The Four Allies: Palace Power Struggles

As the day of the secondary selection drew closer, anxiety grew thick in the air. Each of the young ladies harbored her own hopes and fears, all on edge.

Consort Virtue summoned Murong frequently, speaking with her in half-veiled hints. From her words, Murong began to gather a subtle thread: the Consort was hoping to match her with the Fourteenth Prince—whether as a primary or secondary consort, it didn't matter. Better to keep such a gem within the family, after all.

But it was obvious that others had noticed Murong's beauty, background, and the spreading rumors that she was "the most gifted Manchu woman in the capital." With such a title, other concubines were clearly eyeing her as a candidate for their own sons.

Even the Third Prince's mother, Lady Majiashi, had summoned Murong twice already. Consort Virtue, usually detached and above petty rivalry, now found herself uncharacteristically tense. She wasn't used to competing for a daughter-in-law.

And yet, who could say what the Emperor intended? He might choose to keep Murong for himself and bestow her a title. After all, Consort Virtue was no longer in the age or mood to compete over love. Still… what a shame it would be for such a radiant young girl to be lost in the harem. That thought, however, could never be spoken aloud.

Murong slowly pieced together these fragmented clues and considered her own uncertain fate. As she wandered into the imperial garden, she heard laughter and commotion—many of the young women were flying paper kites.

She approached the gathering, just in time to hear a sharp cry of pain. A girl had fallen. And standing beside her, lending a hand, was none other than the Fourteenth Prince.

Murong's eyes narrowed. The girl was Mingxian, now seated daintily on the flower bed, gazing up at the prince with a coy, bashful smile.

"Many thanks, Your Highness," she said sweetly, lowering her gaze in a practiced gesture of modesty.

Murong arched an eyebrow. Flirting, are we?

Just as she was about to turn away, the prince spotted her. Instantly, he abandoned Mingxian and ran toward her.

"Rong'er! I've been looking for you. Why aren't you playing with the others?"

Murong smiled lightly. "Consort Virtue asked for me earlier."

She glanced back at Mingxian, whose expression had twisted into something between envy and fury. Lingyun had already gone to check on her.

The Fourteenth Prince and Murong strolled through the garden. The spring sunlight sparkled on the leaves, warm and golden.

He suggested they walk a bit farther, and though Murong's mind was full of tangled thoughts, she agreed.

As they wandered among the trees and blossoms, two young men approached from the opposite path.

The prince stopped abruptly and forced a smile.

"Ninth Brother, Tenth Brother—what a coincidence!"

Murong immediately guessed what was going on. He's afraid they'll try to steal me. She turned her head toward the lake, feigning indifference.

Then came the greetings.

"Greetings to the Ninth and Tenth Princes," she said with a respectful bow.

The Tenth Prince looked her up and down with interest.

"So this is the famed Manchu prodigy? The girl everyone's been talking about?"

Murong felt the weight of four eyes on her. Clearly, there was no slipping past this encounter. She lifted her head slightly and replied,

"Your Highness flatters me. That was merely a childhood joke from my father."

The Ninth Prince chuckled. "To call you a scholar seems unfair. Scholars are dull and lifeless. Little Shunzi tells us you're the most dazzling beauty in the entire palace."

"Your Highness is too kind."

The Ninth Prince wouldn't let up. "There's a pavilion up ahead. Eighth Brother is waiting there with refreshments. Why don't we all go chat a while?"

The Fourteenth Prince scowled. "Ninth Brother, I still have something to say to Murong. We'll be on our way."

But the Tenth Prince stepped in front of him, blocking the path. "Come on, Fourteenth. You've always had the best of everything since you were a boy. A beauty like this—you can't hog her all to yourself!"

Murong's eyes narrowed slightly at the vulgar tone. She turned and gave the Tenth Prince a calm, warning glance.

Whether it was the sharpness of her gaze or the overwhelming effect of her beauty, he was suddenly silenced, standing frozen with his mouth half-open.

The moment was tense—until a man in pale blue robes approached from the distance.

"Ninth Brother, Tenth Brother, what's taking you so long?"

As he drew closer, he added, "Ah, Fourteenth—you're here too. And this must be Miss Murong."

Murong sighed inwardly. So much for peace. Here comes yet another prince. She steeled herself.

"Murong greets the Eighth Prince. Blessings to Your Highness."

The Eighth Prince, scholarly and elegant, smiled.

"No need for such formality. You're Consort Virtue's niece, are you not? That makes you our cousin. Come, join us at the pavilion. Coincidentally, Ninth Brother's cousin is visiting too."

The Fourteenth Prince could no longer refuse. The group walked to the pavilion, where a round table was set with fruit and sweets.

Yaojia sat nearby, chin resting on her hand in clear boredom. At the sight of the four princes arriving together, her eyes lit up—until she spotted Murong. Her face instantly darkened.

Since her previous defeat by Murong's sharp tongue, Yaojia had kept her distance.

It was obvious who the center of attention was now, and Yaojia was not pleased. She sat sulking, noisily cracking melon seeds.

The Eighth Prince spoke. "I've heard Miss Murong is fond of Nalan Rongruo's poetry. Which piece do you like best?"

Murong replied calmly, "Please, Your Highness, just call me Murong. I'm unworthy of the title 'Miss.' I've also heard that Your Highness is closely related to Minister Mingzhu, and must know a great deal about Mr. Nalan. If I may ask—do you enjoy his poetry as well?"

The prince smiled faintly, his eyes thoughtful. "Rongruo? Yes. He was of my uncle's generation."

His voice turned distant, almost melancholic.

"A lifetime, a single love, yet souls part in longing. To yearn and to gaze, but never to meet—who is spring meant for?"

He looked out into the garden. "If ever there was a poet who truly understood longing, it was Rongruo."

Murong looked at him quietly. For the first time, she saw not just the polished smile of a prince, but a hint of true loneliness.

Royal blood carried no freedom of love. Nalan Rongruo's melancholy verses spoke of that torment. And these princes—were they not the same, bound by invisible chains?

She exhaled softly, then chose a different poem to steer the mood away from sentiment.

"My favorite is his Ru Meng Ling:

'In countless tents, people are drunk,

Stars swaying, about to fall.'

His words view nature with a natural eye, and speak of love with a natural tongue. The grandeur is breathtaking."

Her comment, though originally taken from the Renjian Cihua by Wang Guowei, reflected her true feelings.

The Eighth Prince looked at her in awe. This was no ordinary beauty. Her bold intellect, her presence—it was dazzling.

Across the table, knives of envy sliced through the air.

Yaojia huffed, "Eighth Prince, let's stop talking about poetry. So dull!"

The Tenth Prince agreed inwardly, but, afraid Murong would look down on him, said nothing.

The Ninth Prince smiled, defusing the tension. "Yaojia, always avoiding her studies. What have you been up to lately?"

Yaojia pouted dramatically. "Ugh, etiquette lessons all day! I can't wait for the selection to be over."

Laughter rippled through the group.

Murong, meanwhile, had a realization. Prince Anyue? Minister Mingshang? Wait—could Yaojia be Eighth Prince's future consort?

She glanced at the pair. They looked terribly mismatched. The thought amused her.

But when she saw the way Yaojia gazed at the Eighth Prince—soft, tender, vulnerable—Murong suddenly understood.

To her, he was the white horse prince.