This morning started like most mornings lately.
Bleary-eyed. Hair refusing to cooperate. Mentally preparing myself to be insulted by Shen Kexian's idea of "gentle training." I was halfway through tying my sash when Xiaohua stumbled in, arms overflowing with—
Fruit? Herbs? A gourd? I blinked. "What is that?"
She dropped it all on the table with a dramatic huff. "Offerings."
I stared. "Offerings to what? The kitchen gods?" She pointed at me.
"No," she said. "To you."
I blinked again, slower this time. "I'm sorry, what?"
"They said this morning a palace maid brought all this," Xiaohua explained, starting to sort through the pile. "Some fruit, dried herbs, incense, a little prayer scroll—and this."
She pulled out a tiny folded cloth painting. It was me. Sort of. The proportions were questionable, but the hair was definitely mine. I looked like a cross between a divine healer and a very tired ghost.
I picked it up with two fingers. "Is that supposed to be me blessing something?"
Xiaohua nodded, like this was normal now. "They want you to bless these things. For fertility. Protection. Probably better skin."
"Right," I said slowly. "Because when I think of spiritual purity and divine grace, I absolutely think of me tripping into a table during sandbag training and cursing at my instructor."
Xiaohua ignored me and kept arranging the items neatly on the tray like I was about to perform a ritual instead of dry-heave into a fruit bowl.
"It's spreading," she added. "I think some of the kitchen girls started it. Something about how your water magic must mean you're touched by the heavens. Or reincarnated. Or both. You're very popular with the stew staff."
I dragged a hand down my face. "Great. I finally get some peace and now I have a personal fan club. That prays."
"To be fair," she added helpfully, "you did control water. And you're pretty. Which apparently is enough to start a religion in this palace."
I looked down at the little painting again, then back at the weird pile of produce and hand-drawn reverence.
"Blessed be the dumplings," I muttered. "May they never stick to the pot."
Xiaohua giggled. "I'm telling them you said that."
"Do and I'm moving into Wei Wuxian's room permanently."
And with that, I grabbed my robe, my sache, and what little was left of my sanity, and prepared to go train with the one man in the palace not worshipping me.
Unfortunately.
***
When I got to the training room, I stopped in the doorway.
The space had… changed.
The water basin was still there, untouched in the center of the room, but the entire right side now looked suspiciously like someone's temporary office—or, more accurately, the controlled chaos of a man too important to be organized.
There were scrolls piled high on a lacquered desk that definitely didn't belong in a training space, a half-unrolled map draped over one of the chairs, and in the far corner, tucked between two shelves, was a narrow daybed.
A proper daybed. With a folded blanket and a pillow.
I squinted.
Was he sleeping in here?
Shen Kexian didn't look up at first. He was leaning over the desk, brow furrowed, eyes scanning a scroll with the kind of intensity that either meant it contained life-or-death information—or someone had made a grammatical error and he was personally offended.
Then he looked up. His expression softened instantly. He smiled. Not the sharp, ironic smile he used on everyone else—but something gentler. Real. Like just seeing me had made the morning less unbearable.
It was… golden retriever energy. Big, warm, quietly thrilled to be noticed.
And then, of course, he barked.
"You're late."
I blinked. "I was blessing fruit."
He tilted his head. "I don't even want to ask."
"Good," I said. "Because the answer involves a painting of me that looks like a sleep-deprived exorcist."
He chuckled, then gestured to the chaos around him. "I was about to cancel today's session and declare myself dead, but I suppose your divine presence has extended my will to live by another hour."
"Touching," I muttered, setting down my bag. "I'll let the kitchen staff know their prayers are working."
He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed loosely. "You're in a mood today."
"I'm always in a mood," I said.
I glanced at his desk again, at the scrolls spilling off the edge and the map weighted down with an inkstone.
"What is all this?" I asked.
He didn't look up from the parchment he was still reviewing. "Headaches."
He set it down, rubbed the bridge of his nose, and finally looked at me. "We'll talk later."
And with that, training resumed.
Dodging sandbags. Again.
He'd added more ropes. Of course he had. Now they swung from different angles, like vengeful fruit on strings. I weaved, ducked, twisted, got hit, cursed, repeated. It wasn't even the bruises that hurt—it was the pride.
Breathing exercises followed. Long, quiet stretches where we sat palm to palm, eyes closed, trying to sync the rhythm between us. His power stayed steady. Mine always cracked by the second or third pulse. No matter how tightly I focused, I couldn't hold on to it long enough.
The connection frayed fast.
Especially during combat testing.
He launched water toward the training dummy—clean, controlled, precise—and I tried to channel with him. Once, I managed two full strikes before the pressure hit me like a collapsing wave.
My body went cold. My vision blurred.
Every time it happened, it left me gasping, chest heaving, temples pounding like I'd just run for miles barefoot.
Eventually, I just sat down. Or more accurately—slid to the floor like a wilted plant and leaned back against the wall, too tired to care how dramatic I looked.
Shen Kexian didn't say anything.
He walked off for a moment, then returned and handed me a cup of water without a word. I took it gratefully. My hand was shaking a little.
He plopped down next to me with a soft grunt, letting his head rest back against the wall. For a moment, neither of us said anything. Just the sound of breath, of the ropes still swaying gently, of water settling back into stillness.
Then he turned slightly toward me.
"How did you counter my power?" he asked, not accusing—just curious.
I took a slow sip from the cup. My hands were still trembling, though I pretended not to notice.
"I held onto that flicker," I said, voice quieter than I intended. "The one I found at the edge of your rage."
He nodded, waiting.
"And I tried to change it into something else."
He raised an eyebrow. "Something else?"
I kept my gaze on the floor in front of us, watching dust settle across the mat.
"Yes," I said. "Something softer. Hope. Compassion. Affection..."
I trailed off, unsure if I wanted to say the last word out loud.
He looked contemplative. "We're missing something here," Shen Kexian said, still seated beside me, his tone more thoughtful than usual. He wasn't looking at me this time—he was staring ahead, like the idea had just come to him and was still settling in.
He turned his head slightly, held out his hand. "Let me try again."
I gave him a flat look. My body was still sore from the last attempt. "You really want to kill me, don't you?"
He smiled, the kind that made it very clear he found my suffering slightly entertaining. "I'll be gentle."
That didn't sound comforting.
Still, I took his hand, bracing myself for the usual onslaught.
And it came—his power, that cold, heavy pulse of rage—but it wasn't the same. It was still there, still intense, but something had shifted. It no longer clawed at my chest like it wanted to crush me. I could breathe. I could feel my own thoughts through it.
That flicker I'd found before was still there too, that soft thread of emotion buried deep beneath the anger. I reached for it again, holding onto it tighter this time. I thought of something warm—of Ming Yu. His quiet steadiness, his voice in the dark, the way his hand always found mine without needing to ask.
The pressure of Shen Kexian's power didn't overwhelm me like before. It was still weighty, but I was no longer drowning under it. When he pulled back, I wasn't shaking. I was breathing. And upright.
I turned to him, confused but curious. "What changed?"
He looked at me with an expression I hadn't seen from him before. It was quiet. Uncomplicated. And for once, there was no guard behind his gaze. He gave a small, tired smile.
"You reminded me of something important," he said. "It's different when you fight to protect someone you love, instead of just fighting to destroy what you hate."
The words caught me off guard.
They weren't sharp. They weren't part of a lesson. They were honest. And maybe, just a little bit, they were vulnerable.
My chest tightened. I understood what he was saying—and I knew he wasn't really saying it to me.
He was thinking of Lianshui.
Of who she was. Of what they had. Of what he lost.
Still, something in me responded before I could stop it. My face grew warm, and I had to look away. I hated how easily that one sentence made my heart stutter. How it twisted something inside me even though I knew I wasn't the one he meant.
My inner alarm immediately started flashing red.
Divert. Divert. Emergency sarcasm needed.
"Umm… I'm tired. Let's call it a day," I said, standing too quickly. "I have plans. With… Yuling. Important ones. Very scheduled."
It was clumsy and rushed, but he didn't press. He just chuckled, like he could see straight through me.
"Good," he said, standing up and brushing off his robe. "Let's go. I need to see her too. And call your men. There's something we need to discuss."
I paused halfway to the door, turning to look at him.
"What do you mean, call my men?"
He gave me that serene, infuriating smile that always meant he knew more than he was letting on. "You heard me. Bring your favorite guards. It's time."
He said it like it was the most natural thing in the world.
I stared at him, already dreading where this was going. My gut told me one thing and one thing only—
This was going to be a problem. And I hadn't even changed out of my training robes.