Deborah_Leo

In the grand empire of Skiiri, a marriage is arranged between the noble Prince Xìn Xuān and the elegant Princess Lù Zhāo—a union meant to strengthen alliances, not hearts. Among her guards is a silent, sharp-eyed knight named Shèng Lín, whose loyalty masks a deadly secret: he is a spy sent to assassinate the prince.

But fate has other plans.

On the final night of their journey through the mountains, beneath pouring rain and hidden desires, the prince and the spy share an unexpected kiss. When dawn comes, they wake up not with regret… but in each other’s bodies.

Forced to switch lives, the proud prince must live as a lowly knight, and the cold spy must pretend to be royalty. They must fool their kingdoms, survive political traps, and navigate the palace’s endless gaze—all while untangling the growing feelings that neither can deny.

Yet when the prince discovers the truth—that the man he’s falling for was once sent to kill him—the fragile trust between them shatters.

Will love survive betrayal?
Or will duty and destiny tear them apart for good

(bl) Swapped lover

The next morning, sunlight filtered through the wooden shutters of Shèng Měi's house, casting soft golden lines across the floor.

She had always been woken by servants in the palace—silk curtains drawn, robes laid out, breakfast brought on golden trays. But here, the only sound that greeted her was the soft rustle of leaves and the distant clink of ceramic.

She got out of bed and peeked into the main room.

Shèng Měi was already up, kneeling by the hearth and preparing tea. Her hair was loosely tied, sleeves rolled up, face flushed from the warmth of the fire.

"You wake early," Lù Zhāo murmured.

Shèng Měi looked up and smiled faintly. "Old habits. I thought I'd let you sleep in."

The princess stepped closer, kneeling across from her. "Let me help."

Shèng Měi hesitated, then handed her the tea whisk.

Lù Zhāo took it carefully—awkwardly at first, but determined.

For the first time in her life, she brewed tea with her own hands.

The day passed slowly, peacefully.

Later that morning, the two women worked side by side in the garden behind the house.

Lù Zhāo wore one of Shèng Měi's old tunics, far too large at the shoulders but cinched at the waist. Her royal poise was no help when pulling weeds—but her laughter came freely when she accidentally splashed mud onto her own face.

"You're enjoying this?" Shèng Měi asked, raising a brow.

"I'm filthy. My knees hurt. And I love it," Lù Zhāo replied, grinning.

Shèng Měi chuckled under her breath and handed her a damp cloth.

That afternoon, Lù Zhāo sat in the sun, attempting to mend a small tear in one of Shèng Měi's tunics. She wasn't very good at sewing—palace embroidery was decorative, never practical—but she tried.

Shèng Měi, watching from the doorway, leaned against the frame with her arms crossed.

"You're going to ruin it," she teased.

Lù Zhāo looked up, squinting in the light. "It's already ruined. I'm just giving it personality."

Lù Zhāo smiled softly. "Scars tell good stories."

That evening, after a simple meal of egg porridge and pickled radish, they sat by the hearth again.

Shèng Měi sharpened a dagger while Lù Zhāo wrote a letter she wouldn't send.

The silence between them wasn't empty anymore. It was full of things unspoken—but shared. Comfortable. Natural.

As the flames danced, Lù Zhāo looked at her.

Shèng Měi didn't look up. "Of course."

"Why didn't you ever say anything back then? When we were younger?"

Shèng Měi paused, knife still in hand.

"…Because you were a star, and I was just a guard watching from below."

Shèng Měi met her gaze, steady and quiet.

"Now I realize stars can fall… and still shine."

Chapter 21 — A Kind of Quiet Warmth