Li Xian, Age 6 — before the wars, before destiny stirred.
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In the quiet heart of Cheng, where plum blossoms painted the wind and courtyards breathed laughter, lived a girl with bare feet and a voice like spring.
Li Xian was six years old, wild as a kite string in sunlight. Every morning, she ran into the garden before breakfast, toes dancing across dew-drenched grass, arms outstretched, singing songs she made up on the spot — songs about clouds shaped like rabbits, and flowers that whispered secrets.
Her mother, elegant and warm-eyed, would watch her from the veranda, embroidering quietly. Her father, a well-spoken court advisor with a kind smile, often joined her in the garden, letting her braid his sleeves with long grass while he recited poetry.
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On market days, they took her to the village carnival.
The world there bloomed in color and scent — candied hawthorns glistening in the sun, wind chimes ringing from silk stalls, and dancers twirling to the beat of hand drums. Li Xian tried everything: the spinning lantern game (she won a red wooden rabbit), the sweet dumpling toss (she missed every time), and the mirror maze where she giggled so hard she couldn't find the exit.
Her mother bought her a flowing yellow dress embroidered with tiny clouds. Her father bought her a candy shaped like a macaw. "What's this bird?" she asked. He smiled. "Maybe one day it'll find you."
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One day, her father surprised her with an outing: a formal visit to the Imperial Palace.
"Wear your best robes," her mother whispered, tying her sash gently. "And remember—don't ask the emperor if he owns any ducks."
Li Xian had nodded solemnly.
At the palace, everything gleamed — the floors like glass, the guards like statues, the halls echoing with incense and footsteps. But Li Xian was more fascinated by the koi pond than the gold thrones.
She was introduced to the emperor's son: a boy of twelve named Wen.
He stood with his hands behind his back, dressed in silk pale as moonlight. He bowed gently and said, "It is an honor to meet the daughter of such a wise advisor."
Li Xian blinked at him.
Then said, "Do you know how to whistle with your hands?"
He smiled, surprised — but not offended. "I'm afraid not."
She nodded solemnly. "Then I can teach you. But only if you let me borrow a palace pigeon."
Her father coughed.
Emperor Wen — elegant even at twelve — gave a soft laugh. "One day, I'll remember this."
But Li Xian showed no interest in titles, robes, or gentle princes.
She only cared about whether palace fish knew how to jump.
That night, tucked in bed between her parents, she whispered, "I like days with no rules."
Her mother brushed back her hair. "Then keep singing, Xian'er."
Her father kissed her forehead. "And keep dancing barefoot in the grass."
And so she did.
For a little while longer.
Before the wind changed