Anne's father, Minister Xie, stood at the pinnacle of power in the empire.
As the Prime Minister (Seungji / Zǎixiàng), he commanded the empire's courts, controlled its wealth, and whispered into the ears of kings.
His influence was so vast that even the Emperor, aloof and proud, needed him more than he wished to admit.
Anne, his only daughter, had lived a life sheltered from the harshness of the world yet not isolated from its expectations.
From a young age, she had been known more for her intelligence and manners than for her looks.
With plain features and a quiet demeanor, she had often faded into the background among the glittering court maidens.
Soft whispers had once circled the noble halls:
"Minister Xie's daughter? Clever, surely... but she will never be a court beauty."
Anne, however, had never craved their approval.
She found her world in colors — in delicate strokes of brush against silk, painting scenes so vivid that viewers could feel the winds she imagined.
She captured the ache of distant mountains, the warmth of forgotten summers.
Her paintings became famous, collected even in royal circles, though few realized the true artist was a young woman hidden away in a minister's estate.
Fewer still knew of her secret voice —
A voice that could weave sorrow into song, sweet and ethereal, heard only by the walls of her private gardens and the few she trusted most.
And then, time — or perhaps destiny — wove its magic.
At nineteen, Anne underwent a transformation that stunned the capital.
As if overnight, the plain girl blossomed into breathtaking beauty.
Her once-awkward figure grew elegant, her features sharpened into a soft, irresistible charm.
But it was her eyes — deep, shimmering with both melancholy and resilience — that truly captivated those who looked her way.
It was not merely a beauty of face, but the grace of a soul tempered by lifetimes.
Suddenly, she was no longer just the brilliant daughter of Minister Xie.
She was a star, quietly rising — a hidden jewel the empire's most powerful families now sought to claim.
But Anne's heart remained untouched.
She still wandered the gardens alone, still painted the restless dreams only she could see.
She still sang to herself under the flowering trees, longing for something unnamed — something missing.
And somewhere beyond the palace walls, a man watched her.
A man who had crossed death and destiny to find her again.
The Third Prince — Liam — had once resigned himself to life without love.
But when Anne appeared before him, radiant in the sunlight of her nineteenth year, laughing quietly at some jest, he felt hope stirring in a heart long abandoned to duty.
Their threads, once severed by tragedy, were winding closer again — trembling in the silent spaces between heartbeats.
The court may have seen only a beautiful, eligible daughter.
But Liam saw something else:
The soul he had loved through lifetimes.
And he vowed, this time, he would not let her slip away.
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End of the 8th chapter
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