In the heart of Jincheng, where golden eaves caught the last light of the setting sun, the imperial palace stood in serene majesty. Pavilions cast long shadows over lotus ponds; the faint fragrance of sandalwood drifted from the Hall of Radiance. To the world, it was a realm of order and beauty — but within Princess Li Xinyue’s chambers, the air was thick with the weight of an unwanted decree.

Earlier that day, her father, His Majesty Emperor Li Yuan, had summoned her to the Jade Throne Hall. Surrounded by ministers and court ladies, the decree was read aloud by the Grand Eunuch:

“By the will of Heaven, our cherished daughter, Princess of Jincheng, shall be wed to the Second Prince of the Tuokhani Clan of Xinbei, in the month of first frost, to strengthen the bonds between the Empire and the northern steppe.”

Xinyue had knelt, her forehead pressing to the cold jade tiles, her voice steady as she answered, “I obey.” Yet behind lowered lashes, her heart churned. She had never laid eyes upon this Second Prince, only heard of his victories on the battlefield and the wolf banners of his people. Marriage to a stranger from the nomadic north was a fate she could not — would not — accept.

For two nights she slept little, staring at the lattice windows where moonlight fell in pale squares, listening to the rustle of wind through the pines. And on the eve of the third night, she made her decision.

The plan was simple, though the risk was great. Two days before she was to leave for the Imperial Palace of Xinbei — Tengri Fortress, as the nomads called it — she would vanish from the capital. Disappear into the north, to the safety of her mother’s younger brother, General Shen Shucheng, commander of the Northern Border Garrison.

It was Xiaohua, her loyal maid since childhood, who first whispered the possibility.

“Your Highness,” she murmured as she brushed out Xinyue’s hair by candlelight, “if we leave tonight, under the cover of the guard’s shift change, we might reach the city gates before dawn. Once outside the capital, no one will dare stop us on the main trade road.”

Xinyue’s gaze flickered to the bronze mirror. In it, she saw not a princess, but a girl cornered by fate.

“And when the gate guards ask for our pass?” she asked quietly.

“I have thought of that.” Xiaohua glanced toward a bundle hidden beneath her bed. “You will not be the Princess of Jincheng tonight. You will be Lady Wen Rou of the Wen Household in the West Quarter — a noblewoman gravely ill, sent to the countryside to ‘recuperate.’ The guards will not question the word of a respected family.”

Xinyue considered it. The disguise was not perfect, but desperation left no room for perfection.

By the time the palace lanterns were dimmed and the night watch beat their drums twice, the two were ready. Xinyue had shed her silks for a plain indigo cloak, her hair bound in a modest knot beneath a woolen hood. A touch of rice powder paled her cheeks, and a careful smear of grey ink beneath her eyes gave the illusion of long illness. Xiaohua carried their bundle: a change of clothes, a few pieces of silver, and a sealed letter for General Shen.

The corridor beyond her quarters was empty, the guards at the corner changing shift — one yawning, the other adjusting his halberd. They slipped into the shadow of the covered walkway, their footsteps muffled on the wooden planks.

Every heartbeat felt louder than the night wind.

They reached the lesser gate of the palace compound, where the wall met the servants’ quarters. A sleepy guard squinted at them through the gloom.

“Your pass?”

Xiaohua stepped forward, lowering her head respectfully. “This is Lady Wen Rou of the West Quarter. Her health worsened these past nights, and the imperial physicians advised rest beyond the city’s damp air. We beg your leniency, Officer.”

The guard hesitated, his eyes moving to Xinyue. Beneath her hood, she let out a shallow cough, her shoulders trembling. The guard frowned, perhaps uneasy at the thought of standing too close to sickness.

He took the folded pass Xiaohua presented — a borrowed token from a sympathetic palace steward — and, after a cursory glance, waved them through. “Go on. May the Heavens grant you swift recovery, my lady.”

The capital gates loomed ahead, their massive bronze hinges glinting under the watchtowers’ torchlight. At night, they opened only for special permission, and always under guard. Here was the final barrier.

They approached slowly, the chill of the midnight air sharp against their faces. Two soldiers stood at attention, halberds crossed.

“State your name and business,” one barked.

Xiaohua bowed again, repeating the story. The soldier examined their pass under the flickering torch. “Lady Wen Rou…” he muttered, “I’ve heard the Wen family’s daughter has been ailing for years.”

Xinyue gave another cough, weaker this time, her breath coming in short gasps. Her eyes glistened faintly in the torchlight — not from acting, but from the cold biting into her lungs.

The soldier exchanged a glance with his comrade, then lifted the halberd. “Very well. The night road is dangerous. Stay close to the patrol if you can.”

The gates creaked open, revealing the dark expanse of the northern road, the stars spilling like frost over the endless plain.

Xinyue tightened her cloak, one hand resting against her heart. Beyond those gates lay uncertainty, danger — and freedom.

Without looking back, she stepped into the night.

Far from the Capital, in the humble farming village of Shuixi, Lin Qiaoyun gripped the edge of the wooden window frame, listening to the drunken laughter outside. The flickering lamplight from the main hall cast her stepmother’s shadow across the courtyard, tall and predatory.

Her father had been dead for years, leaving her in the care of a woman whose greed was matched only by her cruelty. Tonight, the stepmother celebrated the bargain she had struck: selling Qiaoyun as the tenth concubine of an aging county official — a man infamous for wine, gambling, and the ruin of young women.

Qiaoyun’s protests had been met with a locked door and threats. The wedding robe — red silk embroidered with gold — lay folded on the table like a shroud.

Her heart pounded. She had heard tales of the North since childhood — lands of open skies, markets filled with foreign spices, and fierce horsemen. She had promised herself, one day, she would see it.

That day had to be tonight.

When the guards her stepmother had hired dozed off in the courtyard, Qiaoyun tied her meager belongings in a bundle and slipped out through the goat pen. She barely reached the outskirts when a sharp whistle split the night — the alarm was raised.

Men with clubs and torches surged after her, shouting orders to capture her alive. She fled into the dark fields, the soil still damp from the day’s rain, the tall reeds slicing at her arms.

A hand caught her sleeve; she wrenched free, tearing the cloth. One man lunged, but she flung a fistful of dirt into his eyes and darted toward the forest. The shouts grew fainter as she plunged deeper, her breath ragged, until only the wind and the creak of branches remained.

By dawn, she was on the northern road — bruised, scratched, but free.

Two women, unknown to each other, now traveled toward the same horizon.

One in a hired carriage with a guarded heart, fleeing duty.

One on foot with a torn sleeve, fleeing ruin.

Neither knew that their paths would soon cross — and that the North would change both their lives forever.

The sun was leaning westward, its light filtering through a canopy of towering pines. Shafts of golden warmth spilled across the uneven forest path, dappling the roof of the carriage as it rolled steadily along. The wheels crunched over loose stones and roots, accompanied only by the creak of wood and the rhythmic snorts of the two black horses pulling it.

Inside the carriage, Li Xinyue leaned slightly against the cushioned wall, her gaze distant. She rarely traveled without reason, and this route toward the northern territories had been planned in meticulous detail. The air outside carried a crispness unique to the borderlands — colder, sharper — a silent reminder they were moving further away from the central provinces.

A sudden jolt snapped her out of thought.

The horses reared violently, neighing in alarm. The carriage lurched to a sharp halt, and Xinyue’s hand instinctively gripped the armrest.

“What is going on?” Her voice was calm but carried authority.

From outside, Xiaohua’s startled tone followed. “Mistress, something… someone is in the road!”

Xinyue’s brow furrowed. “Check.”

The sound of her attendant’s hurried footsteps faded as Xiaohua climbed down. A moment later, muffled voices drifted in, along with the rustle of fabric and the faint, fragile sound of shallow breathing.

When Xiaohua returned, her face was pale. “Mistress… it’s a young woman. She’s collapsed right in front of the horses. She—she looks like she hasn’t eaten or drunk for days. Her lips are cracked, her skin is ice-cold.”

Xinyue tapped the wood beside her with a single finger, thinking. This stretch of road was deserted — the nearest town was still about two shichen away by carriage. Abandoning someone in this condition here would be a death sentence.

“Bring her inside,” Xinyue said at last.

The girl was lifted carefully into the carriage, her head lolling limply against Xiaohua’s shoulder. Even under the grime and tangle of her hair, she had delicate features — but her face was drawn and her complexion frighteningly pale.

As the carriage moved again, Xinyue kept her gaze fixed on the stranger. “What do you make of her?” she asked Xiaohua.

Xiaohua adjusted the blanket over the girl. “She’s wearing fine embroidery, but the thread is worn… and the shoes on her feet are too thin for travel. I don’t think she’s from the north. And…” she hesitated, “Mistress, her arms… they have fresh rope marks.”

Xinyue’s eyes narrowed. “So she ran from something.”

Silence settled for a moment, broken only by the steady creak of the wheels. Then Xinyue spoke again, her tone dry. “If she turns out to be trouble, you’ll be the one explaining why she’s here.”

They reached Qinghe Town as dusk deepened. Oil lamps were being lit one by one, casting pools of warm light onto the cobbled streets. Merchants were closing their stalls, the smell of grilled meat and steamed buns mingling with the faint chill of night air.

The inn they chose was modest but clean — red lanterns swayed gently over the doorway, and the sound of laughter drifted from the main hall. Once inside, Xinyue ordered a private room and immediately summoned the local physician.

The doctor, a wiry man with sharp eyes, arrived with a worn medicine chest. After examining the unconscious girl, he shook his head. “Severe exhaustion. Dehydration. She’s lucky to have been found when she was — another night and she might not have woken at all.”

“Will she live?” Xinyue asked.

“With proper care and rest, yes. But she’ll need at least two days before she regains full consciousness.”

So they waited.

For two days, the girl lay still, her breathing light but steady. Xinyue busied herself with travel arrangements while Xiaohua tended to the patient, spooning broth between her lips and wiping away the sweat that sometimes gathered on her brow.

On the morning of the third day, the silence in the room broke.

A sudden gasp. A rustle of bed sheets.

The girl sat upright, eyes wide, her breath coming fast. She looked wildly around, taking in the unfamiliar walls, the carved wooden screen by the window, the faint smell of herbal medicine.

When the door slid open, Xiaohua entered carrying a basin of water. She froze mid-step, her eyes widening.

“You’re awake!” she blurted, startled enough that the basin slipped from her hands. Water splashed across the polished floor. “Mistress—!”

She darted out, calling for Xinyue.

Moments later, Lady Xinyue stepped into the room, her presence filling the space with an unspoken command. She was not smiling, but neither was her expression unkind — simply measured, as though weighing the worth of what she saw before her.

“I see you are awake at last,” Xinyue said, her tone smooth as silk yet carrying the faintest trace of amusement.

The girl stiffened. Her eyes narrowed with guarded suspicion. “Who are you? Where am I? What is this place?”

“This is the Qinghe Inn, in Qinghe Town,” Xinyue replied evenly. She crossed the room, stopping a few paces from the bed. “Three days ago, you appeared in front of my carriage — quite literally — and collapsed. Given that the road was deserted, I had two options: leave you to die, or bring you with me. I imagine you can guess which I chose.”

Her words carried a faint, sarcastic lilt.

The girl’s fingers tightened around the blanket, her wariness deepening. “Why help me?”

Xinyue’s lips curved in a faint, unreadable smile. “Because, as inconvenient as you were, I dislike leaving debts to fate. You were… an unavoidable interruption.”

The girl’s jaw tightened, her suspicion unsoftened. But beneath it, there was something else—weariness so deep it seemed carved into her bones.

And for the first time, Xinyue wondered what kind of road this stranger had walked to end up alone, half-dead, in the middle of nowhere.

Outside, the sounds of Qinghe Town drifted in — a hawker’s call, the clatter of chopsticks, the low hum of evening conversation. Inside, the air between them hung taut, as though both were measuring the other’s worth in silence.

Day One – The Market & Unwanted Attention

The morning mist clung to the tiled roofs of Qinghe Town, turning the world into soft shades of grey and silver. The streets had already begun to stir; merchants lifted the shutters of their shops, calling out half-hearted greetings to their neighbors, while the scent of steaming buns and fried sesame cakes drifted into the air.

Inside the small inn at the edge of the main street, Xinyue tightened the last knot on her sash. Her movements were neat and deliberate—an unspoken grace that betrayed her noble upbringing, no matter how plain her clothingThey thrive where no one pays attention. Xiaohua, ever attentive, fastened the woven basket across her back.

“You’re certain you don’t want to rest a little longer, Miss?” the maid asked in a low voice.

Xinyue’s eyes flicked toward the small chamber where Qiaoyun lay. “She should rest. We can’t linger in Qinghe too long, but pushing her now will only worsen her condition.”

The plan was simple—Xinyue and Xiaohua would go to the morning market for dried provisions and medicinal herbs. Qiaoyun, weak from the days of travel and the night she collapsed on the roadside, would remain at the inn under the care of the innkeeper’s wife.

Yet even before they reached the busy heart of Qinghe, Xinyue’s sharp instincts stirred. At the corner of her vision, she caught sight of a man—broad-shouldered, with a beard that had not been trimmed for weeks—pretending to examine a stall of copper trinkets. His gaze flickered too often in her direction.

She kept walking, but her steps slowed imperceptibly as she let him pass, then resumed at her own pace. When they reached the spice vendor’s stall, Xiaohua leaned closer. “Miss… that man has been behind us since the west gate.”

Xinyue did not answer. She tested a pouch of peppercorns, letting the tiny beads fall into her palm, then spoke in a tone only Xiaohua could hear. “If he draws nearer, make it obvious we’ve noticed.”

Sure enough, by the time they reached the herb-seller, the man had sidled closer, his eyes fixed on the leather strap of Xinyue’s coin purse. Xiaohua moved as if to block him, her basket swinging just enough to graze his side.

“Sir,” Xinyue’s voice cut through the hum of the market—low, calm, but carrying an edge like drawn steel. “You seem very interested in us. Perhaps you have business to discuss?”

The man’s eyes darted from her face to the coin purse, then away. He muttered something under his breath before melting into the crowd.

Only then did Xiaohua exhale. “Brazen thieves even in broad daylight…”

“They flourish in the cracks where no one bothers to look,” Xinyue murmured, tying the herb packet and placing it into the basket. Her gaze lingered briefly on the busy street, where the man’s shadow had disappeared. “But it’s always worth paying attention.”

Back at the inn, Qiaoyun awoke to the distant calls of street vendors. She tried to push herself upright, frustration tightening her features. The four walls of the room seemed to press inward, the muffled laughter from the common room below only deepening her restlessness.

She managed the stairs halfway before her knees buckled. The innkeeper’s wife, a sturdy woman with kind eyes, rushed forward, catching her arm. “Aiyo, miss, you’re pale as paper! Back to bed with you before you fall again.”

Qiaoyun tried to argue, but her voice faltered under the woman’s fussing. By the time Xinyue returned, the girl was already tucked back into bed, a folded quilt placed under her feet to warm them.

Xinyue set the basket down and took in the scene, her expression unreadable—but the faintest sigh left her lips.

“Rest, Qiaoyun. The streets will still be here tomorrow.”

Day Two – A Storm and Stories by Candlelight

By noon, the skies over Qinghe had turned the color of pewter, heavy clouds pressing low above the rooftops. The wind carried the damp scent of rain, rustling through the rows of paper lanterns strung across the street.

Inside the inn’s narrow dining hall, the light was dim, the windows shuttered against the coming downpour. A few travelers lingered over bowls of steaming millet porridge, speaking in hushed tones.

Xinyue sat by the window, idly tracing a finger along the rim of her teacup. The market trip the previous day had replenished their supplies, but she knew they couldn’t remain in Qinghe without drawing questions. Still… with Qiaoyun’s color only slightly improved, leaving now would be reckless.

The first drops of rain fell—soft, scattered taps against the tiled roof. Then, as though some invisible dam had burst, the storm descended in earnest. Water streamed down the eaves, blurring the view beyond the glass.

Upstairs, Qiaoyun sat cross-legged on her bed, staring at the rivulets of water racing down the wooden frame. “I’ve never seen rain fall this hard,” she murmured, more to herself than to Xiaohua, who was folding laundry nearby.

“It’s Qinghe,” Xiaohua said, glancing out the window. “The mountains catch the clouds, and they empty themselves in one sweep. By morning, the streets will smell of wet earth and plum blossoms.”

That evening, when the rain still hadn’t stopped, Xinyue carried a small oil lamp into Qiaoyun’s room. The wind outside howled like a restless spirit, rattling the shutters, but the lamp’s glow wrapped the room in a cocoon of golden warmth.

Qiaoyun was awake, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. “Couldn’t sleep,” she admitted. “It’s… too loud.”

Xiaohua was already setting down a tray—dried jujube tea, and a small plate of sesame sweets they’d bought that morning. “Then we’ll talk until the storm grows bored of us.”

What began as idle conversation soon wandered into gentler territory—memories of the villages they’d passed, the people they’d met along the road, and even fragments of childhood mischief.

Qiaoyun spoke of the pear orchard behind her father’s estate, where she used to hide to avoid embroidery lessons. Xiaohua countered with tales of the capital’s bustling west market, where street performers could balance on porcelain bowls while juggling knives.

Xinyue listened quietly for a long while, the flicker of the oil lamp dancing in her eyes. At last, she offered her own story—softly, almost reluctantly—about a winter in Jincheng when snow had fallen for seven days without pause. The palace courtyards had turned into white oceans, and she had stood alone at the gates, watching the flakes swallow the city walls.

For a moment, the sound of rain seemed farther away, replaced by the hush of falling snow in their minds.

By the time the lamp’s oil ran low, Qiaoyun’s eyelids had grown heavy. Xinyue rose, setting the blanket more snugly around her shoulders.

“Sleep,” she said quietly. “The storm will tire itself out by morning.”

And for the first time in days, Qiaoyun drifted off without a trace of fever in her cheeks.

Day Three– An Unexpected Visitor at Dusk

The rain eased by midmorning, leaving the air cool and washed clean. Qinghe’s streets glistened under the pale sunlight, puddles mirroring the dangling red lanterns above.

By afternoon, the inn had grown livelier—farmers delivering sacks of millet, merchants stopping for tea before continuing their routes. From the upper floor, Xinyue could hear the low hum of conversations mingling with the clink of porcelain cups.

Qiaoyun’s fever had broken completely, though she still moved with caution. Today, she had insisted on sitting by the window to watch the street. A faint smile played at her lips whenever children ran past chasing a hoop or a stray dog darted between stalls.

Xiaohua, as always, had gone downstairs to fetch hot water. Left alone with Qiaoyun, Xinyue found herself oddly at ease, the days in Qinghe settling into a rhythm she hadn’t expected to enjoy.

But as dusk fell, that calm shifted.

The first sign was subtle—the sound of a horse’s hooves slowing outside the inn. Xinyue, instinct honed over years of court life, straightened. Few rode through Qinghe at this hour unless they had purpose.

From the crack in the shutters, she saw him: a man in a deep green travel cloak, the hood drawn low. He dismounted with the practiced ease of someone accustomed to long roads, his boots splashing in the shallow puddles.

She expected him to head toward the stable, but instead he entered the inn. Moments later, faint voices drifted up from below—the innkeeper’s polite tone, the stranger’s lower, measured replies.

Qiaoyun tilted her head. “Is something wrong?”

“Just a traveler,” Xinyue replied, though her eyes remained on the stairwell.

The man didn’t take a seat in the dining hall. Instead, he asked something—too quiet for Xinyue to catch—and the innkeeper’s voice grew hesitant. A moment later, the man’s boots began to ascend the stairs.

Xinyue rose, her expression unchanged but her mind sharp. She had no reason to be recognized here… yet the stranger’s measured steps carried an unhurried certainty, as though he already knew who he sought.

When he reached the landing, his gaze swept the corridor, lingering just a moment too long on their door before moving on.

He passed without knocking.

Only after his footsteps faded did Xinyue release the slow breath she’d been holding.

From her seat, Qiaoyun watched her. “He’s not here for supper, is he?”

“No,” Xinyue murmured. “And I would like to know why.”

Outside, the last traces of daylight bled into night, and somewhere down the street, the sound of the man’s horse shifting in its stall echoed like a quiet warning.

Day Four– The Lantern Street Festival

The morning broke soft and golden, mist curling lazily along the tiled rooftops of Qinghe. Merchants were already setting out bundles of silk, candied fruits, and strings of paper lanterns in anticipation of the festival. The town seemed to hum with an unspoken excitement; even the usually reserved innkeeper had a spring in his step as he polished the front counter.

Qiaoyun’s cheeks had regained some color, and Xiaohua had coaxed her into wearing a pale blue jacket embroidered with clouds. “It’s the festival,” Xiaohua had declared, “and if we don’t go out, we’ll miss the best part of Qinghe.”

Xinyue agreed, though for reasons she kept to herself. The man from yesterday lingered in her thoughts like an unplayed note in a song. She hadn’t seen him again, but her instincts told her he had not yet left town.

By dusk, the streets glowed with light. Red and gold lanterns swayed above, their silk sides painted with cranes, lotuses, and verses from old poems. Vendors called out cheerfully over the crowd, offering skewers of grilled chestnuts, steaming cups of sweet rice wine, and delicate sugar figurines spun into the shapes of foxes and rabbits.

The three of them strolled together, Xiaohua buying a paper fan painted with plum blossoms for Qiaoyun, while Xinyue allowed herself a rare cup of chrysanthemum tea. Children darted between stalls, their laughter ringing against the soft lilt of flutes and drums from the central square.

Yet Xinyue’s gaze was never still.

Each time a figure in a dark cloak passed, she felt the faint prickle of alertness rise in her spine. Once, she thought she caught the same steady gait as the man from yesterday—moving in the opposite direction across the crowd—but when she turned fully, he was gone.

They reached the riverbank just as the floating lanterns began. Townsfolk knelt by the water’s edge, setting small reed rafts adrift, each bearing a candle and a strip of paper with handwritten wishes. The flames shimmered on the current, carrying their light slowly downstream.

Qiaoyun crouched, whispering something to her lantern before letting it go. Xiaohua released hers with a grin, the candlelight reflecting in her eyes.

When it was Xinyue’s turn, she held the little raft a moment longer than necessary. She wrote nothing on the slip of paper, only watched the lantern until it was swallowed by distance, its glow mingling with the hundreds of others.

She felt someone’s gaze then—not from the water, but from behind. Turning slightly, she caught a figure at the edge of the crowd, half-hidden in shadow.

The hooded man.

He did not move toward her, nor away—merely watching, as though content to wait.

A gust of wind stirred the lanterns overhead, and when she looked again, he was gone.

The music from the square swelled, drowning out the rush of the river. Xinyue took a quiet sip of her cooling tea, the warmth grounding her, even as unease wove itself through the night’s fragile beauty.

Day Five – The Sudden Storm

The morning began unremarkably—quiet drizzle, low clouds, and the scent of wet earth rising from the streets. It was the kind of weather Qinghe wore well, softening the edges of tiled eaves and muting the colors of the market stalls.

Xinyue, Qiaoyun, and Xiaohua had spent the early hours indoors, sharing breakfast by the window. Qiaoyun was practicing her calligraphy on scraps of paper, her brow furrowed in earnest concentration. Xiaohua fussed over the inn’s potted chrysanthemums, humming as she pinched away faded petals.

By noon, the rain had stilled to a fine mist, and the trio decided to venture out. The streets were quieter than during the festival—many vendors had yet to open—but the air carried that fresh, damp sweetness unique to towns bordered by river and forest.

They stopped at a bookseller’s stall tucked into an alley, where the air was thick with the scent of ink and old bamboo scroll cases. Xinyue lingered over a bound volume of travel poems, her fingertips grazing the neat brushstrokes.

That was when she felt it again—someone watching.

Her back straightened imperceptibly. She turned slowly, scanning the flow of passersby. At first, nothing. Then, near the mouth of the alley, a tall figure in a dark cloak stepped aside to let a cart pass. His hood was pulled low, but even at this distance she could feel his gaze.

She closed the book with deliberate calm.

“Shall we?” she asked, her voice steady.

Xiaohua and Qiaoyun followed without question, and they resumed walking toward the open street. Yet the man did not vanish this time. He followed—always at a respectful distance, but close enough that she could hear the faint rhythm of his boots on the damp stones.

The sky darkened unnaturally fast. Thick clouds rolled in from the east, smothering the silver daylight. The air shifted, heavy with the metallic scent of oncoming rain.

Then the storm broke.

Wind tore down the street, sending lanterns swinging and scattering sheets of paper from the bookseller’s stall. Vendors hurried to shutter their stalls as rain lashed sideways, drumming against wood and tile.

“Here!” Xiaohua shouted over the wind, pulling Qiaoyun toward a tea house whose carved doors stood open. They ducked inside, warm light spilling across the wet threshold.

Xinyue was the last to enter—and that was when the man appeared before her.

Up close, he was taller than she expected, his cloak darkened by rain, droplets sliding down its folds. He made no move to block her path, only inclined his head slightly, as though in greeting.

For a heartbeat, the storm outside faded from her awareness.

His voice, when it came, was low and even.

“Princess Jincheng.”

The title struck the air between them like the toll of a hidden bell.

Her pulse leapt, but her expression did not waver. She stepped past him into the tea house without a word, the warmth of the interior wrapping around her as she did.

When she dared glance back, the man was still outside, rain falling hard around him—watching.