The grand hallways of the palace felt heavier than usual that evening. Ming moved through them quietly, balancing a tray of tea and delicate snacks for the prince. He had been summoned unexpectedly, and though he tried to keep his expression neutral, his heart raced. Ever since their shared moment in the gardens beneath the magnolia tree, Ming had felt the prince's gaze linger on him more often, his words softer, more personal.
When he arrived at the prince's private study, the guards stepped aside without a word. Ming pushed open the door and entered.
Xu Zhen sat at the low lacquered table, his figure bathed in the golden light of countless candles. The opulence of the room—silken curtains, jade vases, and scrolls written in exquisite calligraphy—seemed to pale next to the prince himself. Yet, his posture was far from regal. Shoulders hunched, head bowed, Zhen was a picture of quiet despair.
"Your Highness," Ming said softly, setting the tray down.
Zhen didn't respond immediately. He remained still, his fingers tracing the rim of a porcelain cup. The silence stretched, heavy and oppressive, until finally, Zhen spoke.
"Do you know what it means to bear the weight of an entire kingdom, Ming?"
The question startled Ming, but he remained composed. "I can only imagine, Your Highness."
Zhen let out a bitter laugh, one that sent shivers down Ming's spine. "You cannot imagine it. No one can. The court sees me as a symbol, an unyielding figure destined to rule. But inside, I am just a man. A man who cannot choose his own path, who is shackled by duty and tradition."
Ming hesitated, unsure how to respond. He had always viewed the prince as untouchable, a figure of authority and grace. Yet now, Zhen seemed fragile, his words tinged with a vulnerability that Ming had never seen before.
"Even a prince deserves to feel free," Ming said quietly, his voice steady despite the rapid beating of his heart.
Zhen's eyes lifted to meet Ming's, and for a moment, the air between them felt charged with something unspoken. "Do you believe that, Ming? Do you truly believe freedom is possible for someone like me?"
Ming stepped closer, emboldened by the raw emotion in Zhen's gaze. "Freedom may be different for everyone, Your Highness. For some, it's the ability to choose their path. For others, it's finding peace in the life they have."
Zhen studied him, his expression unreadable. Then, with a sigh, he gestured for Ming to sit.
"Come. Sit with me."
Ming hesitated, glancing at the door. "Your Highness, I don't think—"
"I command you," Zhen interrupted, though his tone was gentle.
Reluctantly, Ming lowered himself onto the cushion opposite the prince. The table between them felt like a fragile barrier, one that could shatter with a single touch.
Zhen poured tea for both of them, his movements slow and deliberate. For a moment, Ming was captivated by the grace in every gesture, the way the prince's hands moved with such precision.
"I envy you, Ming," Zhen said suddenly, his voice breaking the silence.
Ming blinked, startled. "Envy me, Your Highness? But I am only a servant."
"And yet you are free in ways I will never be," Zhen replied, his eyes dark with emotion. "You do not have to wear masks, to hide who you are behind layers of duty. You are free to feel, to speak your heart, without the weight of an empire pressing down on your soul."
Ming lowered his gaze, unsure how to respond. He had never thought of his life as anything but small and insignificant, yet Zhen's words made him question everything he had ever believed.
"I may not bear the weight of an empire," Ming said softly, "but I know what it means to be bound by circumstances. To feel as though your life is not your own."
Zhen's lips curved into a faint smile, though it was tinged with sadness. "You are wiser than I gave you credit for, Ming."
They sat in silence for a while, the only sound the soft clink of porcelain as they sipped their tea. Ming felt the tension in the room ease slightly, though the weight of Zhen's words still lingered.
"Do you ever wish for something more?" Zhen asked suddenly, his voice barely above a whisper.
Ming looked up, meeting the prince's gaze. "More, Your Highness?"
"More than this life. More than what you have been given. Do you dream of something beyond these palace walls?"
Ming hesitated, his heart aching at the longing in Zhen's voice. "I used to, Your Highness. But dreams are dangerous for someone like me. They only lead to disappointment."
Zhen leaned forward, his eyes searching Ming's. "Perhaps it is better to dream and be disappointed than to never dream at all."
Ming's breath hitched at the intensity in Zhen's gaze. The prince's vulnerability was laid bare before him, and for the first time, Ming saw not the crown prince of the Tang Dynasty, but a man—flawed, lonely, and yearning for something more.
"I do dream sometimes," Ming admitted, his voice barely audible. "Of a life where I am not bound by rules or expectations. Where I can simply be."
Zhen reached across the table, his hand brushing against Ming's. The touch was fleeting but electric, sending a jolt through Ming's entire being.
"Hold onto that dream, Ming," Zhen said, his voice firm yet gentle. "Because in this world, it may be the only thing that keeps you alive."
Ming swallowed hard, his chest tightening with emotions he couldn't name. He wanted to say something, to offer comfort to the man before him, but the words wouldn't come.
Before he could gather his thoughts, Zhen withdrew his hand and leaned back, the mask of the crown prince slipping back into place.
"You should go," Zhen said, his tone neutral once more.
Ming nodded, rising to his feet. "Goodnight, Your Highness."
As he turned to leave, Zhen's voice stopped him.
"Ming."
Ming paused, looking back.
"Thank you."
The simple words were enough to make Ming's heart ache. He bowed deeply before stepping out of the room, the door closing softly behind him.
Walking back to his quarters, Ming couldn't shake the feeling that the fragile connection between them had deepened. And though he knew the dangers of dreaming, he couldn't help but hope—for something more, for something impossible.
In the quiet of the night, the prince and the servant, separated by rank but united by longing, each held onto their dreams, unaware of the tragedy that fate had already set in motion.