Empress Jiang
Copyright© 2026 by Megumi Kashuahara
Chapter 7: The Return
Hanseong (Seoul), Joseon Kingdom, Autumn, 1432
Age 16
The gates of Hanseong rose before her like the jaws of a trap.
Zhao Lanying—though she would have to learn to think of herself by whatever Korean name they’d kept in the records—sat motionless in her palanquin as the procession entered the capital. Through the silk curtains, she caught glimpses of the city: wooden buildings with curved roofs, streets narrower than Beijing’s grand boulevards, people in hemp and cotton rather than silk.
Everything was smaller. More austere. More ... foreign.
This was supposed to be home.
It felt like another prison.
The procession wound through streets lined with curious onlookers. She heard whispers in Korean—the cadence familiar but the words still mostly incomprehensible.
“ ... the Chinese princess...”
“ ... twelve years in Beijing...”
“ ... does she even speak Korean anymore?”
“ ... Crown Prince must be displeased...”
That last one she understood perfectly. And it crystallized the problem she’d face from the moment she arrived: the Korean court would see her as contaminated by Chinese education, while the Crown Prince would potentially resent being married to a woman more Chinese than Korean.
She had to navigate between those two suspicions carefully.
The palanquin stopped. They’d arrived at the palace.
The palace of Hanseong was nothing like the Forbidden City.
Smaller. Wooden rather than stone. Elegant in a spare, understated way rather than the overwhelming grandeur of Beijing. The courtyards were intimate rather than vast. The whole complex felt human-scaled, as if designed for actual people rather than the projection of imperial power.
Zhao Lanying stepped from the palanquin, her Korean robes heavy and unfamiliar, and was immediately surrounded by court ladies who bowed and spoke in rapid Korean she couldn’t follow.
One older woman stepped forward. Her face was severe, her bearing aristocratic. She spoke slowly, carefully, as if addressing a child or a foreigner:
“Your Highness. I am Lady Park, Chief Court Lady to the Crown Prince’s household. Welcome home.”
The word “home” carried a slight emphasis. A test, perhaps, to see how she’d respond.
Zhao Lanying bowed in the Korean fashion—she’d practiced during the journey, though it still felt wrong compared to the Chinese style. “Lady Park. This humble daughter is grateful for your welcome.”
Her Korean was halting, accented with Mandarin tones. She saw Lady Park’s expression flicker—disappointment? Vindication?
“Your Highness’s Korean will improve with time, I’m certain,” Lady Park said with false brightness. “Come. You must be exhausted from your journey. We’ve prepared quarters for you. Tomorrow, you’ll meet His Highness the Crown Prince.”
Tomorrow. Not today.
The message was clear: they wanted time to prepare her. To assess what Beijing had done to her. To determine how much damage control would be necessary.
Her quarters were elegant but sparse compared to her rooms in the Forbidden City.
Smaller. Simpler. No elaborate scrolls on the walls, no carved furniture, no silk screens. Just clean lines, plain wood, woven mats.
It should have felt peaceful. Instead, it felt empty.
Lady Park assigned her three attendants—young women who bowed deeply and spoke Korean too rapidly for her to understand. Their names blurred together. They looked at her with curiosity and wariness in equal measure.
None of them was Mei.
When they finally left her alone, Zhao Lanying sat on the sleeping mat and allowed herself five minutes of pure panic.
She was sixteen years old. In a country she didn’t remember. Unable to speak the language fluently. About to meet a man she’d have to marry and somehow win over despite being exactly what he probably didn’t want: a Chinese-educated foreigner.
Everything she’d learned in Beijing assumed she’d be operating in a Chinese context. But this wasn’t China. The rules were different. The language was different. The expectations were different.
What if everything Madam Liu taught her was useless here?
She touched the jade pendant at her throat. The coiled dragon.
Patient. Still. Waiting.
She took a deep breath.
No. The fundamentals were the same. Power was still power. Information was still valuable. Perception still mattered more than reality.
She just had to adapt the tactics to the new context.
Starting with learning to speak Korean properly.
She called for one of her attendants. The youngest one appeared, bowing nervously.
Zhao Lanying pointed to objects around the room, asking for their Korean names. The girl relaxed slightly, apparently relieved to be teaching rather than serving.
“Table. Chaeksang.”
“Chaeksang,” Zhao Lanying repeated, committing it to memory.
“Lamp. Deung.”
“Deung.”
They continued for an hour. By the end, Zhao Lanying had learned fifty words and understood the basic grammar pattern. Her attendant seemed surprised by how quickly she grasped the language structure.
Beijing had taught her how to learn. She’d use that now.
By tomorrow’s meeting with the Crown Prince, she’d know at least basic conversational Korean. Not fluent, but enough to demonstrate she was trying to reclaim her heritage.
Perception mattered. And she needed to be perceived as Korean enough to be acceptable, but Chinese enough to be valuable.
It was a narrow path.
But she’d walked narrower ones in the Forbidden City.
That night, she dreamed of her mother’s face.
For the first time in twelve years, the memory returned with clarity. Her mother’s eyes—sad but resigned. Her mother’s hands—rough from work, gentle when they touched her daughter’s hair.
Her mother saying goodbye in a language she could no longer fully understand.
Zhao Lanying woke with tears on her face. She wiped them away roughly, angry at the weakness.
But part of her wondered: was her mother still alive? Did she remember her fourth daughter? Did she know the girl she’d lost was returning?
Questions with no answers. And asking them would only make her vulnerable.
She couldn’t afford vulnerability.
Not yet.
Morning came with elaborate preparation.
The court ladies dressed her in formal Korean robes—layer upon layer of silk in prescribed colors. White undergarment, then pale pink, then deep crimson, then an outer robe of midnight blue embroidered with phoenixes and peonies.
They painted her face in the Korean style—white powder, red lips, darkened eyebrows. Dressed her hair in the elaborate style of a Crown Princess, held with gold pins and jade ornaments.
When they finished, she looked in the bronze mirror and saw a stranger.
A Korean princess.
But her eyes—the eyes were still hers. Still calculating. Still Chinese in their expression.
She’d have to learn to mask that too.
Lady Park arrived to escort her to the Crown Prince’s receiving chamber.
“Some advice, Your Highness,” the older woman said as they walked through the corridors. “His Highness the Crown Prince is ... cautious. Scholarly. He values propriety and correctness. Do not be too forward. Do not display too much of your Chinese learning. Be humble. Respectful. Appropriately feminine.”
In other words: hide everything that makes you valuable.
Zhao Lanying bowed her head. “This daughter understands.”
But inside, she was already calculating. The Crown Prince valued scholarship but wanted her to hide hers. That was useful information. It meant he was insecure—worried that a wife more educated than him would diminish his authority.
She could work with that.
She’d make him feel superior while quietly becoming indispensable.
It was exactly the dynamic Madam Liu had warned her to establish.
The Crown Prince’s receiving chamber was elegant and understated.
Scrolls of classical poetry on the walls. A low table with tea implements arranged just so. Subtle luxury rather than obvious wealth.
Crown Prince Munjong sat at the head of the table, waiting.
He was eighteen. Handsome in a refined way—delicate features, intelligent eyes, the bearing of someone raised to rule but not yet confident in that destiny. He wore scholar’s robes rather than more martial dress.
Everything about him said: I am educated. I am cultured. I am not a warrior.
Zhao Lanying entered and performed the formal bow—forehead to the floor, the deepest obeisance. Longer than strictly necessary. Making a point.
“Your Highness does this unworthy woman great honor,” she said in her halting Korean.
Munjong gestured for her to rise. His expression was carefully neutral, but she saw his eyes taking her in—evaluating, assessing.
“You may sit,” he said.
She knelt across from him, hands folded, eyes down. The picture of Korean feminine modesty.
“Your journey was safe?” he asked. Formal. Distant.
“Yes, Your Highness. The Ming Emperor was most generous in providing escort and comfort.”
A flicker of something in his expression. Annoyance? She’d mentioned the Ming Emperor deliberately—establishing that she had connections there, that she wasn’t without resources.
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