Chapter Five — At the General’s Residence

The road from Qinghe Town to the northern garrison’s main settlement stretched on for hours, winding through gentle hills that gradually flattened into expansive plains dotted with hardy pines swaying in the crisp early-winter breeze. The road curved through rolling hills that gradually flattened into wide plains, dotted here and there with hardy pine trees whose branches swayed under the weight of a crisp, early-winter breeze.

At the crest of a hill, the carriage slowed. Below, the general’s residence revealed itself — a sprawling complex of grey stone and timber, encircled by a tall wall, its dark rooftops catching the sun’s last golden rays like watchful sentinels.

Qiaoyun leaned toward the window, eyes widening. “It’s larger than I imagined,” she murmured, noting the broad gates, disciplined patrols, and banners fluttering in the wind.

Thebanners displayed the northern garrison’s insignia: a silver mountain peak set against deep blue. Unlike the fierce wolf symbols of the nomads beyond the border, these banners spoke of endurance, of holding firm against storms and invaders alike.

Xinyue, seated across from her, studied the sight with her usual composed expression. “Practical,” she said. “Nothing here is for show.”

The carriage halted before the gates, and the driver hopped down to speak to the guards. The tall soldiers, clad in layered fur-trimmed armor, cast curious glances at the visitors. Most straightened almost imperceptibly when Xinyue stepped down from the carriage, her poise carrying a weight that needed no words. Qiaoyun followed, tugging her cloak tighter against the cold, her eyes darting between the soldiers and the imposing entrance.

The gates swung open with a groan, revealing a stone-paved courtyard. At its far end stood a figure in deep blue military robes, his broad shoulders and upright stance marking him as someone accustomed to command. His dark hair was pulled back into a simple knot, a few strands escaping in the wind, and his gaze was steady, assessing the newcomers.

The general.

As they approached, his expression shifted — not to the rigid politeness reserved for strangers, but to something warmer, though still controlled. “You’ve grown,” he said at last, voice low and even, his eyes fixed on Xinyue.

A subtle change came over her face — the cool composure melted, just a fraction, into something lighter. She lowered her head briefly in greeting, but when she looked up again, there was a glint of something mischievous in her eyes. “You’ve aged,” she countered, a faint smile tugging at her lips.

Qiaoyun blinked. It was the first time she had seen Xinyue speak so… informally. Almost teasing.

The general let out a quiet huff of amusement, his mouth quirking. “And you still lack proper manners.”

They exchanged no bow or clasped hands, just the kind of ease that belonged to old familiarity. He stepped forward, resting a hand briefly on her shoulder — a gesture protective yet casual — before turning his attention to Qiaoyun.

“And this is?”

“Lin Qiaoyun,” Xinyue replied, her tone returning to its usual composure, though there was still a trace of warmth lingering. “A friend.”

He inclined his head politely to her, then gestured for them to follow.

Inside, the residence felt different from the outside’s austere impression. The main hall was spacious but not overly grand, lit by the soft glow of oil lamps. The walls bore maps of the northern territories, a few racks of weapons polished to a muted shine, and tapestries in deep blue and grey. The air held a faint scent of pine and smoke from the brazier burning in the corner.

Qiaoyun took it all in with quiet curiosity. “It’s… surprisingly warm,” she murmured.

The general glanced at her over his shoulder. “A home should be. Even in the north.”

Servants appeared with hot tea, their movements efficient and silent. Xinyue accepted a cup, her gloved fingers lingering on the warm porcelain. She sipped slowly, her gaze drifting across the room, as though committing every detail to memory.

After the tea was served, the general rose. “Yue’er. Walk with me.”

It wasn’t a request.

She stood without hesitation, and Qiaoyun started to follow — but the general’s glance toward her was firm, though not unkind. “Stay here. We’ll be back shortly.”

Qiaoyun hesitated, then nodded, settling back in her seat.

The corridor they took was quieter, lined with wooden screens that opened to narrow courtyards where frost had begun to gather on dormant shrubs. Xinyue walked a step behind her uncle until they reached a smaller room at the far end. He slid the door shut behind them, the faint thud sealing them away from the bustle of the main hall.

“Now,” he said, turning to her, “you can drop that icy mask. I assume you didn’t come all this way just for sightseeing.”

Xinyue’s lips curved — not in politeness, but in something genuine. “You always see through me.”

“You’ve always been terrible at hiding things from me,” he replied dryly, crossing his arms. “Start from the beginning. Why are you here, Li Xinyue?”

For a moment, she didn’t answer. Her gaze wandered to the frost-dusted garden beyond the window, her breath visible in the cold air. Then, with a small shrug, she leaned against the table like a child settling in for a long story.

“It started in Jincheng,” she began. “There was a wedding I had no intention of attending — my own.”

The general’s brows lifted slightly, but he said nothing, letting her speak.

“I wasn’t asked if I wanted it,” she continued, her voice even but her eyes holding a flicker of sharpness. “It was arranged. Perfect match on paper. Perfect for everyone except me. So…” She spread her hands lightly. “I left. Quietly.”

She told him of the days spent slipping past watchful attendants, the long road north where autumn’s last warmth gave way to biting wind, the towns she passed through, and the moments when she thought she might be followed.

The general listened without interruption, his gaze steady, the lines at the corners of his eyes deepening slightly — not in disapproval, but in thought.

When she finished, he let out a slow breath. “So you ran from a wedding and came straight to the edge of the empire.”

“It seemed far enough,” she said with a small, almost cheeky smile.

He shook his head, but there was the faintest trace of amusement in his voice. “You haven’t changed.”

For a moment, they stood in companionable silence. The wind rattled the paper screens, carrying the distant sound of soldiers calling orders in the yard.

Finally, the general straightened. “Whatever your reason, you’re here now. And you’ll stay here, under my watch, until I decide it’s safe.”

She tilted her head. “You sound like you think I’ll run off again.”

“I know you will,” he said simply.

Her laughter was soft, unguarded — a sound Qiaoyun had likely never heard. “Then I suppose I’ll have to behave… for now.”

They returned to the main hall, the warmth of the brazier greeting them again. Qiaoyun looked up immediately, her curiosity clear but unspoken.

The general motioned for them both to sit. “You must be tired from the road. Rooms have been prepared.”

And just like that, the evening settled into quiet comfort — the kind that promised safety, at least for tonight.

But beyond the gates, the wind still carried the sharp bite of the north, and the unspoken truth lingered between uncle and niece: safety, in the north, was never certain for long.

Morning at the Northern Garrison Residence

The pale northern sun had barely cleared the jagged line of the mountains when the courtyard stirred to life. A breath of wind carried the smell of pine resin and faint woodsmoke, mingled with the crisp scent of melting frost. Ravens called from the roof beams, their black wings flashing as they leapt into the morning air. Somewhere beyond the outer wall, the distant rumble of hooves suggested the garrison was already at work.

Xinyue was awake early, as she often was, standing by the window in the guest chamber. Her figure was a silhouette against the thin paper screen, hands resting on the sill as she watched white mist curl through the pines. She looked almost like she belonged in an old ink painting — still, aloof, touched with an air of quiet distance.

Qiaoyun, on the other hand, was buried under two layers of quilt, hair mussed, cheeks flushed from the warmth. She stirred only when a faint knock sounded at the door and a servant’s voice announced breakfast.

“Mm… morning already?” she mumbled, voice heavy with sleep.

Xinyue turned from the window, her cold demeanor softening just a fraction.

“It’s past the hour of the rabbit,” she replied. “If you linger any longer, the food will be cold.”

That coaxed Qiaoyun up — though her idea of “up” was sitting cross-legged on the bed and yawning like a cat. Xinyue gave her a flat look before turning to dress, the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth betraying her amusement.

By the time they stepped into the corridor, the household was fully awake. Servants moved briskly between buildings, carrying baskets of fresh bread and steaming bowls of millet porridge. In the distance, soldiers in light winter gear jogged past in pairs, their boots crunching on the frost-hardened earth.

The main hall was warm from the central hearth. The General, clad in a plain dark robe rather than his armor, was already seated at the long table. His hair was still damp from washing, a thin strand clinging to his temple. He looked up as they entered, gaze lingering on Xinyue for the briefest moment before shifting to Qiaoyun.

“You slept well?” he asked, voice even, calm.

Qiaoyun hesitated — for reasons she couldn’t quite name, the man’s quiet presence always felt… steadying, like the weight of a warm cloak. She nodded, smiling slightly.

“Very well. Your house is warmer than I expected. I thought I’d freeze before morning.”

One corner of his mouth curved in what might have been the start of a smile.

“The winters here are long. We take the hearth seriously.”

Breakfast was simple — fresh flatbread still warm from the griddle, bowls of steaming porridge flecked with nuts, and thin slices of cured meat. Xinyue ate with her usual quiet composure. Qiaoyun, in contrast, chatted with one of the servants about the mountain road they had taken yesterday, her hands busy tearing pieces of bread.

The General didn’t speak much during the meal, but his eyes followed the conversation, occasionally flicking to Qiaoyun when she laughed. He noticed the way she leaned forward when curious, the quick lift of her brows when something amused her. She was not the kind of beauty that struck like lightning — but there was a warmth in her, a spark that reminded him of early spring after a long frost.

After breakfast, the General excused himself briefly to oversee the morning drills. Qiaoyun found herself drifting toward the courtyard, curiosity pulling her to watch the soldiers. The air was sharp, and her breath clouded in the sunlight. She stood near the wooden railing, unaware that he had returned earlier than expected.

“You’ll catch a chill standing there without a cloak,” his voice said behind her.

She turned, startled, to find him holding out a heavy wool mantle. The gesture was so practical, so unhesitating, that for a moment she could only blink at him.

“Ah— thank you,” she murmured, pulling it around her shoulders. The fabric was still faintly warm, as though it had only just been taken from near the hearth.

He studied her for a heartbeat longer, as if making sure she was truly warm, before stepping past to watch the soldiers himself. From the corner of her eye, Qiaoyun saw the faint crease between his brows smooth as he returned his attention to the training field.

From his perspective, she was an unusual guest — neither soldier nor court official, yet unafraid of the cold air or the sight of weapons. There was an openness in her expression that was rare in the capital’s visitors, and it stirred in him an unfamiliar curiosity.

The rest of the morning passed in the steady rhythm of the household. Xinyue, as it turned out, was strangely at ease here — she followed the General to his study for a brief private talk, leaving Qiaoyun to wander the small kitchen garden with one of the maids. The sun climbed slowly, spilling gold over the rooftops, and the garrison’s courtyard hummed with life.

It was a simple morning, yet for both Qiaoyun and the General, it lingered in thought — for her, in the warmth of the cloak and the quiet gravity of his voice; for him, in the memory of her bright-eyed gaze against the cold northern air.

They stepped through the doorway into a narrow study that smelled faintly of ink and pine tar. Shelves lined two walls, filled with rolled maps, neat stacks of dispatches, and the few books the general allowed himself in a life crowded by orders and tactics. A low brazier sent a rim of heat into the room; outside, the courtyard clattered with the precise rhythm of men training, but here the world felt smaller, as if scaled down to the size of a conversation.

The general closed the door with a hand that was steady and sure. For a heartbeat he simply looked at Xinyue — at the slope of her shoulders beneath the plain robe, the way her hands curled unconsciously around the cup she had been carrying — and remembered the child who once had run through the palace corridors, hair flying, asking everyone a hundred questions at once. That memory softened the lines at his mouth.

“You look tired,” he said, not as a rebuke but as an observation. His voice in this room had none of the iron that the garrison heard; it carried only the calm of someone used to receiving news and unflinching.

Xinyue sagged into the chair as though she had been waiting for permission to let her guard fall. The mask she wore in public — the cool, distant composure of a well-bred princess — slipped at the edges. Her hands splayed on the table, the way a child drops a cloak without ceremony.

“I am tired,” she admitted, and for the first time in many pages she let a small, impatient laugh catch the breath of the room. “It seems the more I run from one thing, the more I run into another.”

He studied her, attentive. “Tell me everything. From the beginning.”

So she did. The story came tumbling out between small sips of tea: the decree read in the Hall of Radiance, the tightened silence of ministers pleased at a marriage that bound realms, the heavy, gilded robe waiting like a coffin in silk. She described the night she packed — the careful hush, the forged pass stowed in a hidden pocket, the clacking hooves that carried them away under the pale watch of lanterns. She told him about the carriage that stopped for a girl by the roadside, the way Qiaoyun had been half–dead in the muck, and the quiet bloom of unexpected kinship on that long, uncertain road.

He let her speak without interruption. When she described her disguise as a fragile noblewoman, his eyes narrowed slightly, but only in thought. When she confessed that she had shown the gold-engraved pass so the border guards would drink the proof of rank and let them pass, his jaw tightened a fraction. He had expected as much — knew the way tokens bent men’s policy — but hearing it from her own voice made the prudence of her act notable and the danger very close.

“You were reckless,” he said finally, not harshly. “But I understand why. There are bindings that are more cruel than being placed in a foreign land — the kind that bind the spirit.”

She looked at him then, with an expression that was neither apology nor challenge, simply frank: “I could not be caged for decorum. I could not live a life written for me by other hands.”

The general let out a breath that might have been a smile and might have been a sigh. He reached out, in a gesture that carried very little of ceremony and a great deal of family, and ruffled the hair at her temple in the same way a man would correct a boy more often than a grown niece. “You have always been both too clever and too stubborn by half. Stay here. Rest. We will think on what comes next when thoughts have warmth in them again.”

Xinyue’s face — that usually guarded, unreadable face — broke into an expression of mischief and relief, all at once. She folded both hands under her chin, suddenly a child again. “Promise you won’t force me to practice calligraphy with the tutors?”

His mouth twitched. For a man who had spent much of his life exacting obedience beneath wind and winter, gentleness could be an acquired art. “I will not force you to attend lessons you detest,” he said dryly. “Nor will I let any man who thinks marriage is a transaction near you without my knowledge.”

The mention of “any man” hung between them like a soldier’s steady breath. The general’s protective certainty felt architectural in its simplicity: this was how he kept his borders, whether of frontier or family — with unflashy strength.

Outside, by the study door, the general’s mind shifted quicksilver to other matters. The household needed tending: a physician to be certain Qiaoyun’s recovery was steady, a discreet scribe to prepare a proper list of incoming guests the garrison expected, a trusted sergeant to watch the gate. He noted these necessities out loud and she made a small, almost impatient sound at each — she was, she said, not a patient person. He understood and arranged for comfort rather than idle fuss: a healer who understood herbs beyond the usual remedies; quiet rooms facing the inner courtyard; a small patch of sunlight in the servants’ garden where she might sit and mend a handkerchief if she wished.

When they stepped back to the main hall, the household felt in motion — not hurried, but like a careful clock. Soldiers moved in ordered lines, servants in measured steps, and the general’s aides came with the quiet efficiency of people trained to take small instructions and turn them into steadiness. He introduced Xinyue’s companions simply, with a polite nod toward Qiaoyun and a short courtesy toward Xiaohua. Nothing excessive. No parade.

The general’s thoughts returned to Qiaoyun more than once that day, though he would not have called them what the capital might have labeled “interest.” He observed, clinically and kindly: how she accepted a cloak without a flinch; how she laughed easily even when the bowl of porridge was coarse; how she looked at the training yard with curiosity rather than fear. These were not precisely marks of nobility, but they were marks of spirit. He stored them away the way a man might tuck away maps that might one day show a safe route.

For Xinyue, the warmth of the house and the steadiness of his concern quieted the small, relentless panic that had accompanied her since she fled the palace. For Qiaoyun, the morning had been a small revelation: that not all men in power were cruel, and that a fortress could hold a hearth.

As the afternoon fell toward a quiet evening, the general set a careful plan. Qiaoyun would be seen by Master He, the household’s physician, twice daily until he was satisfied with her recovery. Xinyue would be given a room near the inner garden, and an older woman from the servants’ quarters would attend to her clothes and sew her torn hems, thus keeping the tapestry of their travel from unraveling before they chose the thread of the next step. A small detachment of watchmen — not a parade guard but steady eyes by the gate — would be briefed to report anything unusual.

He said these things plainly, each one a pebble dropped in a pond, and watched how they calmed the woman across from him. Xinyue answered with that half–childish, half–sly grin that had made him laugh more in the years since their shared childhood.

When he finally rose, he stood in the doorway for a long moment and looked back at her as if committing the image of her — tired, defiant, alive — to memory. “Sleep,” he advised. “And do not try to escape tonight.”

She huffed, mock-offended. “I was not planning to escape. I was planning to steal the better pillow.”

“Then you will steal it under my permission,” he said. “That will be all the crime I allow.”

She laughed, a small honest sound that echoed, briefly, in the warm room. Outside, the garrison kept watch at the edge of empire; inside, the house drew its circle close. For one fragile, private evening, the world beyond their walls could be held at bay by the steady hand of an uncle who had learned how to keep storms at the border without letting them in.

The morning sun in the north rose gently over the snow-capped ridges, spilling gold onto the courtyard stones. Xinyue stirred beneath the thick quilt, her eyes fluttering open to the faint scent of pine drifting through the slightly open window. For the first time in weeks, there were no layers of court etiquette weighing on her chest, no watchful gazes ready to judge a misplaced gesture.

She stretched lazily, the crisp air brushing her cheeks.

“Miss, the water’s ready,” Xiaohua’s voice came from the door, polite but warm.

Xinyue smiled. “It feels different here. The air is lighter.”

By the time she entered the main hall, Qiaoyun was already seated, her dark hair pinned simply, a faint smile curling her lips as she sipped tea. The breakfast table held an assortment of northern fare — steaming lamb dumplings, flatbread fresh from the griddle, and pickled greens.

The General was present too, in his morning robe, speaking quietly with a steward. His voice was calm, clipped in the military way, but when he looked up and saw them, there was a subtle softening in his gaze.

“You’ll be heading out?” he asked. His eyes moved first to Xinyue, then briefly — almost too briefly — to Qiaoyun.

“Yes, Uncle,” Xinyue answered brightly. “I want to see the north properly. We’ll be careful.”

His gaze lingered on Qiaoyun for a fraction longer than necessary before he gave a small nod. “Xiaohua, keep them safe. And avoid the market’s southern corner — too crowded.”

Xiaohua bowed. “Understood, General.”

The carriage meandered through vast fields, the horizon unfurling beneath a pale, pristine sky. The north, contrary to her imagined frozen expanse, revealed delicate wildflowers peeking through the verdant grass, and willows dipping their graceful fronds into the gently flowing river.

They set their blanket beneath one of those willows, unpacking baskets filled with warm bread, dried berries, and jars of honey.

Qiaoyun kicked off her shoes almost immediately, wading into the shallows. “The water’s not that cold!” she called, beckoning.

Xinyue hesitated, then followed, the hem of her skirt clutched in both hands. Cold seeped in at first, but then the current swirled gently around her ankles, refreshing.

“Catch this!” Qiaoyun tossed a smooth, pale stone her way. It landed in the water with a splash, sending both girls into laughter.

Xiaohua remained on the blanket, but her lips twitched when Xinyue began making a crown of braided wildflowers for Qiaoyun’s hair. In return, Qiaoyun fashioned a crooked one for her, declaring, “Now you look like the Queen of the Riverbank.”

They stayed until the sun rose higher, nibbling bread and sipping from a flask of warm tea, the river carrying away their laughter.

By midday, they made their way into a small town. The northern tea house they entered was unlike those in the capital — beams of dark wood, wide windows thrown open to the street, and a smell of roasted leaves so strong it nearly masked the scent of the pastries in the corner.

They settled by the window, the shopkeeper bringing over steaming cups of the region’s famed dark brew.

Xinyue took one sip and froze, the bitterness flooding her tongue. She forced a polite smile, but Qiaoyun caught the twitch at the corner of her mouth.

“You hate it.”

“I… don’t hate it,” Xinyue lied poorly.

Qiaoyun laughed, sliding her own cup forward. “Here. Mine’s sweetened. We’ll switch.”

They also ordered a plate of snow sugar pastries — thin layers of dough with a dusting of powdered sweetness that melted on the tongue. Xinyue declared she could eat ten of them; Qiaoyun bet she couldn’t. Xinyue stopped at eight, groaning in defeat.

The last stop before heading back was a small embroidery stall tucked between two stone buildings. Bolts of cloth hung like banners, catching the light.

“Let’s try,” Qiaoyun suggested, picking up a needle. She began a delicate peony, the stitches smooth and even. Xinyue’s attempt… was not.

“This was supposed to be a bird,” she said, holding up a lopsided shape.

Xiaohua, curious, tried her own — and within minutes produced a perfect, tiny plum blossom. Both young ladies stared.

“You’ve been hiding this from us,” Qiaoyun accused lightly, and Xiaohua only shrugged. “Someone has to mend your sleeves properly.”

The sky was a wash of gold and rose as they returned. The General stood in the courtyard, arms folded loosely, speaking to a soldier. When the carriage stopped, he stepped forward.

Qiaoyun was the first to climb down — and her foot caught the edge of the step. Before she could stumble, his hand shot out, steadying her.

Their eyes met for the briefest second — hers wide in surprise, his steady and unreadable. Then she murmured, “Thank you, General,” and stepped back.

He turned to Xinyue. “You’ve been out all day. Go wash up before supper.” His tone was firm but not cold, almost as if hiding an unspoken fondness.

As the girls disappeared into the house, the General’s gaze lingered on Qiaoyun’s retreating figure for just a moment longer before he turned back to his duties.

Back inside the residence, Xinyue allowed Xiaohua to take the baskets away while she and Qiaoyun settled into the warmth of her chamber, unaware that their day’s laughter had left an echo far beyond the garden walls.

Xinyue lingered by the window long after the chamber had quieted, her silhouette framed by the delicate lattice of the panes. The northern moon rose slowly above the distant ridges, pale and watchful, casting a silvery glow across the courtyard stones. Frost clung to the tips of the pines, sparkling like a thousand tiny lanterns in the hushed night.

She drew a slender shawl closer about her shoulders, though it was more a gesture than necessity. Her thoughts wandered to the day’s journey — the river, the laughter, the careless delight of Qiaoyun — and a faint warmth stirred in her chest that she rarely permitted herself to acknowledge.

The garrison below slept in ordered quiet, save for the occasional murmur of a sentry. Even in repose, the northern stronghold exuded a measured strength, the kind that belonged to enduring stone and loyal men rather than fleeting grandeur. It was a world apart from the gilded halls she had left behind, where every smile and bow was weighed against duty, and every corner whispered of hidden obligations.

Xinyue’s hand brushed the cold pane, leaving a faint trail against the moonlit glass. She allowed herself the smallest of smiles, a quiet acknowledgment that for the first time in weeks, she could think without calculation, speak without pretense, and breathe without the weight of expectation. Yet, even in this rare stillness, a thread of caution wound through her thoughts — the north was safe, for now, but nothing in the world had ever stayed still for long.

She turned from the window, eyes softening as she glanced toward the bed where Qiaoyun slept, the rising moonlight gilding her dark hair. For tonight, Xinyue mused, we are simply ourselves, and nothing more.

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