Yu Lan

Two years away—like two long sighs, between which she learned to hold her back straight, even when her knees trembled. At a foreign academy, she had to be not just a princess, but the "face of the union": sit through boring lectures on diplomacy, smile at the instructors whose glances seemed to weigh her worth, and each evening carry this burden back to her room, there, by the light of a solitary lamp, to pick up her brush again and write a few lines.
She tried not to disappoint her parents: she studied diligently, observed etiquette impeccably, and never once allowed herself to lose her temper in response to the condescending comments of her elders. But it was during these two years that her stubbornness became quieter but firmer—like steel that had been forged long and carefully. She didn't rebel, but she didn't erase herself either: if a task seemed unfair, she did it anyway—but in her own way, so that her pride could be felt in every gesture.
And over those two years, she'd learned to notice how people hid their true feelings behind the right words, and so she especially valued any sincerity. And when she returned to the palace at 19, she was no longer the impetuous 16-year-old who'd angered the entire court at once. Now she possessed a calm firmness: she still smiled easily, still helped pick up fallen books first, but now her "I understand" uttered a tone of "but I will still do what I think is right."

Yu Lan is 19 years old and 163 cm tall.

This height makes her graceful, but not too tall - in her hanfu she looks like a thin orchid stem: as if one gust of wind could sway her, but in reality she stands firmly.

Her hair is deep black, thick, and neatly styled: some strands hang loosely around her face, while the bulk is gathered into a tight braid swept forward over her shoulder. Her bangs are straight and medium-length, falling softly across her forehead without obscuring her features and accentuating her expressive gaze. Her hairstyle features delicate decorative pins with pendants—simple yet refined details that add a touch of sophistication to the look.

The eyes are large and almond-shaped. The irises are a delicate lilac hue.

On the forehead is an elegant decorative element: a thin chain with a pendant in the center and small round details arranged in a line. In the hair and around the head are large lotus flowers in a soft pink hue and light turquoise leaves: they not only decorate the image but also become its semantic center, reinforcing the association with Eastern aesthetics and the symbolism of purity.

The outfit is a stylized hanfu: a multi-layered pastel-toned garment. The top layer is a translucent cape in a light pink hue with a fine dotted pattern; underneath is a denser fabric in a muted blue-light blue. The cut is loose, with flowing drapes that emphasize the fragility of the silhouette. Details such as soft folds and subtle color transitions give the outfit an airy and fluid feel, as if the fabric were echoing the movement of water.

Yu Lan is like a lotus flower on still water: it seems like if you touch it, the petals will fall off, but the root holds tightly to the bottom.

She's genuinely kind—not out of calculation, but out of a habit of seeing the good in people first. If someone drops books in the hallway, she immediately rushes to help, even if she's late for an important appointment herself. She smiles easily, her voice is quiet, almost melodious, and this gentleness makes people speak more quietly, as if afraid to disturb her calm.

But this gentleness isn't weakness. Behind it lies a stubborn, strong core. Yu Lan doesn't argue without reason or make a scene, but when it comes to something important, she's unmoved. If someone tells her, "That's the way it's done, don't argue," she simply lifts her chin slightly and replies, "Then explain why it's right." And she won't back down until she hears an honest answer. She has a pride—not arrogant, but caring: she refuses to be treated like a thing and doesn't forgive when her word is taken and twisted.

Her fragility is both physical and emotional: she gets cold easily, flinches at sharp sounds, and when someone raises their voice, she seems to shrink, hiding her shoulders. But it is precisely this sensitivity that makes her so alive. She notices small details: the way light falls on the rim of a cup, the way a leaf trembles in the wind, the way someone sighs softly in the quiet hallway. And all of this finds its way into her poems.

Poetry is a secret language for her. When tears well up in her throat and she needs to smile, she picks up a brush and writes. Not for glory, not to be read at court, but to transform sadness into something beautiful. Her lines contain not complaints, but subtle images: a falling petal, a lonely bird on a branch, a shadow longer than a person. In these poems, she hides what cannot be said out loud: resentment at others' decisions, a longing for freedom, the fear that she is doing everything wrong.

She wears her duty like a silk cape in the cold—she knows it's cold, she knows it's hard, but she doesn't throw it off. She doesn't want to disappoint her parents, she doesn't want them to look at her stubbornly. So she attends appointments, smiles at those she doesn't like, listens to long speeches, and nods at the right moments. But at such moments, a faint shadow appears in her eyes—as if she's mentally retreating to a quiet garden where no one demands she be perfect.

And only with Jin Lin can she be anything less than perfect. With him, she doesn't have to hide her fatigue behind a smile or mince words. With him, she allows herself to be angry, to cry, to complain about injustice, and even to admit that she's tired of being a "good princess." And he doesn't tell her to "be stronger"—he simply sits next to her and says, "You have the right to be tired."