Zeya · Palace Archives

Even as Crown Prince, Zeya could not escape history lessons. Not even his title could shield him from his master’s dry lectures, especially now that his father had decreed the importance of studying the past.

For years, Zeya had enjoyed a more flexible, self-directed education under the guidance of his uncle, Lord Ray, the King’s younger brother. But now that freedom had vanished and his treasured morning training had been rudely pushed back an hour to make room for history.

Reluctantly, Zeya strode through the lush gardens, cutting across the manicured lawn to reach the compound where the official buildings stood. As promised, his master was waiting outside the Archives.

The figure looked as though he belonged to another era, his slender frame nearly swallowed by the folds of an elaborate jacket heavy with medals and gold chains. It was a striking contrast to the austere lines of the modern structure behind him.

Seeing the young prince approach, the master stood to attention, clicking his heels together before folding into a stiff, creaky bow.

Then straightening up, he began, “Your Highness, it is of the highest honour to be summoned in service of such a noble task. To partake in the shaping of a mind destined to lead is a privilege beyond measure, and gratitude is owed for the trust bestowed in this calling.”

“Master,” Zeya greeted, wishing to divert the onslaught of overblown gratitude. “It truly is an honour to be under your guidance once again. I do hope you’ve been keeping well? And your good lady, is she in equally fine health?”

“Very well indeed, Your Highness,” Master responded.

Zeya offered a swift smile before stepping lightly up the steps and entering the building.

“Your Highness, while I am aware of your fondness for the rigorous study of martial arts and the intricate nuances of battle strategy as detailed in these esteemed codices, it is incumbent upon me to reiterate the paramount importance of your comprehension of our renowned history. As the Crown Prince, it is not merely a matter of preference but a duty of the highest order to be thoroughly versed in the chronicles of our land, for it is through such knowledge that Your Highness shall be truly prepared to lead with wisdom and foresight.”

Zeya simply nodded, having resigned himself to what was bound to feel like a very long hour. Still, he knew he must endure the session. Master was a man held in high regard by both his father and his uncle.

The room was brightly lit by rays of sunlight streaming through the window. He followed obediently to a table and took his seat opposite his master, scanning the surrounding shelves of scrolls and books that towered towards the ceiling.

The Archives was familiar to him as it was a place where he had pored over accounts of battles fought across the Central Plains. He had no qualms about learning from past greats like General Sayo, who successfully led his men in defending the kingdom from eastern invaders time after time.

But he could not bring himself to care about the old kings’ personal dramas or their obsessive quest to build an empire. He was living through such ambition firsthand, so why would he need to study it?

“To what extent has Your Highness immersed himself in the profound annals of our venerable history?” Master enquired after his lecture on the importance of history.

Zeya was only half listening as his attention shifted to the environment. The lofty interior, usually steeped in the stale scent of long-forgotten stories and the lingering trace of mothballs from the scholars’ robes, now carried a light, refreshing aroma like a spring breeze drifting through an open window.

To his surprise, a young lady was seated at the neighbouring table. Perhaps she was the source of the delicate fragrance. He observed her discreetly, noting how unusual it was to find anyone studying in the Archives.

She sat poised, her long copper-brown hair falling in waves about her shoulders as she read intently from a scroll. Judging by how plainly she was dressed, Zeya assumed she must be one of the lower-ranked ladies of the court.

Curiously, she neither looked up nor turned to acknowledge him. Was she truly engrossed in the scroll, or simply unimpressed by his presence? Zeya could not tell.

Nearly every young lady of the court he encountered made a point of seeking his attention. It was one of the reasons he loathed social gatherings, where he was forced to engage in shallow conversations while the ladies shamelessly flirted, as though his betrothal to Princess Nanda of the Southern Delta was merely a rumour.

Why they tried to seduce him remained a mystery. While the court was filled with beauty, he had no desire to stain his honour or give the gossips anything to feed on.

Realising his master was waiting for a response, Zeya quickly said, “I must admit, history has not been a priority of my studies. Yet.”

His uncle had always insisted on that word: “yet.”

“Yet”left the door open and showed a willingness to grow. It turned dismissal into possibility, which pleased most people.

“What? Not studied history yet?” Master exclaimed. Then with more composure, he asked, “Is Your Highness well-versed in the illustrious origins of the esteemed Gin Empire?”

“Not yet, Master.”

Zeya sensed the young lady glance over at their table.

“That shall be precisely where we, with all due reverence, initiate our profound scholarly journey in pursuit of historical enlightenment,” Master declared as he rose to his feet. “Alas, it is with the deepest sorrow that I must inform Your Highness that our esteemed Archivist, the very custodian of our cherished histories, has departed from our midst. In the absence of one, it falls upon us to unearth the necessary texts by our own fair hands.”

He brought his gloved hands together, fingertips touching in a precise steeple, a gesture Zeya had often seen older nobles use to project authority.

“What an absolute delight it shall be to become intimately acquainted with the Archives,” Zeya remarked, the sarcasm barely hidden behind his genteel tone.

Master nodded. “Ah, indeed, an unmitigated joy, is it not? I shall personally retrieve the very first scroll.”

His eyes scanned the top shelf of the history section and noticed that several parchment rolls were missing. His gaze flicked to the young lady at the next table.

“My lady, might I inquire if you have by any chance completed your perusal of the first history scroll of the Gin Empire?”

“Yes, my lord,” the girl replied and offered the scroll, holding it with both hands as a gesture of respect.

“Ah… much appreciated,” Master said with a content smile as he continued to observe her.

It was a rare sight to see a young person so engrossed in learning. These days, it seemed, the pursuit of knowledge had been replaced by the pursuit of novelty and distraction.

Zeya’s eyes were drawn to the girl again. There was something familiar about her, yet he could not place her for now. She looked to be similar in age to him.

Surely, they had met before, or even danced at one of those endless royal festivals. While names often slipped his memory, he never forgot a face, especially one as captivating as hers.

The young lady turned his way and bowed her head in acknowledgement. Zeya blinked, realising he had been staring for an impolite length of time.

When she raised her gaze, her eyes caught his for the briefest moment before she turned away, leaving him oddly unsettled. It felt as though she saw him as a man, not the prince.

He quickly regained his composure and turned his attention to his master.

“The genesis of the illustrious Gin Empire may be traced to an age lost in the mists of antiquity, more than a thousand years past, when the vast expanse of these lands was but a disjointed quilt of minor kingdoms, each ruled by warlords more preoccupied with their own trifling feuds than the greater destiny that awaited. In the midst of this fractious era there arose a man of extraordinary mettle, endowed with an intellect sharpened by foresight and a will tempered by unyielding ambition.”

Master rattled on, unrolling a parchment on the table and his finger pointing at the relevant passage.

However, Zeya was caught in his own thoughts rather than listening. Something about that young lady’s behaviour intrigued him. She was unlike any of the court ladies he had encountered.

After that fleeting look, she swiftly gathered the scrolls from the table, returned them to the shelf, and ducked out of the Archives without another glance.

Zeya allowed himself a small, amused smile. Perhaps not every lady in the palace sought his attention.

The hour of history lesson concluded when Khin Yu, the Crown Prince’s guard, stepped into the room and announced, “Your Highness, it is time for training with Lord Thura.”

Zeya stood up and gave a quick head bow.

“Much appreciated, Master, for your time and attention,” he said. “With your permission, I shall continue my studies in history and endeavour to visit the Archives as often as I can. I’d much prefer to guide my own learning rather than take you away from your valuable work with my cousins.”

This was Zeya’s attempt to avoid any more lectures from the man.

“I’m certain my cousins will benefit greatly from your wisdom and experience. They’ve not yet had the privilege of learning under your guidance as I have, and I know it will serve them well. In fact, Lord Kin, I dare say, would be positively thrilled to be guided by you. I shall ask him to make himself available here tomorrow morning, if that suits your schedule.”

Lord Kin, a younger cousin of Zeya, had earned a reputation for his neglect of manners and decorum, making him a natural candidate for the master’s careful instructions.

“As you wish, Your Highness. Direct discourse shall be undertaken with Lord Kin,” Master replied, rising to his feet with an air of satisfaction.

Before Zeya could retreat, he slipped in, “Perhaps, then, Your Highness would do me the considerable honour of convening on a weekly basis, that one might reflect upon the knowledge acquired, clarify any uncertainties that may have arisen, and delve further into the deeper meanings of the material. Such a practice would surely cultivate a richer and more enduring understanding of the past. And thereby ensuring that His Majesty’s satisfaction is perpetually maintained concerning the progress for which one is accountable in careful and detailed report.”

“Absolutely,” Zeya agreed reluctantly.

It was certainly preferable to daily meetings.

“Good day, Your Highness.”

Master clapped his heels together, then tipped into a bend that looked one sneeze away from disaster.

“Good day to you, Master.”

As he emerged from the building, there was a break in the cloud, spilling warm light across the garden. Khin Yu fell into step beside him, an umbrella angled to shield the prince from the harsh sunlight. His guard was a tall, imposing figure, with pleasing good looks.

However, the man was always so serious, and Zeya could never quite pierce that veil, no matter how he tried. Smiles were rare on that face; it knew only the stern crease of a frown or the calm mask of unreadable neutrality.

“I must say, Khin Yu,” Zeya said with a cheeky grin, “your timely rescue is most appreciated.”

“Rescue, Your Highness?”

“Absolutely. I was perilously close to dozing off. How can an hour stretch so long? I half suspected time itself had decided to stand still.”

“Hmmm.”

“I can imagine what you may be thinking, Khin Yu,” Zeya continued. “An hour is hardly long in the grand scheme of a day. Still, I’d much rather be occupied with something other than history. Fortunately, I’m now only obliged to endure Master’s lectures once a week.”

He glanced at his guard and added with a teasing lilt, “I trust you’ll keep a sharp eye on the time whenever I’m at the Archives and come whisk me away the moment the hour is up.”

“As you wish, Your Highness,” Khin Yu replied, his expression as solemn as a Minister of Justice.

Once changed into his martial uniform, Zeya lightly jogged to the training grounds. The air was moist as dark, rolling clouds hinted at rain, which had yet to materialise. He quickly tied the black silk sash around his waist as he stepped through the gate opening into the practice area.

Lord Thura approached briskly and bowed his head to acknowledge his presence.

“Lord Thura, you’re looking tremendously well this morning. Radiant, even,” Zeya began in his usual playful tone. “Has something particularly splendid happened, or is it simply the effect of good company?”

“Radiant, am I? Well, perhaps it’s the light bouncing off your smile or perhaps it’s the triumph from beating you in yesterday’s sparring match. Either way, I’ll take the compliment,” Lord Thura retorted with an arched eyebrow.

He thought it was the Crown Prince who appeared radiant, as though something splendid had brightened his morning.

“I trust Your Highness has had a pleasant start to the day.”

“If by ‘pleasant’ you mean being lectured to death, then yes. It’s been a pleasant one.”

“Ah, so lectures have become a form of torture, have they? I must say, Your Highness, perhaps we ought to dish out lectures to the new recruits and see how they manage. It would make for excellent training in resilience.”

“Survival, you mean,” Zeya chuckled.

He could always rely on Lord Thura to play along.

“It might be asking a bit much of poor Master’s patience to whip the men into shape. You’ll have to do the job.”

“I shall endeavour to do my utmost,” Lord Thura replied with mock gravity. A grin tugged at his mouth as he added, “Though I can’t promise I’ll manage a lecture to the death. Best I stick to sword training after all.”

The men laughed, drawing a few curious glances from those within earshot. Zeya rolled his shoulders, then stretched his arms in preparation for their session.

“What will you have me do first, Lord Thura?” he asked, twisting his torso from side to side.

“Will ten laps around the grounds suffice as a little warm-up?”

Suddenly, it dawned on Zeya. Of course, the girl in the Archives was Lord Thura’s younger sister. He could not believe he had not realised it sooner.

Earlier that year, he had seen her once before when she arrived at the training grounds to find her brother. The memory was vague but not forgotten. Both siblings had clearly inherited their father’s lean build and dark, observant eyes.

Zeya had initially mistaken her for one of the servants, as her clothing was so plain it gave no hint of her noble status. He did think that she held herself with refined elegance, needing no ornament to draw attention.

Others had certainly noticed her as well. Heads turned. Even the seasoned warriors had paused, and clearly Lord Thura’s jaw had tightened in irritation.

She was beautiful, undeniably so. Her face was calm and composed; her hair cascading over her shoulders caught the sunlight, turning it a brilliant copper.

But Zeya had trained himself not to admire beauty in order not to feel at all. His heart belonged to duty and to the kingdom. Though his engagement to Princess Nanda was still two years away, he had already accepted the path set before him. He intended to meet every expectation, to honour his father and be the dutiful son. Whatever moments of freedom he had left, he would savour them before duty, marriage, and fatherhood claimed him.

“Is ten not enough, Your Highness?” Lord Thura asked, curious to see the Crown Prince lost in thought.

“Ten will suffice!” Zeya shouted as he took off.

He had been training with Lord Thura since he was fifteen and had come to look forward to their sessions in swordsmanship. There was an ease between them that came with familiarity.

To Zeya, who had no brothers of his own, Lord Thura had started to fill that space. He offered the firm hand of a mentor and the casual teasing of an older sibling, both grounding and encouraging him in equal measure.

Thanks to his mother’s tireless efforts to familiarise him with every branch of the royal family tree, Zeya knew that Lord Thura was, technically, a distant relation.

Lord Hein, Thura’s father, came from a long line of respected warriors and was the brother of one of Zeya’s uncles-in-law. The rest of their family was a blur to him, though he was aware there were two younger sons and a daughter.

Now, having placed the girl in the Archives, he found it oddly comforting. Even if he never saw her again, something about recognising her eased the unsettling feeling.

A thread, however fine, had been drawn between them.

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