In the shaded tranquillity of the Gu estate, nestled not far from the fishpond—where golden carp lazed about with the indolence of courtiers at a summer fête—and near the neatly trimmed hedges of the green garden, there lay, under the gentle boughs of a flowering peach tree, a figure most striking and serene. He was a young man of some noble bearing, dressed in a robe of black silk lined subtly with crimson, like the first blush of sunrise hidden beneath the folds of night.
This young gentleman—none other than Gu Yan Chen, second son of the venerable House of Gu—reposed in a sleep so deep and undisturbed, it might have been mistaken for a faint enchantment had he not breathed so quietly and regularly. A well-worn book, perhaps a volume on the Art of War or a poetic lament for fallen comrades, rested gently upon his chest. He slept, not from idleness, but from the exhaustion known only to those who have returned from the great theatres of war, where arrows sing and sabres dance.
Gu Yan Chen, trained from his tenderest years in the arts of swordplay and soldiering, had been dispatched—along with his brothers—to safeguard the frigid northern border. There, for ten bitter winters and their equally cruel summers, he stood sentinel against a cavalcade of perils: nomadic horsemen with eyes like ice; fire-eyed zealots bent on divine fury; and the ever-looming threat of encroaching kingdoms eager to test the limits of Gu steel.
Yet while Gu Yan Chen returned with honour intact and body unbroken, the same could not be said of all his kin. Of the proud sons of House Gu, three met their fate amidst the smoke and ruin of distant battlefields. Now, with only two heirs remaining, whispers stirred like dust through the drawing rooms and tea parlours of the city. There were those who muttered of decline; others, bolder still, suggested the family estates be transferred to a more "capable" branch. And there were yet some—discreet and calculating—who, with a glint in their eyes, imagined how the Gu holdings might look under their own stewardship.
Indeed, even the stones seemed to conspire against the house.
Whilst this tumult brewed in the hearts and tongues of men, Gu Yan Chen slept. He slept as though the world owed him this brief moment of peace—and perhaps it did.
Not far from the estate, however, the scene was less one of serenity and more of uproarious spectacle. Through the narrow alleys of the neighbouring market—past shouting hawkers and bemused fruit vendors—there darted a figure lean and light-footed. Cloaked and masked, the figure sprang over crates, darted through crowds, and scattered pigeons as though born to the art of mischief.
"Stop right there, you thief!" came the cry, shrill with indignation and breathless from the exertions of pursuit.
"As if, you morons!" came the impudent reply, in a voice that crackled with insolence and carried the raw rasp of someone not unfamiliar with alleyway brawls and long nights spent beneath borrowed roofs.
The chase intensified. Through the sprawl of the market they went—the thief, leaping with feline grace over carts and wrinkled old grandmothers, and behind him a troop of guards, more lumbering than agile, red in the face and panting with every step.
Cornered at last in an alley with no outlet, the thief made a decision most unorthodox: he leapt upwards, catching a ledge, hoisting himself, and scampering across the rooftops with such alacrity that one might think him part squirrel, part shadow.
"Why do they keep asking me to stop?" he mused aloud, perhaps to the rooftops or perhaps to fate itself. "Are they dim-witted?"
"Because it's an order of the City Watch!" one of the guards managed to cry in reply, seizing on the rare opportunity to answer back. "And you must comply—or you'll be thrown in jail!"
There was a brief, victorious murmur among his comrades at this rare moment of articulate defiance. But the thief only laughed, louder and longer.
"If I stop, you throw me in jail. If I run, you still throw me in jail. So where, exactly, is the incentive?"
On and on he ran, until the peach boughs of the Gu mansion loomed into view—graceful and pink as a maiden's blush. With a thief's instinct for the unlikely and a gambler's confidence in fortune, he darted over the wall and landed squarely in the garden.
There—much to his dismay—lay Gu Yan Chen, still beneath the peach tree, still asleep, still utterly handsome in that maddeningly composed way that only young lords and marble statues seem capable of.
The thief froze. It was but a moment—a hiccup in time—but a moment nonetheless. And in that moment, the guards saw him. They shouted. They scrambled for the gates.
Knowing his time was measured in heartbeats, the thief did what any desperate rogue might do—he strode toward the slumbering noble, fully intent on making him a hostage, a bargaining chip, a human coin to be traded for escape.
But Gu Yan Chen, war-born and unkind to intrusions even in his sleep, stirred. With a swift motion that belied his reclining posture, he struck out. The thief yelped as pain bloomed in his shin, losing his balance and tumbling directly atop the drowsy warrior. Their eyes met—one pair a piercing, war-hardened green with veins of grey; the other, wild, alert, and startled.
Something unspoken passed between them.
A flicker. A jolt. A spark.
Neither knew quite what to make of it—but both would remember.