The garden returned to stillness after Hei Long's steps faded. Dew clung to the grass, bright as scattered stars, and the first line of dawn pressed quietly on the horizon.
Leng Qingxue did not move for a long time. Her fingers were steady, but her breath was not. The touch she had stolen, light as frost, still burned on her lips. When Zhao Yuran's soft footsteps retreated, when Mu Yexin's laughter finally dispersed into the corridors, Qingxue exhaled and closed her eyes.
It had not been victory. It had been movement.
Sometimes, that was enough.
Hei Long crossed the covered walk alone. Lanterns guttered in their glass cages, a bead of wax sliding down each wick as if time itself were melting. The palace breathed. So did the river beyond the wall. So did he.
