyway. The air was cool and damp, carrying the faint scent of charcoal smoke and distant cooking fires. He waited for his discreet palanquin, its bearers already stirring from their brief rest. His gaze drifted across the alley. Against the weathered wall of the neighboring estate, recently occupied by a family of northern merchants, a solitary war-horse stood tethered. Its coat was the color of bruised plums, its mane unbraided, flowing wildly. It was not the well-groomed, placid mount of a scholar or a court official. It was a beast of raw power, restless even in its sleep, its tether frayed but holding firm. Last year, the previous residents, a quiet family of herbalists, had departed without a trace. This new household, ostentatious and loud in their comings and goings, remained an enigma. He had never encountered them directly, a common occurrence in a district defined by its high walls and secluded courtyards. Judging by the horse, untamed and left carelessly exposed, they likely possessed a son or daughter of bold, perhaps even reckless, spirit. That creature, wild and magnificent, yet bound by a single rope, reminded him, with a sudden, painful jolt, of himself. He stared briefly, a tremor passing through his hands, before averting his eyes and slipping into the waiting palanquin. During the silent journey, his gaze remained fixed on the passing scenery, the fleeting glimpses of sleeping stalls and shadowed lanes. The rhythmic sway of the palanquin, usually a soothing motion, only exacerbated the knot of unease in his gut. He was prone to a subtle disquiet during travel, a physical manifestation of his internal turmoil. Eventually, he closed his eyes, pressing his lips into a thin line. His stomach, for reasons that eluded the physicians he had discreetly consulted, had resisted proper nourishment for the better part of a year. A quiet sigh escaped him. He attempted to ease the tightness lodged deep in his chest. His habit was to ignore emotions that unsettled the meticulous balance of his mind, and with strenuous effort, he had managed to maintain a perfectly composed façade through many seasons. Just as he did now, stepping out of the palanquin, its silken ropes sighing, and walking with measured steps toward the discreet entrance of the Azure Willow Pavilion. Inside the Pavilion’s quiet antechamber, the scent of aged wood and stale incense hung heavy. He bit his lip, tasting the faint salt of his own blood, and clenched his fist, the delicate tendons straining beneath his skin, before slowly releasing it. His fingers tightened around the small, folded piece of paper he clutched. Its surface, coarse beneath his thumb, bore a single, elegant numeral: ‘Seven’. He located the door marked with the corresponding calligraphy and approached it. He raised his hand, his knuckles brushing the lacquered wood, and knocked three times, precisely, with an almost imperceptible hesitation. “Lord Xuan Fei. Unlatch this door, now.” Silence answered him, thick and oppressive, from the other side. A cold irritation pricked at him. He stared at the unyielding barrier for a moment before exhaling sharply, a soft puff of warm air clouding the cool stillness. He pounded on the door again, this time with a force that surprised even himself, the sound echoing through the hushed corridor. “I said, cease this insolence and present yourself!” This situation—honestly, it filled him with a profound revulsion. The mere imagining of what might have transpired within this room overnight made his skin crawl, yet he could not halt his hand. Lord Xuan Fei had summoned him, and he endured this repulsive scene because Xuan Fei was the one who had first infected him with that insidious, unnamed ‘illness’ that gnawed at his peace. “Why, by the Heavenly Mandate, do you drag me from my estate for some base dalliance, you worthless wastrel?” By the ancestors, this was unbearable. A scholar’s life, at eighteen winters.

The Crimson Summons