The Prince’s Black Veins
The shadow-beasts dissolved at dawn, their bodies unraveling into threads of smoke that the wind carried away like ash. Wei Chenxing sat on the frozen ground, his back against a splintered cart wheel, watching the last of them fade. His hands were still shaking. The branding wound on his chest had torn open during the attack, and blood soaked through his bandages in a slow, spreading stain.
Prince Yan Lihua stood ten paces away, his back turned, his sword dripping black ichor onto the frost-covered grass. The blade had carved through the beasts like a scythe through wheat, each strike precise, economical, almost bored. He had not broken a sweat. He had not even breathed hard.
But Wei Chenxing had seen the black veins.
They crawled up the prince’s neck like roots seeking water, branching beneath his jaw, disappearing into his hairline. When Yan Lihua had grabbed Wei Chenxing’s arm and pulled him from the path of a charging beast, the sleeve of his robe had slipped, and Wei Chenxing had glimpsed them—dark, pulsing lines that moved, that *lived*, beneath the prince’s pale skin.
Now the prince sheathed his sword and turned. His face was beautiful in the way a winter sky was beautiful: cold, distant, capable of killing without warning. His eyes were the color of amber, but there was no warmth in them.
“You’re bleeding,” Yan Lihua said.
Wei Chenxing looked down at his chest. The blood had soaked through his outer robe now, a dark flower blooming over his heart. “I noticed.”
“You should have said something.”
“I was busy not being eaten.”
The prince’s mouth tightened. He walked over, his boots crunching on the frozen ground, and crouched in front of Wei Chenxing. Up close, the black veins were impossible to ignore. They traced patterns beneath his skin like cracks in porcelain, like the fault lines in a mirror that had been struck once, hard, and was waiting to shatter.
“Take off your robe,” Yan Lihua said.
Wei Chenxing blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“Your wound. I need to see it.”
“I can tend to it myself.”
“You can’t see your own chest.” The prince’s voice was flat, patient, as if explaining something to a child. “And if the wound festers, you’ll be dead in three days. I need you alive.”
Wei Chenxing wanted to argue. He wanted to point out that he had been a scholar, not a soldier, and that the last time someone had ordered him to undress, it had been the court physician with a branding iron. But the cold was seeping into his bones, and the blood was still flowing, and the prince’s eyes held a kind of exhausted urgency that made refusal feel petty.
He untied his sash. The outer robe fell open. The inner robe was stuck to his skin, glued by dried blood, and peeling it away made him hiss through his teeth. Yan Lihua’s hands were steady as he pulled the fabric free, revealing the bandage beneath—or what was left of it. The cloth was dark red, sodden, barely clinging to the wound.
“This is poorly done,” Yan Lihua said. “Who bandaged you?”
“The prison warden. He was in a hurry.”
“He should have used honey and silk, not linen and spite.”
Wei Chenxing laughed, a short, bitter sound. “I was branded a traitor and sentenced to die in the Northern Wastes. I don’t think the warden was concerned with my comfort.”
Yan Lihua said nothing. He reached into his sleeve and pulled out a small leather pouch, the kind that held medicinal supplies. He untied it with practiced fingers, revealing clean white bandages, a small jar of salve, and a needle threaded with silk thread.
“This will hurt,” he said.
“Everything hurts.”
The prince’s hands were surprisingly gentle. He cleaned the wound with water from his canteen, the cold liquid stinging against the raw flesh. Then he applied the salve, which smelled of ginger and something bitter, and began to re-bandage the wound with swift, efficient movements. His fingers brushed against Wei Chenxing’s skin, and where they touched, a faint warmth spread—the opposite of the cold that had been seeping into him all night.
Wei Chenxing watched the prince’s face. The black veins pulsed with a rhythm that did not match a heartbeat. They moved like rivers, like the slow crawl of ink through water, and at their center, just above the prince’s collarbone, there was a small, dark spot—a point where the veins converged, like the eye of a storm.
“What are they?” Wei Chenxing asked.
Yan Lihua’s hands paused. “What?”
“The veins. On your neck. On your arms. I saw them when you pulled me away from the beast.”
The prince finished tying the bandage before he answered. His fingers lingered on the knot for a moment, as if checking that it was secure, and then he sat back on his heels.
“They are the curse,” he said. “The Mirror’s corruption. It spreads through my blood, through my bones, through everything I am. The physicians call it the Black Rot. They say it will consume me within the year.”
Wei Chenxing’s throat tightened. “The Emperor sent you to the Northern Wastes to die.”
“No.” Yan Lihua’s amber eyes met his. “The Emperor sent *you* to the Northern Wastes to die. He sent me to find you.”
“Why?”
“Because you are the Curse-Breaker.”
The words hung in the air between them, heavy and strange. Wei Chenxing had heard of curse-breakers in old stories—mystics who could sever the bonds between a person and a hex, who could untangle the threads of forbidden magic. But those were legends, not reality. The Imperial Astral Bureau had outlawed Echo-Weaving centuries ago. Anyone caught practicing it was executed.
“I’m a scholar,” Wei Chenxing said. “I write memorials. I read old texts. I don’t break curses.”
“You do.” Yan Lihua stood, looking down at him with an expression that was almost pitying. “You just don’t remember.”
“Remember what?”
The prince did not answer. He turned and walked toward the remains of the convoy, where the guards were gathering the scattered supplies. The cart was overturned, one wheel shattered, the horses gone—fled or eaten, it didn’t matter. They were stranded in the middle of the frozen plains, with nothing but the clothes on their backs and the weapons in their hands.
Wei Chenxing pushed himself to his feet. The wound on his chest pulled, but the bandage held. He followed the prince, his boots crunching on the frost, his breath misting in the cold air.
“Your Highness,” he said, “I deserve an explanation.”
Yan Lihua stopped. He did not turn around. “You presented a memorial to the Emperor. You claimed the Imperial Jade Mirror was a prison, not a relic. You said it held a spirit, a soul, a consciousness that had been trapped for centuries. Do you remember?”
“Of course I remember. I wrote it.”
“And do you remember what happened after you presented it?”
Wei Chenxing frowned. The memory was clear: the throne room, the Emperor’s cold eyes, the guards dragging him away. But there was something else, a gap, a moment that felt like a skipped heartbeat. He had been on his knees, and then he had been in the prison cell, and between those two points, there was nothing. A blank space. A silence.
“I was sentenced to exile,” he said slowly. “The Emperor called me a heretic.”
“Yes. But before that—when you touched the mirror.”
Wei Chenxing’s blood went cold. He did not remember touching the mirror. He remembered standing before it, remembered the way the jade surface had rippled like water, remembered the face he had seen in its depths—a woman’s face, beautiful and weeping, with eyes that were his own. But he did not remember reaching out. He did not remember the moment of contact.
“I didn’t touch it,” he said.
“You did.” Yan Lihua turned. His face was pale, the black veins stark against his skin. “I was there. I saw it. You placed your palm against the mirror, and the entire room went dark. The Emperor’s guards fell to their knees. The Astral Bureau mages screamed. And you—you stood there, your hand on the glass, and you spoke a name.”
“What name?”
“Yue’er.”
The word hit Wei Chenxing like a physical blow. He staggered, his hand going to his chest, the wound throbbing in time with his pulse. The name was familiar in a way that made no sense. It was not a name he had ever heard before, not a name he had ever spoken, but it resonated in his bones like a bell that had been struck long ago and was still ringing.
“I don’t know that name,” he said.
“You do.” Yan Lihua stepped closer. His amber eyes were bright, feverish, the black veins pulsing faster now. “You know it better than you know your own. That name is the key to everything. It is the reason the Emperor sent you to die. It is the reason I am cursed. It is the reason we are both standing here, in the middle of nowhere, with nothing but each other.”
Wei Chenxing’s mouth was dry. “What do you want from me?”
“I want you to break the curse.” Yan Lihua’s voice cracked, just slightly, the first sign of weakness he had shown. “I want you to go into the Mirror’s Heart, find the spirit that lives there, and destroy it. I want you to save my life.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Then I die. And the mirror’s corruption spreads. And the empire falls.” The prince’s lips twisted into a bitter smile. “But you won’t refuse. Because you are the Curse-Breaker, Wei Chenxing. And the Curse-Breaker always chooses to break.”
Wei Chenxing wanted to argue. He wanted to say that he was not a hero, not a savior, not anything but a disgraced scholar with a brand on his chest and a death sentence hanging over his head. But the words died in his throat as Yan Lihua reached out and took his wrist.
The prince’s fingers were cold, colder than the frozen air, and where they touched, the black veins seemed to pulse brighter. Wei Chenxing looked down at the prince’s hand, at the dark lines crawling beneath his skin, and then he looked up into Yan Lihua’s eyes.
And he saw it.
A flash. A vision. A woman’s face in a mirror—his own face, but older, lined with grief, tears streaming down her cheeks. She was wearing a wedding robe, red silk embroidered with gold phoenixes, and she was reaching out, reaching for him, her lips moving in a silent plea.
*Remember.*
The word echoed in his skull, and then the vision shattered, and he was back in the frozen plains, gasping for breath, his hand clutching Yan Lihua’s wrist so hard that his knuckles were white.
The prince did not pull away. He stood still, watching Wei Chenxing with those amber eyes, the black veins pulsing like a second heartbeat.
“You saw her,” Yan Lihua said. It was not a question.
Wei Chenxing nodded, unable to speak.
“She is the spirit in the mirror. She is the one who cursed my bloodline. And she is the one who chose you.” The prince’s voice was soft, almost gentle. “You are not just a scholar, Wei Chenxing. You are her echo. Her reincarnation. Her second chance.”
Wei Chenxing released the prince’s wrist. His hand was shaking. His chest was burning. The world felt wrong, tilted, like a painting that had been knocked off its frame.
“I don’t believe in reincarnation,” he said.
“You don’t have to.” Yan Lihua turned and walked toward the horizon, where the sky was beginning to lighten with the pale gray of dawn. “Belief has nothing to do with it. The curse is real. The mirror is real. And you are the only one who can end it.”
He stopped, his back to Wei Chenxing, his silhouette sharp against the growing light.
“We have three days to reach the Border Gate. After that, the Mirror’s Heart will close, and we will never be able to enter. So rest now. Eat what you can. Because once we step inside, there is no turning back.”
Wei Chenxing stood alone in the frozen plains, the wind biting at his cheeks, the brand on his chest throbbing with every heartbeat. He looked down at his hands. They were still shaking.
Somewhere, in the back of his mind, a woman’s voice whispered a name he did not remember learning.
*Yue’er.*
And for the first time since he had been branded a traitor, Wei Chenxing felt something other than despair.
He felt curiosity.
He felt hunger.
He felt the faint, impossible pull of a story he had not yet read, a song he had not yet heard, a face he had not yet remembered.
He looked up at the prince’s distant figure, at the black veins crawling up his neck, at the weight of a curse that had been waiting for him for centuries.
And he began to walk.
Prince Yan Lihua stood ten paces away, his back turned, his sword dripping black ichor onto the frost-covered grass. The blade had carved through the beasts like a scythe through wheat, each strike precise, economical, almost bored. He had not broken a sweat. He had not even breathed hard.
But Wei Chenxing had seen the black veins.
They crawled up the prince’s neck like roots seeking water, branching beneath his jaw, disappearing into his hairline. When Yan Lihua had grabbed Wei Chenxing’s arm and pulled him from the path of a charging beast, the sleeve of his robe had slipped, and Wei Chenxing had glimpsed them—dark, pulsing lines that moved, that *lived*, beneath the prince’s pale skin.
Now the prince sheathed his sword and turned. His face was beautiful in the way a winter sky was beautiful: cold, distant, capable of killing without warning. His eyes were the color of amber, but there was no warmth in them.
“You’re bleeding,” Yan Lihua said.
Wei Chenxing looked down at his chest. The blood had soaked through his outer robe now, a dark flower blooming over his heart. “I noticed.”
“You should have said something.”
“I was busy not being eaten.”
The prince’s mouth tightened. He walked over, his boots crunching on the frozen ground, and crouched in front of Wei Chenxing. Up close, the black veins were impossible to ignore. They traced patterns beneath his skin like cracks in porcelain, like the fault lines in a mirror that had been struck once, hard, and was waiting to shatter.
“Take off your robe,” Yan Lihua said.
Wei Chenxing blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“Your wound. I need to see it.”
“I can tend to it myself.”
“You can’t see your own chest.” The prince’s voice was flat, patient, as if explaining something to a child. “And if the wound festers, you’ll be dead in three days. I need you alive.”
Wei Chenxing wanted to argue. He wanted to point out that he had been a scholar, not a soldier, and that the last time someone had ordered him to undress, it had been the court physician with a branding iron. But the cold was seeping into his bones, and the blood was still flowing, and the prince’s eyes held a kind of exhausted urgency that made refusal feel petty.
He untied his sash. The outer robe fell open. The inner robe was stuck to his skin, glued by dried blood, and peeling it away made him hiss through his teeth. Yan Lihua’s hands were steady as he pulled the fabric free, revealing the bandage beneath—or what was left of it. The cloth was dark red, sodden, barely clinging to the wound.
“This is poorly done,” Yan Lihua said. “Who bandaged you?”
“The prison warden. He was in a hurry.”
“He should have used honey and silk, not linen and spite.”
Wei Chenxing laughed, a short, bitter sound. “I was branded a traitor and sentenced to die in the Northern Wastes. I don’t think the warden was concerned with my comfort.”
Yan Lihua said nothing. He reached into his sleeve and pulled out a small leather pouch, the kind that held medicinal supplies. He untied it with practiced fingers, revealing clean white bandages, a small jar of salve, and a needle threaded with silk thread.
“This will hurt,” he said.
“Everything hurts.”
The prince’s hands were surprisingly gentle. He cleaned the wound with water from his canteen, the cold liquid stinging against the raw flesh. Then he applied the salve, which smelled of ginger and something bitter, and began to re-bandage the wound with swift, efficient movements. His fingers brushed against Wei Chenxing’s skin, and where they touched, a faint warmth spread—the opposite of the cold that had been seeping into him all night.
Wei Chenxing watched the prince’s face. The black veins pulsed with a rhythm that did not match a heartbeat. They moved like rivers, like the slow crawl of ink through water, and at their center, just above the prince’s collarbone, there was a small, dark spot—a point where the veins converged, like the eye of a storm.
“What are they?” Wei Chenxing asked.
Yan Lihua’s hands paused. “What?”
“The veins. On your neck. On your arms. I saw them when you pulled me away from the beast.”
The prince finished tying the bandage before he answered. His fingers lingered on the knot for a moment, as if checking that it was secure, and then he sat back on his heels.
“They are the curse,” he said. “The Mirror’s corruption. It spreads through my blood, through my bones, through everything I am. The physicians call it the Black Rot. They say it will consume me within the year.”
Wei Chenxing’s throat tightened. “The Emperor sent you to the Northern Wastes to die.”
“No.” Yan Lihua’s amber eyes met his. “The Emperor sent *you* to the Northern Wastes to die. He sent me to find you.”
“Why?”
“Because you are the Curse-Breaker.”
The words hung in the air between them, heavy and strange. Wei Chenxing had heard of curse-breakers in old stories—mystics who could sever the bonds between a person and a hex, who could untangle the threads of forbidden magic. But those were legends, not reality. The Imperial Astral Bureau had outlawed Echo-Weaving centuries ago. Anyone caught practicing it was executed.
“I’m a scholar,” Wei Chenxing said. “I write memorials. I read old texts. I don’t break curses.”
“You do.” Yan Lihua stood, looking down at him with an expression that was almost pitying. “You just don’t remember.”
“Remember what?”
The prince did not answer. He turned and walked toward the remains of the convoy, where the guards were gathering the scattered supplies. The cart was overturned, one wheel shattered, the horses gone—fled or eaten, it didn’t matter. They were stranded in the middle of the frozen plains, with nothing but the clothes on their backs and the weapons in their hands.
Wei Chenxing pushed himself to his feet. The wound on his chest pulled, but the bandage held. He followed the prince, his boots crunching on the frost, his breath misting in the cold air.
“Your Highness,” he said, “I deserve an explanation.”
Yan Lihua stopped. He did not turn around. “You presented a memorial to the Emperor. You claimed the Imperial Jade Mirror was a prison, not a relic. You said it held a spirit, a soul, a consciousness that had been trapped for centuries. Do you remember?”
“Of course I remember. I wrote it.”
“And do you remember what happened after you presented it?”
Wei Chenxing frowned. The memory was clear: the throne room, the Emperor’s cold eyes, the guards dragging him away. But there was something else, a gap, a moment that felt like a skipped heartbeat. He had been on his knees, and then he had been in the prison cell, and between those two points, there was nothing. A blank space. A silence.
“I was sentenced to exile,” he said slowly. “The Emperor called me a heretic.”
“Yes. But before that—when you touched the mirror.”
Wei Chenxing’s blood went cold. He did not remember touching the mirror. He remembered standing before it, remembered the way the jade surface had rippled like water, remembered the face he had seen in its depths—a woman’s face, beautiful and weeping, with eyes that were his own. But he did not remember reaching out. He did not remember the moment of contact.
“I didn’t touch it,” he said.
“You did.” Yan Lihua turned. His face was pale, the black veins stark against his skin. “I was there. I saw it. You placed your palm against the mirror, and the entire room went dark. The Emperor’s guards fell to their knees. The Astral Bureau mages screamed. And you—you stood there, your hand on the glass, and you spoke a name.”
“What name?”
“Yue’er.”
The word hit Wei Chenxing like a physical blow. He staggered, his hand going to his chest, the wound throbbing in time with his pulse. The name was familiar in a way that made no sense. It was not a name he had ever heard before, not a name he had ever spoken, but it resonated in his bones like a bell that had been struck long ago and was still ringing.
“I don’t know that name,” he said.
“You do.” Yan Lihua stepped closer. His amber eyes were bright, feverish, the black veins pulsing faster now. “You know it better than you know your own. That name is the key to everything. It is the reason the Emperor sent you to die. It is the reason I am cursed. It is the reason we are both standing here, in the middle of nowhere, with nothing but each other.”
Wei Chenxing’s mouth was dry. “What do you want from me?”
“I want you to break the curse.” Yan Lihua’s voice cracked, just slightly, the first sign of weakness he had shown. “I want you to go into the Mirror’s Heart, find the spirit that lives there, and destroy it. I want you to save my life.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Then I die. And the mirror’s corruption spreads. And the empire falls.” The prince’s lips twisted into a bitter smile. “But you won’t refuse. Because you are the Curse-Breaker, Wei Chenxing. And the Curse-Breaker always chooses to break.”
Wei Chenxing wanted to argue. He wanted to say that he was not a hero, not a savior, not anything but a disgraced scholar with a brand on his chest and a death sentence hanging over his head. But the words died in his throat as Yan Lihua reached out and took his wrist.
The prince’s fingers were cold, colder than the frozen air, and where they touched, the black veins seemed to pulse brighter. Wei Chenxing looked down at the prince’s hand, at the dark lines crawling beneath his skin, and then he looked up into Yan Lihua’s eyes.
And he saw it.
A flash. A vision. A woman’s face in a mirror—his own face, but older, lined with grief, tears streaming down her cheeks. She was wearing a wedding robe, red silk embroidered with gold phoenixes, and she was reaching out, reaching for him, her lips moving in a silent plea.
*Remember.*
The word echoed in his skull, and then the vision shattered, and he was back in the frozen plains, gasping for breath, his hand clutching Yan Lihua’s wrist so hard that his knuckles were white.
The prince did not pull away. He stood still, watching Wei Chenxing with those amber eyes, the black veins pulsing like a second heartbeat.
“You saw her,” Yan Lihua said. It was not a question.
Wei Chenxing nodded, unable to speak.
“She is the spirit in the mirror. She is the one who cursed my bloodline. And she is the one who chose you.” The prince’s voice was soft, almost gentle. “You are not just a scholar, Wei Chenxing. You are her echo. Her reincarnation. Her second chance.”
Wei Chenxing released the prince’s wrist. His hand was shaking. His chest was burning. The world felt wrong, tilted, like a painting that had been knocked off its frame.
“I don’t believe in reincarnation,” he said.
“You don’t have to.” Yan Lihua turned and walked toward the horizon, where the sky was beginning to lighten with the pale gray of dawn. “Belief has nothing to do with it. The curse is real. The mirror is real. And you are the only one who can end it.”
He stopped, his back to Wei Chenxing, his silhouette sharp against the growing light.
“We have three days to reach the Border Gate. After that, the Mirror’s Heart will close, and we will never be able to enter. So rest now. Eat what you can. Because once we step inside, there is no turning back.”
Wei Chenxing stood alone in the frozen plains, the wind biting at his cheeks, the brand on his chest throbbing with every heartbeat. He looked down at his hands. They were still shaking.
Somewhere, in the back of his mind, a woman’s voice whispered a name he did not remember learning.
*Yue’er.*
And for the first time since he had been branded a traitor, Wei Chenxing felt something other than despair.
He felt curiosity.
He felt hunger.
He felt the faint, impossible pull of a story he had not yet read, a song he had not yet heard, a face he had not yet remembered.
He looked up at the prince’s distant figure, at the black veins crawling up his neck, at the weight of a curse that had been waiting for him for centuries.
And he began to walk.