Chapter Text
The prince loved the wind beneath his horse’s hooves.
Whenever the guards allowed, Jiang Xiaoshuai would ride through the narrow mountain paths, his crimson cheongsam trailing behind him like fire, a mantle of black fur brushing against the saddle.
His hair flew in the cold breeze, his laughter echoing across the ridges. In those fleeting moments, he looked like he belonged not to stone walls and iron locks but to the open world—the plains, the forests, the endless sky.
His smile, bright and boyish, always appeared most freely when he was on horseback.
To him, the horse was not just a companion but his only escape.
He was the son of the King, heir to the Jiang line, ruler of a small kingdom in the north. The land was modest, but rich in fields and rivers. Its people were known throughout the region for their unmatched horsemanship, their deadly accuracy with the bow, and their sharp minds for strategy.
For centuries, the Jiang clan had fought for independence, resisting invasions and refusing to bend the knee to any empire.
But power brought envy.
Many foreign rulers longed to claim Jiang’s prosperity. Armies had been sent against them, and when swords failed, subtler methods followed.
Envoys came bearing not only treaties but temptations: women with beauty beyond compare, young men with charming smiles, all meant to weaken the Jiang clan from within.
Yet the Jiang family had always endured.
Until this generation.
The shamans had spoken years ago: The heir born to the Jiang would bring destruction upon the clan.
The prophecy lingered over the kingdom like a shadow, and so, from the day of his birth, Xiaoshuai had been treated as a curse.
The Queen, his mother, had refused to listen. She carried him to term despite the warnings. Her love for him was fierce, but her life ended the moment his began. The King, broken by grief, turned his sorrow into blame. He never once looked upon his son. To him, Xiaoshuai was not an heir, but the thief who had stolen the woman he loved most.
Thus, Xiaoshuai grew up in isolation.
His chamber was high in the mountains, far from the capital. Stone walls surrounded him, guards stood at the gates, and he was never permitted to step beyond the fortress except for brief, guarded rides. Tutors came to him, servants tended to him, and books filled his shelves. Yet he lived more like a prisoner than a prince.
Still, Xiaoshuai chose to smile. The servants whispered about him when they thought he could not hear—ill-fated, cursed, dangerous. Yet he thanked them for meals, helped them carry water, and shared laughter when he could. They pitied him, though most dared not admit it.
Only when he was riding did he feel alive.
This morning was no different.
“Your Highness, the horse is ready,” said old Liu, the stable master, bowing low as he held the reins of the tall brown steed.
Xiaoshuai’s eyes lit up. “Good. I was beginning to think you would keep her from me again.”
The old man chuckled nervously. “I should, Your Highness. The mountain paths are icy today. If you slipped—”
“If I slipped, I would laugh as I fell,” Xiaoshuai interrupted, his grin wide as he patted the horse’s neck. “Do not worry, Liu-shu. She knows the path better than I do.”
Liu sighed, shaking his head, but there was affection in his gaze. “At least wear thicker gloves. The wind will freeze your hands.”
“I’ll wave them in the air to keep them warm,” Xiaoshuai said with mock seriousness, then laughed at the man’s frown.
A few servants watched nearby, whispering among themselves. Some muttered about the prophecy, others about how the prince looked too bright, too alive, for one so cursed. Xiaoshuai ignored them. He swung into the saddle with ease and urged the horse forward.
The wind met him immediately, sharp and cold, but he welcomed it. His laughter rang down the slope as the horse galloped along the narrow trail, hooves striking stone and dirt. For a short while, he was not the cursed heir locked away in a mountain fortress—he was simply a young man, free and unburdened.
“Faster!” he cried, leaning forward, and the horse surged ahead. The fur mantle fluttered behind him like wings.
By the time he returned, his cheeks were red from the cold, his hair disheveled, his eyes shining. He dismounted lightly, handing the reins back to Liu.
“How was it, Your Highness?” Liu asked.
“Perfect,” Xiaoshuai said, beaming. “I swear, Liu-shu, the wind itself carries me when I ride. Do you know what freedom feels like? Like this.” He spread his arms wide, laughing again.
A younger servant, little Ming, dared to speak up. “Your Highness always looks so happy when you ride. Like you belong to the sky.”
Xiaoshuai crouched down suddenly, bringing himself eye-level with the boy. “And you, Ming? Do you want to ride with me someday?”
The boy’s eyes widened. “Me? I—I’m not allowed—”
“Allowed,” Xiaoshuai repeated, grinning. “When has the sky ever asked permission to be the sky? Someday, I’ll sneak you on the horse with me. We’ll scare Liu-shu half to death.”
Ming giggled nervously while Liu groaned, muttering, “Heaven spare me.”
Xiaoshuai laughed, clapping the boy on the shoulder before standing. He stretched his arms high. “Ah, the breeze still lingers in my clothes. If I close my eyes, I can almost imagine I’m still flying down the trail.”
By afternoon, he returned to his chamber. The servants brought his meal and laid it out carefully: warm rice, vegetables, a bit of meat.
“Eat while it is hot, Your Highness,” one of the maids said timidly.
“I will,” Xiaoshuai replied with a smile. He looked at the dishes and then at her. “But only if you sit with me and tell me what gossip you’ve heard from the kitchens.”
The maid gasped. “Your Highness, I—”
“Do you think I don’t know?” Xiaoshuai interrupted with mock sternness. “All the best stories begin in the kitchen. Come, sit.”
She shook her head furiously and retreated, nearly tripping over herself. Xiaoshuai laughed softly to himself and ate alone.
When the servants left, silence filled the chamber again. Books lined the walls, scrolls lay stacked on tables, but none of it could ease the weight of solitude.
That night, the moon rose bright and cold, casting silver light across the floor. Xiaoshuai stood at the window, hand raised toward it. His smile softened, dimmed with something like longing.
“How I wish someone would take me away from here,” he whispered at last.
The walls had ears. He rarely dared to speak such thoughts. But tonight, he entrusted them to the moon.
The prophecy declared him a curse. His people hated him. His father despised him. And yet, he dreamed of freedom. He dreamed of a world beyond the mountains, where someone might look at him not as a curse—but simply as Shuai.
Far away, in the grand palace of the Jiang Kingdom, the King sat upon his throne. The court was restless. Ministers argued, generals shouted, and the air was thick with tension.
The neighboring empire had massed soldiers along the border. An invasion was no longer a rumor but a certainty.
“Your Majesty,” one minister said urgently, bowing low, “the envoys have spoken plainly. They will withdraw their armies if we agree to send the prince as a hostage. They want him in their capital.
They claim it is to secure peace.”
Murmurs rippled through the hall. Everyone knew what that meant. The cursed heir, the child of prophecy, was seen as expendable. If giving him up meant saving the kingdom, many thought it a fair trade.
The King’s hand clenched on the armrest of his throne. His face was hard, his eyes colder than the steel of a blade.
“My son?” His voice was low but carried across the chamber. “They ask for my son?”
“Your Majesty,” another official pressed, “the boy is… ill-omened. You know what the shamans said. If his fate is to bring ruin, why not let him serve the kingdom one use—”
“Enough!” the King thundered, rising to his feet.
The hall fell silent at once.
“I will not hand my blood to wolves. Cursed or not, he is Jiang by birth. He is my son. If this court dares suggest again that I barter him like coin, then perhaps you are the curse upon my kingdom, not he.”
The ministers bowed their heads, none daring to speak further. The King’s shoulders trembled, but his expression did not soften.
He despised the boy, resented him with every breath—but to give him away, to deliver him to foreign hands as a bargaining chip? That, the King could not do.
And so, even as war loomed on the horizon, the cursed prince remained in his mountain chamber, unaware that the storm gathering beyond his walls would soon reach him.
Unaware that his fate was about to begin.