At night time, Thăng Long Citadel seemed draped in a thousand-year-old mantle of solemnity, a sacred silence so profound that one could hear the ticking of time dripping onto the moss-covered tiles, onto the trembling old leaves in the night breeze. Atop the bell tower of Báo Thiên Temple, Chiêu Hoàng stood still, with only the wind stirring, gently tugging at her thin silk robe as if whispering something to her from a realm of dreams.
Chiêu Hoàng—an eighteen-year-old girl bearing the title of princess—tilted her head to gaze at the vast expanse above. The night sky of Thăng Long Citadel was crystal clear, boundless, without moon or clouds, only the North Star constellation twinkling as if sending her a message, like a late-night candle guiding wanderers through the darkness of worldly affairs.
She remembered a time when Grand Preceptor cum Right Chancellor Lý Đạo Thành had taken her to the Astrology Tower in Phụng Thiên Palace, pointing toward the North Star and saying:
"Astrology is not about changing the mandate of god but understanding the hearts and minds of people within that mandate."
She was so young then. She didn't understand what he meant. To her, the seven stars resembled the coconut shell dipper that farmers used to scoop water from the river to the paddy fields. She had giggled when the Grand Preceptor said the normal people called it the "Ladle Star."
"Because it really looks like a farmer's water dipper, doesn't it, Grand Preceptor?"
He had nodded and laughed along with her. His laugh was deep and warm, like the sound of a commanding drum, blending with her clear, bell-like laughter. Then, stroking his beard, he resumed the solemn demeanor befitting a high-ranking scholar-official:
"Please, Princess, do not make too much joke. The North Star is the only fixed point in the night sky. For thousands of years, it has never strayed from the north. Because of it, people do not lose their way in the darkness. Because of it, wanderers can find their way back to their homeland."
Recalling these words, Chiêu Hoàng sighed. Tomorrow, she would have to leave the Thăng Long Citadel. Not because she wished it, but because the others had decided for her. Not because her heart yearned for the south, but because every political movement had pointed toward that direction.
She, a girl not yet fully grown, not yet become a woman like other normal ones, had been burdened with a heavy yoke on her delicate shoulders, engraved with three words: "for the sake of the country." And now, for that same "country," they were about to send her away like a pawn sacrificed on a gigantic chessboard.
To the south—a place she did not belong, where she was not born—to become a queen, a wife, to bear a child, to vie for power, to become a part of the plans of those who never once asked her: Did she want this?
And in the south, she would have to look up at the North Star every night—where her homeland lay. She tilted her head back. The night breeze swept through her flowing hair, soft as clouds.
She raised the Lưu Ly wine gourd and drained it. The fiery liquor wasn't enough to make her drunk, but it was enough to ignite a smoldering flame in her chest. It was both anger and despair.
She raised her hand, intending to fling the gourd away to ease her pain, but under the faint glow of the torchlight from the northern watchtower, she noticed two lines of poetry etched on the gourd's surface. What strange and sorrowful is. The words seemed to appear and just said as her heart was most saying:
"Lưu Ly wine poured with bowed knees,
Offered to parents before following your fiance."
The verse pierced her like a needle through the scarred skin of her fate. She didn't know who had written it. Perhaps a silent royal maid, who had once drunk farewell wine, knelt to offer it to her parents with tears streaming into the cup of wine.
Tonight, it was she who read it—a young girl born in silk and brocade, raised amidst gold and splendor, and soon to leave behind all that she held dear without a choice. That verse—that destiny—seemed etched on the gourd she had unknowingly chosen from the royal stores.
Perhaps nothing was by chance. The so-called "fate" that people invoked to force a young girl into marriage, to compel an innocent princess to become a national symbol, was not far away. Perhaps it lay right there, in the trembling hands holding the empty gourd.
She let out a laugh. A bitter laugh, sharper than the wine's sting. Then she swung her arm. This time, the gourd flew far, crashing onto the roof of Thái Hòa Palace, shattering with a clatter in the silent night. The sound of broken pottery was heartbreaking, like a young girl's dreams crushed in the cold citadel.
"Who's there?" A sharp shout broke the silence.
Ah… that voice. It was Ngô Tuấn, the Imperial Guard Commandant—the young man she had silently watched for years. The one who quietly walked beside her in ceremonies, bowing under torchlight, silently escorting her whenever she left the forbidden palace. The one who, in all those years, had never spoken a single word to her. The one who, if he had only been brave enough—just one time.
If he had only reached out his steady hand to her hand and said, "Don't go." Just one time only. She would have cast aside everything—royal title and kingdom, richness and luxuries—to follow him to the ends of the earth, to any place where free of cold and calculating faces and hands stained with blood in the name of the realm and the country.
But he remained a silent, lovesick statue, still as stone, like a clay guardian in front of the pagoda gate. Handsome and sturdy, but motionless. Only to be admired. Why was he in the forbidden palace at this hour? Another scheme of Trần Thủ Độ? Another chess move about to be played? Another person to be traded in the name of the nation?
She no longer believed in coincidences. No longer trusted tender glances or polite greetings. She no longer believed in the gold bracelet he had given her during the victory ceremony. The bracelet she had worn for a year was a silent commitment, as an untold agreement, "I accept!" that she could not speak.
He could not dare to say it. And she could not say it. It was a tragedy of both fates.
Now, the gold bracelet only felt heavy, like a shackle, locking away a young girl's dreams. She pulled the gold bracelet off. The cold metal against her skin made her shiver.
A moment of hesitation. Then, she clenched her fist and threw it toward the source of the shout. The bracelet flew, like her faith, uprooted and cast away.