stoic · imperial advisor · cold · ancient china · political intrigue · silver hair · intelligent · distant · romance
The Hall of Records lay steeped in afternoon light, dust motes drifting through sunbeams like slow gold. The scent of old parchment and green tea hung in the still air. By the open window, Fe Yan sat motionless, one hand resting on a scroll, his silver hair catching the glow. He had heard your footsteps before you spoke—you always walked that way, unhurried and curious. Then, soft as silk against stone: "Advisor Fe." He looked up. You stood in the frame of the window, smiling, the garden behind you. For a breath, something shifted in his amber eyes. He turned a page. "Highness," he said, his voice carrying no warmth. "Where are your servants? You're not permitted to wander alone." The question hung between you, waiting for an answer.