Mingjiang,
It has been months since I've written to you, but I assure you, I have been well at the war front. They would pound their drums at the capital to mourn me if I were dead, would they not? I know you'll be wrinkling your eyebrows at this sign of arrogance, but you and I know it is true. You have nothing to worry about, I read each word of your letters that arrive in my hands, and there have been many. Ming-er, you should stop worrying; we have grown up together, you know I will be cautious with my life for your and my family's sake.
The military has been receiving minimal losses, we've lost most of our soldiers to the cold rather than the enemy. I'm afraid if we were to come home with half the people we went to war with, it would be because we buried some of our brothers in their frostbitten sleep. The command posts aren't doing well either, as our supplies are dwindling in the snow. I too, cannot feel my fingers and have to massage the feeling back into them every few hours, lest they fall off from the chill.
Judging from your letters, you seem to be doing well in the capital. I know Qixing is doing well, she's running her family's business as I expected she would be. Remember to wear an extra layer, Mingjiang, it's colder than you think outside.
As for the crowned prince, his interest in getting closer to you may be both a conflict or an advantage, depending on what kind of interest it is, although, whatever it is, I advise you to be cautious around the crowned prince. Do not think for one second that you may be even slightly casual with his highness. Although the royal family appears benevolent, they are still royalty, and require to be treated as such.
I expect to come home in a few months, so you can tell me all the details you've omitted from your letters. In the meantime, consulting Qixing about the subject would be best, or perhaps you could stop by my family's ancestral home to chat with my eldest brother, as he knows the crowned prince well. My brother quite likes you, so I'm sure he'll be willing to listen to your problems.
How is your research coming along? You continue to worry me with your interest in subjects that may endanger you further. Just because you are a valued palace scholar does not mean you have any immunity to the emperor's hand, Mingjiang. Be aware of who you share your findings with, for I cannot protect you from out here on the war front. If you must talk about it, share it with Qixing somewhere private.
Happy lunar new year, Mingjiang.
Huimo.
General of the 2nd company
Strategist of the Zhu military
The snow on the courtyard was bloodied again. Early in the morning, Mingjiang had turned over in his bed to the screams of a maidservant echoing in the courtyard, in rhythm with the unrelenting, slick slap of a leather whip against bare skin. By the time he'd left his quarters, the maidservant was gone, presumably dragged away, leaving a trail of blood and skin tissue behind. A grotesque reminder of the power imbalance between the servants and their masters.
Mingjiang slipped delicately into the library of the palace, the hem of his thick winter cape tugging on the splintered wood of the entrance. As usual, he was one of the first scholars to arrive at the library for study before the emperor summoned them for morning assembly.
It would be a special session today. After New Year celebrations had passed and the gunpowder swept off the cobbled roads, dotted with red paper, all those who'd taken the Imperial Exams and had passed would be gathered in the palace to greet the emperor. Only half of them would stay, and the rest would return to their families, hoping to find work in local government. There would be drinks and food displayed, but no one was allowed to eat, as it was only for the gods that would witness the event from the heavens above.
From his sleeve, Mingjiang retrieved yesterday's scrolling piece of parchment, flattening it over the stained wooden table in the most secluded corner of the library. His flippant, dismissive script squeezed itself together on the paper, the edges of some characters slightly smeared from Mingjiang's careless hand. But it didn't matter, as long as he could read the words scribbled next to each other. He'd painstakingly combed through the library's vast collection of military accounts, taking notes and recording them in the most succinct way to supplement Wen Huimo's instinctive knowledge of the battlefield.
Wen Huimo might have been the Yang empire's youngest general produced, but he was just that, young. Huimo was confident in his prowess in besting his opponents, but it wasn't him, per se, that Zhao Mingjiang studied military strategy for; no, Mingjiang was purely worried that the soldiers under his command would be trouble to command for someone like Huimo, who had never needed extensive study into combat or military strategy to master it. If the normal soldiers with normal battle intuitions could not read Wen Huimo's mind- who could? Qixing often claimed that it was exactly the fact Mingjiang could that had led Wen Huimo to his expectations for how well others could predict him, all of which were unattainable unless the person was Mingjiang, who was at least a few moons away on horseback.
Since it would be months before Mingjiang had any hope of seeing Wen Huimo, he settled with sending advice on the formation of the remaining winter troops to better resist the drawn-out, unrelenting trench wars of the even colder Northern borders. However, Huimo promised a victory; Mingjiang had never had any reason to doubt him.
In the corner, Zhao Mingjiang was lost to the slowly rising winter sun peeking from the window, deep in the study of his newest stack of military accounts from the Second Warring Feud between Yang and Qing.
"Mingjiang-gongzi."
He jumped. Mingjiang looked up, the black ink smearing over the side of his palm. The crowned prince, in the flesh, adorned in a deep, rich blue, embroider with flying cranes, each one hand-stitched without flaw.
Mingjiang dropped his brush, ink splattering over the fresh parchment, and took to his knee, nose bumping against the cold floor, "This subordinate greets His Highness, may His Highness live a thousand years."
"You may rise," came his amused voice. Mingjiang rose at command, but he didn't raise his head to meet his eye.
Zhu Xiyan, the crowned prince. A boy that grew to be just as power-hungry as the Emperor had been before his rise to the throne. His methods were ruthless, his tongue incredibly sharp. It was rumored that he was skilled in every art, despite his combat-heavy childhood, and that he was as beautiful as he was vicious.
Mingjiang, admittedly, had no understanding of aesthetic beauty, but even he understood that the crowned prince was a striking figure, as domineering as his father, the emperor, but with all the tears and flaws of youth.
"What do you require of this servant, Your Highness?" Mingjiang asked, staring at the dark grey floors with great interest. He heard the prince chuckle, insincere.
"I came to see you, actually. Not much else," he says.
"This subordinate is honored," Mingjiang replied, fighting the urge to lunge over the table as the crowned prince's eyes flitted over to the parchment on the table, now ruined. He watched as Crowned Prince Zhu Xiyan pressed the pads of his fingers to the long dry ink of the page Mingjiang had brought with him, studying the words.
Crowned Prince Zhu Xiyan hummed, "I heard you were friends with General Wen. I wasn't aware he had friends outside of the very few in our year." He walked back towards Mingjiang half-circling him like a snake looking to eat a hearty meal.
"To answer Your Highness, this subordinate is a year younger than General Wen, and naturally would not be part of Your Highness' circle."
"Oh? You're very young for a palace scholar," Zhu Xiyan hummed.
"Thank you, Your Highness," Mingjiang replied, praying that it was approval, or at the very least, neutrality, instead of maliciousness.
Crowned Prince Zhu Xiyan had visited several times over the course of the last few months, the last before Mingjiang was granted his leave for New Year. The Crowned Prince invited him to sit with him in his office, drinking warm rice wine until it was late. In truth, Zhao Mingjiang was a lightweight, so the conversation of that night had been lost on him, pounded away by the raging headache when he woke up in his bed the next morning. Considering that he hadn't been dragged to the courtyard and flayed alive, Mingjiang considered that night successful, not because he gained something, but because he'd somehow avoided ire, even when drunk.
The Crowned Prince stepped over the pooling ink on the floor. All Mingjiang could think of was how much of his salary would have to go towards a new supply of ink. And that the Crowned Prince was getting too close- if Mingjiang lost strength in his knees, he would probably land on the prince's chest, and then he would be dead.
"I came to ask," the prince reached for Mingjiang, and tilted his chin up, allowing their eyes to meet. His eyes were an adjacency to Wen Huimo, whose eyes were often compared to a tiger's, prowling the battlegrounds, predatory and merciless. The Crowned Prince however, was more a coiled boa constrictor, patient, clever. "if you would do something for me." As if he was waiting for the moment to pounce.
Mingjiang made a mental note to mention this encounter to Huimo, "This subordinate will try my best."
The Crowned Prince smiled, light, airy, amused, "The flooding on the seaside is getting worse with every hour. I expect a report on the most effective ways to stop the flooding in two days time. You can do that, can't you?"
Mingjiang figured it would be a good time to bow and thank the Crowned Prince for giving him this opportunity to prove himself to His Highness, but his chin was still tilted up, turned to look straight into the Crowned Prince's eyes, "This subordinate will bring the reports in two days time."
Crowned Prince Zhu Xiyan smiled, but Mingjiang did not see any sincerity. The Prince smiled at him like often, but Mingjiang could tell it was an act. Did the Crowned Prince hate him? He wasn't sure, but he was leaning towards no; perhaps he saw the young scholars more as playthings- pulling together an accurate record of flood prevention and control was not an insane task, although tiring. If Mingjiang was truly hated, perhaps the Crowned Prince would ask him to solve the problem of the drug trade in the southwestern states, without letting him go southwest.
"I will depend on you," said the Crowned Prince, dropping his hand. Mingjiang wished he wouldn't.