Target of the Heart

The sky had begun to slip into the amber hues of late afternoon, the sun softening behind drifting clouds. It had been hours since the second trial, and yet Qin Fuhua was still nowhere to be found.

Not even Weizhe—who was never far from the Prince—had appeared.

The longer Suyin waited, the more unease began to creep beneath her calm exterior like ivy climbing up the walls of her composure. Where were they? What could possibly be more important than today?

Unable to sit with her thoughts any longer, Suyin quietly slipped away from the ceremonial grounds and wandered through the long, winding halls of the inner palace. Her light steps echoed softly against polished tiles, her gaze flicking down each corridor, hoping for a glimpse of Weizhe's figure or Qin Fuhua's familiar stride.

But there was nothing.

Just silence.

That was, until she passed near the old Palace study room, tucked behind a carved cedar screen. The doors were slightly ajar—just enough for whispers to spill out like smoke from a brazier.

She paused, catching the low hum of conversation.

At first, she thought it might've been a teacher or attendant lingering in discussion, but then she caught the unmistakable tone of the voice inside—a voice with the edge of something too familiar, and too intimate to be part of any lesson.

"If you win this, that means you won't be with me."

A man's voice. Playful, coaxing. Beneath the teasing lilt, there was something sharper—a veiled warning wrapped in silk.

Suyin's breath caught, and she instinctively stepped back—but the pull of the moment kept her rooted. She wasn't one to eavesdrop, but something in her chest said this was not just a private conversation. This was a turning point.

"Think about it. You were trying to get him to give you the real jade of the dragon for a while, but you still failed."

A woman's voice responded, relaxed, even amused—but beneath it was disappointment. Familiarity. Power.

The jade of the dragon.

Suyin's blood ran cold. That was an imperial artifact given by the previous King to Qin Fuhua only. It was said that only those who were chosen by Qin Fuhua could carry the jade of the dragon; otherwise, the Gods would be angered and storms would come to them.

Who were these people?

She pressed her fingers lightly against the wooden wall, staying quiet, barely breathing.

"If you come and stay with me tonight like the other times, it will wear off this uneasiness," the man said again, almost mockingly.

Suyin's mind whirled. The way he said like the other times—as if this was not the first. Was this a lover's exchange? A conspiracy?

"I would have," the woman replied, her voice now laced with teasing irony,

"If you had just gotten the right item. Otherwise, I would have married you instead."

Her laugh was low and cool, like a blade sheathed in velvet.

Suyin's heart was pounding.

She didn't recognize the man's voice yet—it had a slippery quality, not someone who paraded openly around the palace. But the woman… the woman's voice had a tone of command and calculation that she had heard only once before.

Zheng An.

Suyin's eyes widened as she stumbled back from the wall, the realization seizing her like a sudden wind.

So Zheng An was working with someone—someone close enough to tempt her with power, with intimacy, with another path altogether.

Suyin froze.

The words still echoed in her mind—fragments of power, desire, betrayal—but now all she could hear was the sound of her heartbeat pounding like a drum inside her chest.

Zheng An.

She was sure of it now. That voice, that teasing cadence wrapped in silk and shadow—it belonged to her.

But the man?

Who was he?

He spoke of the jade of the dragon with such boldness, such entitlement, as if it were a mere trinket he could snatch if he only tried harder.

Whoever he was, he wasn't Qin Fuhua. That much, Suyin knew with certainty. Fuhua would never speak in such a way, would never barter her like a game piece, or desire the jade for anything other than the duty it demanded.

Still, curiosity gnawed at her.

Just one look—just enough to see his face. Then she would know.

She inched forward, quiet as falling snow, leaning toward the thin gap in the wooden screen.

But then—

Silence.

The voices stopped mid-sentence. The stillness on the other side of the wall was sudden, sharp.

Then a voice rang out—sharp and alert:

"Who's there?!"

Before Suyin could move, the door swung open with a thundering crack, revealing the man inside. His eyes scanned the corridor—piercing, suspicious—but saw only the wind brushing through the courtyard and a small bird hopping along the stone path. It chirped innocently and fluttered away.

No one was there.

At least, not visibly.

Beneath the wooden platform edging the study's outer wall—hidden in the shadow of the courtyard's carved beams—Qin Fuhua crouched in silence, one arm wrapped securely around Suyin, holding her close beneath the eaves.

His other hand hovered near the hilt of his blade, just in case.

They didn't speak. They didn't breathe.

His body was tense, his gaze tracking the man's every move through the narrow cracks of the flooring above. When he was certain the man had turned back inside, he slowly released Suyin, the heat of his palm lingering where it had shielded her.

He met her eyes, dark and unreadable.

Only now did she realize—he had been there the whole time.

Watching.

Listening.

Protecting.

Only then did they walk far from the scene, away from the others, as the two were away from everyone.

"Q-Qin Fuhua," she uttered, her voice barely more than a breath of wind.

He stood before her, real and steady, as if time had folded and brought him back into her orbit. It had been days—days since she last saw him, days spent wondering where he had gone, why he hadn't appeared when everything began. But here he was now, as if he had never truly left.

Her eyes flickered with disbelief.

How did he know she was there?

Qin Fuhua's gaze remained calm, unwavering.

"If I hadn't come fast enough, you would have been figured out," he said, his voice smooth but edged with warning.

And he was right.

She could have run—but it would've been too late. The man inside that room would have caught her before her foot ever touched the next step. She gave a quiet nod, her shoulders dipping in reluctant admission.

"Yes… but I didn't mean to eavesdrop," Suyin murmured, trying to defend herself. Her voice was soft, laced with conflict. It wasn't just curiosity. It was instinct. It was dread.

There was something wrong with Zheng An—and the man she was speaking to.

His voice still echoed in her memory, and though she couldn't name it yet, there was a familiarity to it. A thread she couldn't yet untangle.

She paused, caught in the haze of her thoughts, before looking up again.

Qin Fuhua's eyes were already on her—watching with a gaze that felt impossibly tender, threaded with something that made her breath catch. Affection. Longing. A quiet joy in simply seeing her again.

"It's been a couple of days," he said softly.

Suyin looked around instinctively, ensuring no one else was near, before offering a small nod. The weight of their distance hung between them like fog, but in this moment, she felt it lifting.

His hand reached out—not hurriedly, but with calm curiosity—as he touched the delicate lily hairpin nestled in her hair. His fingertips brushed against it gently.

"To say that my woman chose to go simple instead of all out with her outfit… is exactly what I expected of her," he said.

To another, the words might have sounded mocking. But to Suyin, they were a quiet affirmation. Qin Fuhua always saw through the performances—always understood the person beyond the pretense.

He leaned in, a playful gleam dancing in his eye.

"I was quite jealous of the beautiful voice that captivated everyone," he murmured.

"It's unfortunate you never told me you had a beautiful voice."

Suyin's eyes widened, her heart skipping. Was he there? She had searched for him in the crowd—he hadn't been in his seat during either ceremony. How could he have known?

Qin Fuhua chuckled softly, his voice like a low breeze through autumn leaves.

"I've been watching you since the beginning," he admitted, amusement glinting behind his calm expression.

"I didn't show myself because I've been investigating what you happened to eavesdrop on."

Suyin looked up at him again, her eyes sharp now, catching the shift beneath his smile.

"So you knew she had her own plans," she said quietly.

Qin Fuhua nodded, his expression turning grave.

"I've been looking into it for some time," he said.

"It didn't make sense. Why would the Zheng Clan push for their daughter to marry the Prince of Qin rather than the Crown Prince? Why now? What are they after?" Suyin uttered to herself, but mainly to allow Qin Fuhua to hear her thoughts too.

He took a step closer, close enough that only she could hear.

"I'll be watching. From the shadows, if I must. But I'll be near."

And then—before she could respond—he leaned in and pressed a small kiss to her cheek. It was light, brief, but warm enough to make her heart stutter.

A promise. A blessing. A quiet rebellion in the midst of tradition.

His lips brushed just beneath her cheekbone, and she froze—caught not in fear, but in surprise. Her eyes flicked up to him, wide.

"For my woman," he said with a half-smile, the corners of his mouth curved with boyish charm and quiet pride.

"A good luck to her."

And just like that, he vanished, disappearing into the folds of the palace like mist drawn away by the wind.

But the warmth of his presence remained—lingering on her skin, nestled in her chest like a fire newly kindled.

-------------------------

The sun had dipped toward the horizon, casting long golden shadows across the ceremonial grounds. The sky was painted in amber and rose, a prelude to dusk, as court attendants ushered guests back into place and court musicians played a soft interlude.

The murmurs grew quiet once more as the official stepped forward, unrolling the final scroll.

His voice rang out clear and solemn:

"As tradition states, the final trial of the Zhengqing Dazheng shall be chosen by the challenger herself—Lady Zheng An of the Zheng Clan."

All eyes turned.

Zheng An stepped gracefully into the center of the platform, her silhouette bathed in the last light of the day. Her scarlet robes trailed behind her like a whisper of fire, her lips curved with composure. But beneath that calm veneer, a sharpness gleamed in her eyes—a calculation that had already drawn its bowstring tight.

She turned to the crowd and bowed with practiced elegance before facing the royal family.

"For the final test," she announced, her voice carrying like a string plucked on the wind,

"I have chosen a challenge that requires more than words or song. This is a test of precision, of strength, of discipline."

She paused—then raised her gaze directly to Suyin.

"I choose archery."

A ripple moved through the crowd. Even the ministers murmured in surprise. Archery was a test of warriors, of noble sons and trained daughters of generals—not of court ladies and consorts.

A small, knowing smile traced Zheng An's lips.

She knew exactly what she was doing.

Servants moved swiftly, carrying out a lacquered wooden rack lined with bows—each one polished, elegant, and deadly. Red-feathered arrows gleamed beneath silk canopies, and a row of circular straw targets had already been arranged down the stone pathway, each marked with a painted red center.

Suyin stood quietly, watching.

She had no bow. No practice. No archery lessons in her past. Her hands had learned to mix medicine, not pull string and arrow.

But this was no longer about what she was trained for.

This was about what she would fight for.

From across the courtyard, Zheng An turned once more and addressed the Emperor and Empress with a formal bow.

"In the traditions of the Zheng Clan, archery represents not just war, but clarity. A straight shot is a straight heart. A steady hand reveals a steady soul."

Then she looked at Suyin—smiling, but the meaning behind it was anything but kind.

"If Lady Han Suyin is truly worthy to stand at the Prince's side, she will show it here."

A hush settled over the palace as both women approached the archery platform.

And somewhere in the shadows, Qin Fuhua watched with narrowed eyes—his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, his gaze fixed on the woman who had dared to challenge everything.

Not Zheng An.

But Han Suyin.

--------------------------------

The air grew taut as the court prepared for the final trial.

Attendants brought forth two bows—one carved from deep rosewood with gold inlay, the other plainer but no less sturdy. Red-feathered arrows were laid out in silken bundles, each perfectly fletched, their arrowheads glinting with polish.

From a distance, the circular targets stood like waiting eyes, silent and expectant.

Zheng An stepped forward first.

She chose the rosewood bow without hesitation—her fingers caressing its lacquered surface like an old companion. The way she nocked the arrow, the practiced confidence in her stance—every movement confirmed what the palace already whispered: she had been trained in archery since childhood, like all daughters of the Zheng Clan born of noble blood.

She drew back the string, her arms poised with elegance and power.

Thrum.

The arrow cut through the air, slicing wind and silence alike.

It struck the outer red ring of the target. Applause rippled gently through the audience, impressed by her precision. Zheng An didn't look at them.

Her eyes had already drifted to Suyin.

She bowed politely and stepped back. But as she returned to her position, a small motion passed between her and a servant dressed in the Zheng Clan's colors—a fleeting exchange, almost imperceptible.

But Qin Fuhua, watching from the shadows, saw it.

He narrowed his eyes.

The servant, carrying the second bow and a set of arrows intended for Suyin, moved with an oddly hurried gait. He approached with a courteous bow and held out the plain bow with both hands.

Suyin stepped forward.

Her heartbeat echoed in her ears. She had never held a bow in her life.

The string felt unfamiliar, the tension strange, as though the weapon itself knew she did not belong with it. She reached for one of the arrows.

And something was off.

It was subtle—but the arrow shaft felt too light. Too hollow.

She looked up for a moment, uncertain. The servant smiled—too quickly—and bowed away before she could speak.

Qin Fuhua stepped forward.

Silent as a shadow, he moved from the edges of the crowd. The court turned in surprise at the sudden movement from the Prince of Qin, dressed in darker robes, his expression unreadable. His presence alone caused even the officials to still.

He walked directly to Suyin, and without a word, took the arrow gently from her hand.

He inspected it once, then snapped the shaft in half.

It broke with a soft, hollow crack.

The court gasped.

Inside the arrow was nothing—a thin rod of fragile bamboo, not the weighted reed that would carry true flight.

Sabotage.

"This arrow is unbalanced," Qin Fuhua said, his voice sharp but controlled.

"If she had fired this, it would have veered off course no matter her aim."

All eyes turned to the Zheng servant, who immediately fell to his knees.

Zheng An's expression didn't shift, but her hands tightened around her sleeves.

"The servant must have made a mistake," she said calmly.

"Surely this was not intentional. We brought many arrows from the province—perhaps one was not prepared properly."

But her voice was too smooth.

Too rehearsed.

The Emperor frowned slightly but said nothing. The Empress's eyes lingered on the broken arrow with suspicion.

Qin Fuhua met Suyin's eyes for only a moment, then handed her a new arrow—this time from his own retinue, ones chosen by Weizhe personally.

"Use this," he said softly.

"Don't let her shake your aim."

Suyin nodded, steadying her breath.

Zheng An had tried to weaken her from the shadows. But now, the court had seen it.

The weight of the bow settled into Suyin's hands—solid, worn smooth in the places where fingers had long gripped, where calluses had been earned and countless arrows loosed. The wood was a deep, burnished black, streaked with threads of gold like lightning frozen in lacquer.

The leather grip bore the faintest imprint of his hand, and the bowstring hummed ever so slightly when she drew it back, like it recognized her touch.

Suyin's fingers trembled at first.

But then she closed her eyes.

And the world fell away.

There—within the quiet of her mind—the memory came to life.

It was dusk. The courtyard bathed in amber. A time when ceremony did not loom and war did not breathe down their necks. A fleeting moment, stolen between duty and silence.

Qin Fuhua had stood behind her then—his warmth steady at her back, the scent of orange blossoms clinging faintly to his robes, like early spring hidden in late winter.

His hands—larger, calloused, but incredibly gentle—moved over hers, adjusting her grip.

"You pull it straight here," his voice murmured beside her ear, low and careful.

"Let the string sit against your cheek. Elbow high. Breath steady."

Suyin had barely heard him then, too focused on the nearness of him, the quiet reverence with which he guided her. He didn't rush her.

He simply stood beside her, unwavering, his calm presence wrapping around her like an invisible shield.

"Take a deep breath," he had said, his voice almost a whisper now in her mind,

"and let the arrow aim for the red target."

Her eyes fluttered open.

The crowd was a blur. The court, the banners, even Zheng An—they all disappeared in the stillness she carried inside. All that remained was the target. A single red ring in the distance, pulsing like a heartbeat at the end of a tunnel.

Suyin raised the bow.

Her fingers curled confidently around the string. She inhaled deeply—the air was cooler now, as if twilight had paused just for her.

She stepped forward.

Took her stance.

And pulled.

The arrow drew back with a satisfying tension. Her body remembered the way. The memory of him guided every movement.

And then—

She released.

The arrow sliced through the air—silent, certain, swift.

A gasp rose from the crowd.

The arrow struck.

Dead center.

The red mark split open like a blossom.

Suyin slowly lowered the bow, her breath releasing with it. She didn't smile. She didn't turn to see the crowd. She simply stood there, steady as a mountain, a single echo of wind brushing past her cheek like a whispered "well done."

Qin Fuhua smiled, for the first time in front of everyone.

And Zheng An—for the first time—stood still, silent, and shaken.