Lan Yue awoke to a feeling of profound, unshakable warmth. It was not the heat of a fever or the comfort of a blanket, but a constant, gentle, humming presence in the very core of her soul. It was a second heartbeat, a quiet song playing in the back of her mind. It felt… like Xue Lian.
She pried her heavy eyelids open. The world swam into focus slowly: an unfamiliar but magnificent bedroom, richly appointed with dark wood and deep violet silks. And beside her, slumped in a plush armchair, was the source of the warmth. Xue Lian was asleep, her head resting on her hand, her usual imperial composure completely gone, replaced by the deep, peaceful exhaustion of a long and desperate vigil. She looked more vulnerable than Lan Yue had ever seen her.
Lan Yue tried to move, to sit up, but a jolt of weakness so profound it was shocking shot through her. Her muscles, once honed to the perfection of a celestial weapon, refused to obey. She managed only to lift her head an inch from the pillow before it fell back with a soft thud.
The tiny sound was enough. Xue Lian's amber eyes snapped open, instantly alert. For a moment, she just stared, as if afraid she were dreaming. Then, seeing Lan Yue's conscious, open eyes, her face crumpled with a relief so absolute it was breathtaking.
"You're awake," she breathed, rushing to the bedside.
Lan Yue's throat was a desert. She worked her mouth for a moment before managing a dry, raspy whisper. "Did we win?"
A sound that was half a sob, half a laugh, escaped Xue Lian's lips. She gently brushed the hair from Lan Yue's forehead, her touch infinitely tender. "You absolute fool," she whispered, her own eyes glistening. "You nearly died."
Buoyed by a surge of relief, Lan Yue tried to sit up again, a stubborn refusal to be weak already taking root. Xue Lian immediately pressed a firm but gentle hand to her shoulder, pushing her back down against the pillows.
"Don't you dare move," she commanded, the Empress reasserting herself, but her tone was laced with a frantic, protective concern. "Your meridians are still knitting themselves back together. I performed a Soul Bond ritual. The manor's healer said you are to remain completely, utterly, and boringly still for at least a week."
A few days later, Lan Yue had graduated from utter stillness to the new and deeply humiliating challenge of being fed. She was awake and alert, but her body still refused to cooperate, leaving her at the complete mercy of her new, very fussy, and deeply sarcastic caretaker.
"Open up, Saint Yue," Xue Lian said, bringing a spoonful of bland, green tinged porridge to her lips. Her tone was dripping with a feigned, syrupy sweetness. "Time for your heavenly nourishment."
Lan Yue eyed the congee with a stoic disdain she had perfected over a decade. "This," she stated, her voice still weak but firm, "tastes like boiled grass."
"It is a high grade celestial herb and spirit root broth designed to restore your celestial core," Xue Lian retorted without missing a beat. "It cost more than that entire warehouse district you and your ugly uncle blew up. Now, eat it."
Lan Yue reluctantly accepted the spoonful, her expression unchanging.
"Don't give me that look," Xue Lian sighed, scraping the bowl for another spoonful. "I can feel you complaining through the bond. It's very loud and frankly, quite rude."
The new, permanent connection between them was a constant, strange, and often hilarious discovery. They could feel the baseline of each other's emotions a constant stream of affection from Xue Lian, and a steady, calm river of presence from Lan Yue. But strong, direct thoughts sometimes bled through.
*It still tastes like grass,* Lan Yue thought, directing the sentiment with a clear, deliberate focus.
Xue Lian, who was mid way through bringing the next spoonful to her lips, stopped and glared. "Just eat your grass," she said, her voice full of fond exasperation.
The afternoon passed in this new rhythm of gentle care and relentless banter. Lan Yue, with nothing to do but lie still, began to consciously explore the new link between them. She closed her eyes, not to meditate, but to listen.
"It's… you," she whispered, trying to describe the indescribable. "It feels like warmth. And a constant, low grade headache from worrying about everything in the universe."
Xue Lian, who was reading from a scroll by the window, looked up. "The headache is entirely your fault. And on my end," she countered, "it feels like an overwhelming sense of stubbornness that defies all medical advice, and a sudden, bizarre craving for plain, unseasoned rice."
Lan Yue's lips twitched into a small smile. "That is my preferred meditation meal."
"Of course it is," Xue Lian muttered, shaking her head as she returned to her scroll.
The teasing was a balm, a way to rebuild their intimacy without the crushing weight of their lost decade. It was easy, and light, and for the first time, Lan Yue felt the knots of tension in her soul, coils she hadn't even realized were there, begin to loosen.
As evening approached, Xue Lian finished feeding Lan Yue her dinner of to Lan Yue's profound dismay more grass flavored porridge. She was dabbing the corners of Lan Yue's mouth with a silken napkin, an act of such simple, domestic intimacy that it made Lan Yue's heart ache.
The teasing façade between them melted away, leaving a quiet, sincere vulnerability in its place. Xue Lian's expression grew serious, her amber eyes full of the memory of the past few days.
"I was so scared, Yue," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "When Ren's message came through… when I felt your pain… I thought I had lost you. For good this time."
The raw honesty of her fear was more intimate than any touch. Lan Yue, with a surge of effort that made her muscles tremble, managed to lift her hand from the covers, placing it over Xue Lian's. Her grip was weak, but her voice was firm.
"You didn't," she said, her serene, dark eyes meeting Xue Lian's. "And you never will again."
The promise was absolute, an oath sworn not by a Saint or an Empress, but by two halves of a single, newly forged soul.