Mochen had returned to the sect for quite some time now. But his presence was like a ghost in the wind—drifting, weightless, unnoticed. He no longer cared for morning lessons, nor the rules of etiquette, nor the subtle glances cast his way. After all, everyone knew he was a "guest disciple," a fake student brought in by someone's favor, destined never to be taken seriously.
He didn't mind. Not really. What was there to mind when his heart was already a mess?
He wandered the sect aimlessly, sword at his waist, lips curled in a soft whistle that carried no cheer. Cold wind stirred his robes as he crossed one courtyard after another, eventually reaching the outer ring of the training grounds.
That was when he saw him.
Chen Xinyu.
His silhouette moved in the morning frost like a silver fish gliding through still water—fluid, precise, heartbreakingly silent. A single exhale of breath became mist in the freezing air. Mochen froze in place. His hand unconsciously clenched the hilt of his sword.
Why can't I look away?
The question struck like a gong in his chest. He stared and stared until his knuckles turned white. That stupid pretty face. That stupid focused expression. The scarlet sash tied too loosely around his waist. The sound of blade slicing the air cleanly.
He wanted to run away. But he stayed rooted to the spot like a fool caught in a snare.
Xinyu had already noticed him.
"Oh?" Xinyu lowered his sword, blinking through the frosty air. "I haven't seen you around in a while."
Mochen's mouth went dry.
"Shidi, where've you been all these days?" Xinyu approached, wiping sweat from his brow, his eyes soft. His voice was light, like a breeze that didn't mean harm.
Mochen stiffened. "Ah—uh… around." He avoided eye contact completely, eyes darting to the side. His breath hitched as Xinyu stepped closer, the faint scent of sandalwood and cold metal trailing behind him.
A hand landed gently on his shoulder.
"You look pale." Xinyu's brows knit slightly. "Are you unwell?"
That touch sent lightning down Mochen's spine.
He jerked back a step, as though burned. "No—no, it's fine. I should go, Yu-ge." He turned quickly, voice cracking, eyes flicking downward—just for a second—at the side of Xinyu's neck. That faint, faint glow still hadn't left him. It filled Mochen with panic.
He turned and left in a flurry of footsteps.
Xinyu stood there, sword tip dragging slightly in the snow-crusted grass, confused. "…What's his problem now?"
Mochen stumbled into an empty room and slammed the door behind him. He pressed his back to the wall and slowly slid to the floor, his breath uneven.
The world spun just a little.
If he gets any closer, I might— I might kiss him.
His hand gripped his chest tightly. "I should avoid him," he whispered.
He closed his eyes.
In another corner of the sect, Hua Ling sat in his pavilion, tea growing cold in his hand. The steam curled up and vanished into the winter air, much like his thoughts.
He hadn't slept that well in months. But that night, with Xinyu's faint breath beside him and the warmth of his body just within reach—he had rested like a child again.
It was dangerous. That feeling of peace. It made him weak.
He sighed and set the cup down, eyes distant.
Elder Zhong's classes resumed like a slow reawakening of order after the chaos of missions and storms. Students filed in grumbling, rubbing their arms against the winter bite.
The old man scrawled names down on his mission scroll, lips pressed in thought. He had been too lenient lately. His gaze hardened.
"Shen Yao," he barked. "Go tell Chen Xinyu this mission includes him whether he likes it or not."
"Yes, Elder."
The team list read: Chen Xinyu. Hua Ling. Mochen. Chi Ruyan.
A strange mix, but Zhong rarely made mistakes.
Shen Yao strode into Xinyu's room like a whirlwind of righteous annoyance, waving the scroll in his hand. He didn't bother with greetings.
"Oi," he dropped into the seat across from Xinyu, "guess what? You're going on a mission."
Xinyu looked up from the tea he hadn't touched. "Oh, so now he's forcing me into things?"
Shen Yao snorted. "Don't be ridiculous. You think he likes worrying over you? He's already aged five years just trying to keep your sulky self alive. Just go. You could use the air."
Xinyu groaned and rubbed his forehead. "Fine, fine. Stop scolding me."
As Shen Yao fanned himself smugly, the door swung open without a knock.
"Chen Xinyu!" Lingque burst in like a storm. "I'm coming too."
Xinyu blinked. "What?"
"I heard about the mission. Don't even try to stop me."
Shen Yao looked horrified. "Wait—who said anything about—"
"Shut up." Lingque plopped herself beside Xinyu, arms crossed.
Xinyu sighed into his palm. "Why do I feel like this mission is going to kill me…"
Shen Yao gave a long-suffering groan. "Because it probably will.
The morning sun crawled lazily over the mountain ridges, casting pale gold over the snow-dusted roofs of the sect. The wind, dry and sharp, scoured the courtyards like a careful hand peeling away dreams from the bones of the world.
Chen Xinyu stood in front of the polished bronze mirror in his room, fastening the last knot on his outer robe with trembling fingers. The weight of his sword at his hip felt heavier today—like it knew. Like it remembered.
He'd asked for space, for distance, for silence between them—but fate, always a cruel little matchmaker, had once again shoved him into the same group as Hua Ling. It was maddening. Unfair. Ironic.
And terrifying.
He brushed a thumb against the side of his neck where the faint soul mark still pulsed beneath the skin, warm and hidden like a secret that no longer wanted to be kept.
"…It's just a mission," he told the mirror, though his reflection didn't look convinced.
He pulled up his collar, took a breath that didn't help, and stepped out into the brittle cold.
At the gathering point near the sect gates, the others had already begun arriving in twos and threes. Xinyu spotted Lingque immediately, lurking like a bandit waiting for mischief. Her robes were wrapped tightly against the wind, and her expression was much too pleased for someone headed into unknown danger.
As soon as she saw him, her eyes lit up like torches.
"Chen Xinyu!" she sidled up and threw an arm around his shoulder with the subtlety of a falling tree. "Guess what I saw the other day?"
Xinyu blinked. "What?"
She leaned in, her voice dropping to a scandalous whisper: "I saw His Highness coming out of your room."
He choked on air.
Lingque's grin widened. "What were you two doing in there, hmm?"
Xinyu's ears turned pink. "It—it was a friendly sleepover, alright?! Stop making things weird!"
"Oh? Just a friendly sleepover, huh?" she elbowed him with all the grace of a donkey. "I didn't know you were into men."
"I'm not—! Don't say such nonsense, chicken!" he hissed, waving his arms as if trying to swat the words away. "And don't you dare gossip about His Highness like that!"
Lingque pouted dramatically. "Ah, so protective. As if I'd believe that he'd just casually lie next to someone like you."
Xinyu narrowed his eyes. "What's wrong with me?! I'm perfect!"
"Perfectly annoying!" She raised a hand to smack him across the shoulder.
Just as she did, a new presence cut into the air like silk parting on a blade.
Hua Ling had arrived.
The air shifted. Even the wind seemed to pause, holding its breath.