The noble household of the Marquis Meng of Yanshui stood like a lacquered relic against the dusk, its curved rooftops etched in shadow, its vermilion gates sealed with silence. The air was thick with the scent of old camphorwood and dried chrysanthemum, a perfume that clung to the skin like memory. Red lanterns hung from every eave, swaying gently despite the stillness of the wind. Their silk tassels whispered secrets to the courtyard below, and from somewhere deep within the estate, a pipa wept.
The music was not played, it mourned. Thin, reedy notes drifted through the air like incense smoke, curling around the columns and slipping beneath the doors. It was the kind of sound that made the bones ache, that stirred something ancient in the chest. A lamentation, not a melody.
The northern gates of Marquis Meng's estate swung inward with a groan, their lacquered surfaces painted in vermilion and edged with curling motifs of clouds and cranes. Beyond them stretched a courtyard paved in pale riverstone, so polished that the late-autumn sunlight skittered across it like restless fish. From the eaves, tassels of red silk swayed faintly in a wind too soft to be seen, each movement deliberate, as though the air itself knew it was being watched.
Xu Liang stepped over the threshold last, his presence as unhurried as the settling of ink on parchment. The embroidered folds of his changshan caught the light, deep charcoal threaded with faint silver lines — the subtle geometry of talismanic seals hidden in plain sight. Neither overtly masculine nor feminine, he carried themselves with the stillness of a scholar who had long since stopped needing to prove their place in the hall.
Wei Zhen was the first to enter, broad-shouldered and silent, the hilt of his jian resting against his hip like a wordless vow. The dark leather of his armor was softened at the edges by years of wear, and his gaze, though calm, swept the courtyard in slow arcs. His loyalty to Rong Yue was so ingrained that it extended wordlessly to Xu Liang, a silent sentinel shadowing them both.
Rong Yue entered between them, the picture of courtly grace in public guise: tall, robes of indigo silk lined with pale gold, hair bound in the style befitting a Dianxia. Every motion was calculated for the eyes of the court, for the nobles who measured strength in posture and power in the weight of silk. To those eyes, Rong Yue was every inch the prince they expected: masculine, composed, untouchable. Only the occasional tilt of the head, the faint precision in the flick of a sleeve, betrayed the delicacy he reserved for private moments.
From the shadows beneath the cloister, murmurs began to rise. Nobles in layered robes whispered behind feathered fans, their voices softened into lilting tones that carried like incense through the cold air. "Xu gongzi… is that what he call themselves?" one voice murmured, just loud enough to be heard. "Neither man nor woman, yet dressed as both… the audacity."
Xu Liang stood at the threshold, robes of ink-brushed silk pooling around their feet like spilled shadow. His breath came slowly, deliberately. Beneath the surface of his skin, frost bloomed—delicate, cruel. It began at the fingertips, a pale shimmer that no physician could name. The shuāng huā dú had no scent, no heat. Only the quiet erosion of strength, the way it dulled the edge of movement and made the world feel slightly too far away.
Wei Zhen stepped beside them, his voice low. "Liang-ge," he murmured, "you should rest."
Xu Liang did not turn. His gaze was fixed on the lanterns, which bobbed gently above the courtyard like mourners at a procession. "Rest," he echoed, the word tasting foreign. "And let the ghosts sing unchecked?"
Wei Zhen frowned, but said nothing more. He knew better than to argue when Xu Liang's voice took on that quiet edge, the one that sounded like silk drawn across a blade.
Rong Yue had already crossed the threshold, his presence a quiet command. He wore the robes of a zongshi wangzi, embroidered with the sigil of the imperial phoenix, but his eyes held no arrogance—only the weight of knowing. Manor's servants bowed low as he passed, murmuring dianxia with reverence. But behind the silken screens and carved lattice, whispers stirred between the servants.
"Is that the one they call Xu Liang? The one who walks between forms?"
"Neither man nor woman—how unsettling."
"They say the frost in his veins is punishment. Heaven does not favor ambiguity."
Xu Liang's dark eyes shifted only slightly toward the sound, the curve of their mouth neither smiling nor frowning. He had walked these corridors of judgment before; in sect halls where politics bit sharper than blades, in court gatherings where appearance was its own weapon, Xu Liang heard it all. The words were not daggers, but they scraped like rusted metal.
He had long learned the art of silence, the way it could be wielded like a blade. The sting had dulled over the years, but the shuāng huā dú curling through his veins made each barb sharper than it should have been and the silence felt heavier. It pressed against his ribs, making the frost bloom faster.
Beneath his layered robes, the faint ache in their chest pulsed in time with their heartbeat, a cold bloom unfurling petal by petal.
A steward in plain brown robes bowed low before them, his voice thin from age. "Dianxia, Xu gongzi, Wei daren… the Marquis awaits you in the main hall."
They followed the steward through carved corridors, the smell of sandalwood and lacquer rising with each step. The interior of the estate was a study in restrained opulence. Silk scrolls lined the walls, painted with plum blossoms and cranes in flight. Incense burned in bronze censers shaped like qilin, the smoke curling upward like longing. Servants moved with practiced grace, heads bowed, hands folded. No one spoke unless spoken to.
The trio was led to the inner courtyard, where the lanterns floated higher, their glow casting long shadows across the stone. The pipa music grew louder here, though no musician could be found. It seemed to emanate from the air itself, as if the house had learned to grieve.
Xu Liang's steps were measured, but slow. The frost had begun to creep up his forearms, a shimmer beneath the skin like moonlight trapped in ice. Wei Zhen watched them closely, his brow furrowed.
"You're weakening," he said, not unkindly.
Xu Liang's lips curved faintly. "I am enduring."
Rong Yue said nothing, but his gaze lingered. He had seen the way Xu Liang's fingers trembled when he reached for his talisman pouch. He had noticed the slight hitch in his breath when they his to the Marquis. He had felt the chill in the air when Xu Liang passed too close.
The shuāng huā dú was slow, but it was relentless. And no one knew its cure.
The zhongmen opened into a hall vast enough to swallow sound, where Marquis Meng sat upon a platform draped in crimson brocade. His face was pale and drawn, his eyes shadowed with nights of sleeplessness.
"Dianxia," he greeted, bowing until his forehead touched the mat. "I am honored by your presence… and your aid."
Rong Yue inclined his head, the weight of his official dignity settling around him like a cloak. "We hear you are plagued by strange phenomena, Houye. Tell us about them."
The Marquis's gaze flickered toward the courtyard beyond the hall doors. "At night… The red lanterns light themselves, floating into the air. They drift above the east courtyard, accompanied by music — a pipa playing a melody no living hands should know. Those who hear it say the sound lingers in their bones until morning. Two of my household collapsed after hearing it thrice. The imperial physicians found no illness. And yet… they waste away."
As the words "waste away", Xu Liang's attention sharpened, though he kept his expression smooth. He knew the way vitality could be leeched without a blade or wound. In his own body, the shuāng huā dú worked much the same way.
Wei Zhen's voice was low, steady. "Has the courtyard been searched?"
"Three times. Nothing unusual was found."
The meeting concluded with the necessary formalities, each bow and phrase executed with the precision demanded by court etiquette. Yet beneath the measured words, a current of urgency coiled tighter. The Marquis's household was not only a place of wealth and status — it was a thread in the tapestry of the capital's power. A phantom haunting it would not remain merely a private concern.
By the time the sun dipped low, shadows lengthening across the eaves, the trio had chosen their place for the night's vigil. The east courtyard lay still, its paving stones pale under the rising moon. The red lanterns hung in perfect rows along the covered walkway, their silk skins glowing faintly as though holding a breath.
They waited in silence, the only sound the faint rustle of silk as Rong Yue shifted his sleeve. The air grew colder with the deepening night. Xu Liang's breath misted faintly before them, the chill seeping beneath their layers to settle in their bones. Wei Zhen noticed first, the minute stiffening of Xu Liang's shoulders, the fraction slower turn of his head. Without a word, he shifted closer, his presence a quiet shield against the cold.
Rong Yue's gaze flickered between them. In the stillness, his hand brushed lightly against Xu Liang's forearm, the warmth of his skin startling in its gentleness. It was the sort of touch that would mean nothing more than a passing adjustment of position to an onlooker but in that moment, it was a lifeline. Xu Liang's breath caught almost imperceptibly, and though his posture remained composed, some of the cold receded, replaced by a warmth that had little to do with the air.
The first note of the pipa came like a drop of water into a still pool — soft, perfect, yet impossibly far away. Then another, and another, until the air was trembling with sound. The melody wound through the courtyard like silk through a loom, each phrase carrying a weight of longing so profound that even Wei Zhen's stoic heart felt it stir.
Lanterns rose. One by one, their silk bellies glowed brighter, lifting into the air without the aid of wind or hand. They drifted upward in slow arcs, as though drawn by invisible strings. The red light painted the paving stones, the pillars, the watching faces in a shifting haze.
Xu Liang's eyes narrowed slightly, the patterns in the lanterns' movements sparking memories of ritual alignments, funerary processions and the hidden language of mourning lamps. Beneath his calm exterior, his pulse quickened. The frost flower's cold was momentarily forgotten as the scholar within him reached toward the truth.
Rong Yue leaned closer, voice pitched low. "Do you see it?"
"Yes," Xu Liang murmured, their gaze never leaving the drifting lights. "But not yet clearly."
The music deepened, the lanterns climbing higher until they hovered above the easternmost paving stone. The air thickened — not with mist, but with something older, a pressure that pressed against the skin like a held breath. Wei Zhen's hand fell to his sword hilt.
In the shifting red glow, beneath the threads of music that tangled past and present, the three stood close enough for their shadows to touch, bound already, though none of them would say it aloud. And above them, the lanterns swayed as though in silent laughter