Night fell slowly over the Huǒyuán Kingdom. The temple brimmed with the thick scent of incense as people came and went — each carrying their own prayers, their own burdens.
A woman knelt on the cold temple floor, tears streaming down her face as she bowed repeatedly.
"Lord, I have only one daughter," she cried. "Please help her find a husband. My fellow women already visit their in-laws, holding their grandchildren. Lord, please... I will give you an offering worth more — yes, I will offer my biggest calf."
Beside her, another woman wept. "Lord, my farm is dying. I want my crops to grow again. I'm poor... and a widow. I want to have enough, just enough, without begging."
The air was thick with whispered prayers and desperate hopes. A temple attendant moved quietly, tending to the incense, the smoke swirling like ghostly ribbons around him.
Among them was Mò Lián's grandfather — old, steady, and kind — assisting the priest on duty.
The temple was always alive, always busy, its walls echoing with grief, and the silent voices of those who dared to hope.
Mò Lián's grandmother and aunt were home. Aunty Rong had visited them earlier that afternoon. After finishing lunch, they moved to the open-air porch, where the icy wind brushed softly against their faces. The snow had finally ceased, but the chill lingered in the air.
They sat in silence, gazing at the pale crescent moon hanging low in the sky.
"Time moves so fast," Chen Rong murmured with a sorrowful smile. "I still can't get over the loss of my precious family." Her voice trembled slightly. "Wherever you are, I miss you...; and I love you so much, Wēi Wēi. It's already been twenty years."
Her mind drifted back to the past—her only son's face appearing before her eyes as if he were still alive.
Chen Rong had lost her family in a disaster. That day, chaos swallowed the eastern region of Huǒyuán. A comet blazed across the heavens—sudden, fierce, and blinding.
That evening, Chen Rong was at home preparing dinner. The faint smell of rice filled the air, the pot bubbling softly over the fire. Her husband and son — her beloved Wēi Wēi — had gone to the farm. It was quiet... until a sudden noise came.
At first, she heard it — a distant rumble, like thunder far beyond the hills. Then it grew louder... heavier... until the ground itself began to shake. The bowls on the table rattled. The oil lamp quivered. Then came another sound — the sound of people. Distant at first... then swelling into a roar. Cries. Screams. Shouting. It rolled through the streets like a storm of terror.
Her hands froze. An earthquake?
She rushed outside, and it was chaos. Neighbors ran through the streets, clutching their children, their cries rising into the air like broken prayers. The sky had turned red — a deep, burning red — and bright rays of light tore through the clouds like blades.
Chen Rong shielded her eyes, but the rays seared through her fingers, piercing the air with scorching brilliance. Heat washed over her face.
Then she saw them.
Her breath caught in her throat. In the distance, rising from the horizon, came figures — enormous, otherworldly — their shadows stretching across the trembling earth. Giants. No... Immortals.
Each step they took was a thunderclap. The ground cracked. Roofs shuddered. The air itself seemed to bow beneath their presence.
Screams filled the streets. People pushed, stumbled, and trampled one another in blind terror. Someone collided with Chen Rong, knocking her to the ground. Dust filled her mouth as she gasped for air — the world above her consumed by rays of crimson light and ruin.
Her voice broke as she screamed, "Wēi Wēi! Lee Wēi!"
Her throat burned as she called their names again and again — her son, her husband — but the chaos swallowed her cries. The earth roared beneath her. The air was filled with dust and terror.
The giants were drawing closer now — their shadows spilling across the land, and then came the royal messengers — divine yet terrifying, their golden armor glinting beneath the bleeding sky. They rode through the smoke like omens, voices booming commands no one could hear.
Chen Rong's heart pounded. She turned and ran toward the farm — her sandals slipping in the dust, her lungs burning. The path she knew so well was now unrecognizable, broken by cracks and flame. When she reached it... There was nothing. The farm huts were empty. The tools lay scattered; the field torn open as if the earth itself had swallowed her family whole.
"Wēi Wēi!" she screamed again, her voice raw, trembling. Only the wind answered — and the distant sound of people crying.
Desperation gripped her like cold iron. She turned back, joining the wave of people fleeing toward the outer roads. The air stank of smoke and fear. Children wailed. Horses screamed, their terrified neighs cut through the chaos. The road twisted endlessly, as though the world itself no longer wanted them to escape.
At last, they stumbled into a forest — thick and strange, where the trees rose like silent sentinels. It wasn't a place for common folk, but it was quiet. Safe, for a time.
Days blurred together. They wandered, lost and starving, drinking from muddy streams, sleeping beneath branches that whispered in foreign tongues. Every morning, she searched through the surrounding faces — faces gaunt and desperate — but she never found the ones she loved.
And with each night that fell, the echo of her son's laughter grew fainter — until it became nothing more than a memory.
For six days, they wandered—trapped in hunger and fear, caught between hope and despair. The forest had turned silent, haunted by the echoes of cries. By the seventh day, even the birds no longer sang.
Then came the sound of hooves—steady, echoing through the still air. The elite messengers emerged from the mist, their armor glinting in the reflection of the dying sun.
They used their magic to search for the hidden and the lost—tracing faint human breaths, broken trails, and fading warmth in the air. As they rode deeper into the forest, they found bodies along the way, lifeless and pale beneath the moss. They lifted them gently, bringing them along as they searched.
At last, where the trees thinned, they found a crowd—worn and frightened. The messengers gathered the survivors, their presence both divine and terrifying, before releasing their message.
"The land of Huǒyuán has never witnessed such a disastrous comet," one of them proclaimed, his voice deep and solemn. "The Immortals are already investigating the source."
He paused, his gaze lowering to the earth as if it carried the weight of what he was about to say.
"We have found... some bodies."
A wail rose among the people. The sound tore through the crowd. Chen Rong's hands trembled as she stepped forward, her knees weak beneath her. The air was heavy.
One by one, she walked past the bodies—faces she could barely recognize, eyes that would never open again—until her eyes caught the glint of gold.
Her breath hitched. There, among the fallen, gleamed a jade pendant—the one her husband had carved and shared with their son as a token of their love for her.
"Lee Wēi... No!" she screamed and collapsed beside him. People tried to hold her, but she slipped into the darkness. Her son—her precious Wēi Wēi—was nowhere to be found.
When she awoke, the world was silent—soft and hazy, like a dream she didn't belong to. Her head throbbed faintly. The scent of herbs and smoke lingered in the air, wrapping around her like a ghost of memory.
She blinked, her vision settling on a wooden ceiling, dimly lit by the flicker of a nearby oil lamp. For a moment, she didn't know where she was—until the voice of an old servant whispered, "You're safe, madam. You're at Lord Chen's residence."
Her heart twisted. Her brother...
Lord Chen had ridden east to his sister's residence the moment he heard the news—the comet's fire had spread across Huǒyuán faster than the wind itself. The land spoke of ruin, of the gods' anger, of death falling from the heavens. But for him, there was only one truth—his sister and her family life were at stake.
He also felt grief. His wife had died in childbirth not long before; the wound was still fresh, bleeding quietly beneath his calm face. Yet, upon hearing of the disaster, he rose before dawn, mounted his horse, and set out through the storm.
"How can I lose two people at once?" he cried hoarsely into the wind; his voice carried the weight of pain. Rain lashed against his cloak, soaking him, but he did not stop.
He rode through villages—until, at last, he found her. His only family is left.
Chen Rong sat in silence, but the silence was cruel. Every breath felt heavy, like the weight of the past was pressing down on her chest. The memories came back—flashes of red skies, of screams, of her husband's lifeless face.
She tried to hold it in, but the ache tore through her resolve. Her vision blurred. Tears spilled freely down her cheeks as she clutched her chest, her whole body trembling as if her heart itself was shattering.
Beside her, her mother-in-law was already weeping. The old woman's wrinkled hands shook as she reached out, her voice trembling with age and pain.
"My daughter... You went through so much," she whispered, gathering Chen Rong into her frail arms. Her embrace was thin but warm—a comfort forged through shared loss. "Life isn't fair sometimes. We pray for mercy, for peace... but Heaven only grants what it wills."
She stroked Chen Rong's hair gently, her tears soaking into it. "You and my daughter should have been the same age," she murmured, voice breaking, "and now... Mò Lián is like a daughter to you. She's all we have left."
The old woman wiped her tears with trembling fingers. Her hands, once steady, now shook as though they could no longer bear the weight of her regret.
"I lost my only daughter," she whispered, her voice barely holding together. "And I regret... so much—so deeply."
Her breath hitched.
"Her only achievement in my eyes was marrying Chen. She suffered through her pregnancy, and I..."
Her words faltered as the pain caught her throat.
"I told her to endure it. I said, 'You're a woman—this is your duty.'"
She pressed a shaking hand to her chest, her face crumpling. "How cruel those words sound now..."
Her shoulders began to quake. The tears came harder this time, raw and helpless, spilling down her wrinkled face as her voice broke into a quiet sob that filled the dim room.
Chen Rong reached for her, her hands trembling as tears poured freely down her cheeks.
"That's... that's terrible," she whispered, her voice breaking before she could finish. She buried her face against her mother-in-law's chest, clutching at her robes as if seeking shelter from a storm that would never end.
The older woman's arms wrapped around her, weak but full of aching warmth.
The night stretched on, the two women bound by loss, their sobs rising and falling like waves. They clung to each other beneath the dim flicker of the oil lamp, as if their shared grief were the only thing keeping their hearts from shattering completely.
In the King's Hall
The nobles' banquet was already in full swing. The great hall shimmered under golden light, the scent of incense and roasted delicacies mingling in the air. The king sat upon his throne in majestic composure, his gaze steady, his presence commanding.
General Yán Lǐng sat at his post, sharp-eyed, quietly observing as foreign guests moved gracefully in and out of the grand chamber.
Kings from distant lands—some mighty, others humble—had gathered under one roof. Noblemen, princesses, and dignitaries filled the marble hall. Maids glided back and forth with trays of wine, the sweet aroma of fine liquor rising into the perfumed air. Music from zithers and flutes floated through the space, weaving with the hum of conversation and laughter.
The King of Fújiàn had arrived with his radiant daughter, and beside them sat the young King of Han, honored with a seat near the foot of the throne—close enough to witness every grandeur of the Huǒyuán court.
The hall buzzed with admiration.
"The King of Huǒyuán is truly wise—blessed by Heaven itself," one noble said with awe.
Another leaned forward, grinning. "Were you present at the night's magic display? The spectacle was beyond imagination—illusions danced in the sky! You could see everything as if Heaven itself descended."
The table erupted in murmurs of wonder.
"I was there," one of the foreign lords said proudly, his voice drawing attention. "And I saw the Crown Prince with my own eyes."
Instantly, heads turned toward him.
"He is tall," the man continued, raising his cup, "broad-shouldered, with hair dark as midnight. His face—heavens!—it's like something carved from light itself. His eyes gleam as though the stars reside within them."
The nobles nodded in fascination. "He resembles the King," another added thoughtfully.
"Yes," said the lord, smiling. "But his beauty surpasses mortal men. It is said that the first king's spirit lives again through him—that he is the reincarnation of their god-king."
A sudden silence swept through the room. The weight of his words hung heavy in the air.
Then laughter broke out—nervous at first, then bolder.
"Hah! How can your king also be your god?" one foreign noble jeered, shaking his head in disbelief.
But beneath the laughter, a few eyes exchanged uneasy glances—because deep down, some wondered if the rumor might be true.
At the Crown Prince's mansion.
Prince Tiān Jùn stood on his balcony, staring out at the faintly glowing lanterns scattered across the distant city. His mansion was almost empty; no ordinary soldiers or maids were present, only the whisper of the wind brushing past the stone railings.
Since that night—the night he lost sight of Mò Lián—his aura had been leaking uncontrollably, unseen but heavy in the air. He had watched her perform the Phoenix Dance, radiant as flame. She had spotted him... and fled.
That moment had burned itself into him. Since then, he hadn't known peace.
He had already sent General Yán Lǐng to find her, but no word had returned. Duty kept him bound to the courtroom beside his father, yet his mind was far from politics.
"The work of a king is broad, my son."
His father had once told him,
"But all must be done before the day ends."
Those words echoed faintly in his mind.
He knew he should be preparing for the nobles' banquet, but a restless storm coiled inside him. His chest felt heavy—anger mixed with something darker, something raw and burning. He didn't understand it, only that it refused to fade.
He clenched his jaw, trying to steady his breath. The pressure in his chest grew unbearable, as if his power itself wanted to tear free. He pressed a hand to his heart, forcing the surge down—his veins burned, his pulse wild—but he refused to yield.
For a moment, he managed to calm it... until the memory of the King of Han's words struck him like a blade:
"If you don't mind... bring in the Phoenix Dancer."
That single phrase shattered the fragile calm.
A sharp wave of power tore through the room. The floor trembled; the air crackled like a storm trapped indoors. His aura erupted—cold and divine, golden symbols flashing briefly along the walls.
"No," he growled under his breath.
"She's mine."
The power surged again, wild and alive. He clenched his fists, trying to suppress it, but the more he resisted, the more violently it raged.
He sat cross-legged, forcing himself into meditation. But no matter how deeply he breathed, he couldn't connect. The divine flow slipped through him like broken light.
His power was growing stronger—too strong. He had once mastered control, able to contain his divinity from harming mortals. But now... his rage had awakened something else.
The outbreak had begun to cause unrest in the Crown Prince's quarter.
Tiān Jùn sat still, struggling to contain the violent power surging through him. Suddenly, he heard a sharp cry echoing from beyond his balcony. His chest tightened; the voice sounded desperate—broken. He rose and stepped closer, scanning the night air. Nothing. The voice came again, louder this time, trembling.
His eyes burned red. The fire inside him raged, searing through his veins. With a flick of his hand, he cast his magic across the palace, searching—and found it. A young soldier knelt before three higher-ranked men at the palace maids' quarters.
Without a thought, Tiān Jùn dissolved into mist and appeared at the scene. The air was cold and heavy. A single lantern hung from a pole, unlit. He recognized the young man—Wēi Wēi—the same soldier he had noticed during the royal assembly.
"You should leave the palace," one of the elder soldiers sneered. "You're not fit to serve here."
"I'm sorry," Wēi Wēi pleaded, his voice breaking. "I have nowhere else to go. Please..."
One of the men raised his hand. A cruel spell flared, striking Wēi Wēi's chest. He screamed in agony.
Tiān Jùn's control snapped. He stepped from the shadows.
"Hrrrhhh..." His low growl rolled through the night.
The soldiers turned.
"Who are you?" one demanded, moving closer—until he saw the red glow in Tiān Jùn's eyes. His breath caught. The others froze. Then one looked down—his fellow soldier was already dead, his body collapsing soundlessly.
"Please..." Wēi Wēi gasped, trembling as he turned toward the stranger.
The Crown Prince moved closer, his aura devouring the air itself.
The remaining soldiers laughed nervously, hiding their fear. "You think that monster came to save you? You'll die with him!"
Tiān Jùn turned to face them fully. His eyes flared brighter.
The hanging lantern suddenly burst into flame. Wēi Wēi flinched from the light, realization dawning.
"The Crown Prince..." he whispered, bowing his head in terror.
Before another breath could be drawn, the two soldiers fell. Their bodies shrank—consumed, ash touched the cold stone.
"Wēi Wēi."
The Crown Prince crouched down, lifting the young soldier's chin until their eyes met. His strength was overwhelming—impossible to resist. The air grew still, timid, as if afraid of him.
"Open your eyes," the Crown Prince ordered softly, a faint smile tugging at his lips as he pinched Wēi Wēi's cheek. He chuckled at how fragile the boy seemed. His power, once raging, was now under perfect control.
Slowly, Wēi Wēi obeyed. When his eyes finally met the prince's, he froze—something glittered faintly within those deep crimson irises. It was both terrifying and beautiful. He blinked once... twice... lost for a moment in the brilliance.
Tiān Jùn smirked, amused by the boy's astonishment.
"Wēi Wēi." His voice was low, almost teasing.
"Huh?" The young soldier flinched, realizing he had been staring. He quickly looked down. The glow in the prince's eyes had already softened.
"Were you hurt?" Tiān Jùn asked, standing and pulling him up by the arm.
"No, Your Highness," Wēi Wēi replied quickly, bowing low.
"Good. Then follow me. From now on, you'll stay in my quarters."
The Crown Prince dusted the dirt from Wēi Wēi's robe, his movements uncharacteristically gentle. He had seen the bullying and would not allow it again.
They began walking through the quiet courtyard. As they passed, a few maids caught sight of the Crown Prince and froze. Their cheeks flushed pink; they could barely continue their chores in his presence.
Tiān Jùn paused. Wēi Wēi, lost in thought, bumped into him from behind.
The crown prince turned sharply, his hand catching the young soldier's wrist, and they both dissolved into thin air.
They appeared at the King's Hall—right in the heart of the dignitaries' banquet.
At once, the eunuchs stationed by the golden doors bowed deeply, startled by their sudden arrival. One of them hurried inside to announce the news.
"Welcome, the Crown Prince!" his voice echoed through the hall.
The once-boisterous chatter died instantly. Every head turned toward the entrance.
Crown Prince Tiān Jùn stepped in, his robes flowing like liquid shadow, and beside him trailed Wēi Wēi, still visibly shaken. The crown prince's eyes, though calm, carried a quiet fire that commanded silence.
He crossed the open space until he reached the throne. With a graceful bow to his father, he took his seat at his right. Wēi Wēi knelt low, then rose to stand behind him as protocol demanded.
The king's sharp gaze flickered to the unfamiliar young soldier by his son's side—but he said nothing. The celebration resumed, though the air was heavy with curiosity.
Soon, a new group of maids glided into the hall carrying trays of wine in jeweled jugs. The head chef had already sent word to the royal kitchen—the Crown Prince had arrived. Among the maids was Yù Xuān, her heart drumming softly beneath her silk robe.
She carried the royal golden jug, the one reserved only for serving the prince. The chief maid's warning echoed in her mind—
"Be careful, Yù Xuān. The royal jug is given only to the most beautiful maiden."
Another maid whispered beside her as they walked, "You're lucky... and also in trouble. The Crown Prince's eyes see too much."
Yù Xuān bit her lip, gripping the tray with trembling fingers.
When they reached the Crown Prince's table, she bowed deeply and placed the tray before him. She turned quickly to leave—but Wēi Wēi stopped her.
"Pour the liquor," he instructed gently.
Her throat tightened.
Lord, help me... the Crown Prince is said to be dangerous.
Summoning every bit of courage, she knelt beside his table.
"My Lord," she said softly, her voice barely steady, "may I pour your wine?"
Tiān Jùn gave a small, wordless wave of his hand.
Yù Xuān carefully lifted the golden jug and poured. The sweet aroma of the liquor filled the air.
She bowed again, setting the jug down with reverence, then moved to stand silently behind—her heart still beating fast against her chest.
The King of Han noticed that the King of Huǒyuán was no longer focused on the event. His mind seemed distant, distracted. The King of Han remembered the whispers he'd heard among the commoners—the tale of the Phoenix Dancer.
Breaking the silence, he stood and lifted his golden cup in a toast.
"Your Highness," he said with a calm smile. The King of Huǒyuán turned toward him.
"Many dancers have already performed tonight, yet I hear there are unique dancers within your palace. It would be an honor to witness such grace before the night ends."
"King Hán Wáng Ān," he added, raising his cup and drinking it down in one smooth motion.
Before the king could respond, the eunuchs' sharp voices cut through the air—
"Welcome, the Queen!"
The entire hall rose to its feet in respect.
She entered in full majesty; her gown trailing like a silver river. Jewels shimmered in her hair, her beauty serene and commanding. Every step she took seemed to draw the light toward her.
The King's gaze softened immediately. He rose from his throne as she approached and bowed slightly, his expression filled with warmth.
"My lord, forgive my lateness," she said gently.
"You are welcome, my queen," the King replied with quiet admiration. He offered his hand and guided her to her seat beside him—her throne to his left, the Crown Prince to his right, and General Yán Lǐng just beyond.
As he returned to his place, smiling faintly, he motioned to the chief eunuch standing by the lower stairs.
The eunuch stepped forward and called in a commanding voice, "Let the entertainment begin!"
Immediately, maidens poured into the hall carrying trays of jade jugs and delicate cups. They moved in perfect rhythm, their silk sleeves gliding through the golden light. Each group followed a precise formation—trained to perfection.
The first set approached the foreign nobles' tables, offering jade-poured wine. Then, another group entered carrying higher-tier jugs—these were designed with precious stones, reserved for the nobility of Huǒyuán and for King Han himself.
King Han observed the organized elegance with quiet admiration.
Moments later, three mature maids appeared—royal attendants, easily recognized by their composure and refined attire. They bore the royal cups—two golden for the King and Queen, and one silvered for the General. Their steps were slow, steady, almost divine.
They ascended the throne stairs, split gracefully in three directions—left toward the Queen, right toward the General, and the center toward the King. They placed the trays down with deep bows before retreating silently from the royal platform.
Then, the lights dimmed slightly. The long-sleeve dance began.
The maidens swirled and spun, their flowing sleeves tracing silver arcs through the air. The foreign kings leaned forward, amused and delighted, their eyes glimmering in awe.
Behind them, the musicians plucked the strings of the guqin, each note lingering in the air like falling snow. The entire hall fell quiet, wrapped in the haunting melody.
"This wine tastes better than my first night," one of the foreign kings laughed, sipping slowly. Laughter rippled through his table.
As the final dance ended, the performers bowed low and stepped away. The instrumentalists followed with one last resonant chord that filled the vast hall.
Applause thundered through the air like rain on the rooftops.
A new set of instrumentalists and dancers glided into the hall, their silken gowns whispering against the marble floor. They bowed in perfect harmony before taking their places. As the musicians lifted their instruments, a gentle melody unfurled—soft, graceful, and filled with the quiet splendor of the night.
They moved in a circle, their steps gliding like ripples across still water. Then, from behind the dancer's sleeves, a figure emerged—a dancer wearing a golden mask. Her presence stilled the air. Every eye turned toward her as the light caught the glint of gold and crimson woven through her gown, each thread shimmering like fire beneath the torches.
She stepped into the center, her movements deliberate, almost divine. With a swift spin, her long sleeves unfurled, fluttering like wings of light before she leaped into the air. The crowd gasped.
When her feet touched the marble again, the other dancers sank around her in reverence, forming a perfect ring. The masked dancer swayed with ethereal grace—her waist flowing like water, her body rising and bending in rhythm with the haunting melody.
And when the music rose, she ascended once more—her figure blurring into a streak of flame and silk. She landed softly, the sound barely touching the floor, and the other dancers joined her, their movements weaving into hers as the performance reached its dazzling crescendo.
The Crown Prince straightened suddenly, a faint, familiar scent drifting past him—Mò Lián. It was like the whisper of rain over fire, soft yet impossible to ignore. His pulse stilled.
His eyes swept across the hall, sharp but composed, every motion veiled beneath royal restraint. He felt her presence—close, achingly close—but the room was filled with too many souls, too much light. If he unleashed even a trace of his power, the illusion of calm would shatter, and every immortal and mortal alike would know.
So he sat back, his jaw tightening, the weight of restraint coiling inside him like a storm barely contained.
Yù Xuān noticed his restlessness. She leaned closer, her voice soft.
"My lord, do you wish for more wine? May I—"
Her words died on her lips. Her breath caught as the recognition struck her like lightning.
The Crown Prince—Tiān Jùn—the man seated before her in calm elegance... was him.
The very man who had been searching for Mò Lián.
Her mind spiraled. How could it be? The mysterious stranger from the market square, the one whose quiet eyes carried sorrow... a prince of Huǒyuán? Her heart thudded painfully as disbelief warred with recognition.
He turned, his gaze meeting hers.
For a moment, the world stilled.
He saw the flicker of shock in her eyes—then smiled faintly, as though he already knew.
"Are you... Crown Prince Tiān Jùn?" she whispered, gathering courage, her voice barely stable.
He smirked, the corner of his mouth curving with effortless grace. "Pour me a drink," he said, his tone teasing yet commanding as he straightened in his seat.
"Y-yes, my lord." Her hands shook slightly as she lifted the jug. The wine trickled into his cup, slow and steady. "If you don't mind... who are you truly?" she asked, crouching beside his table, her curiosity trembling beneath her fear.
Tiān Jùn leaned forward, his voice a low whisper meant for her alone.
"No ordinary man," he said softly, "can sit upon the throne."
A charged silence lingered between them. Their lips curved faintly, not in amusement—but in quiet understanding.
"My lord," she said at last, her voice fragile, "are you my friend's lover—the man I once met... or the Crown Prince of Huǒyuán?"
She remembered how Mò Lián had described him—the warmth in her voice, the way her eyes had softened at his name. The realization struck her like lightning. So this was him. The mysterious man who had captured her friend's heart.
She was still in shock, struggling to believe that the figure before her—the poised, regal prince—was the same man Mò Lián had once spoken of so tenderly.
He lifted his cup slowly, his gaze catching the candlelight. In his eyes burned something dark and distant.
"Both," he murmured, his tone calm yet threaded with feeling.
Yù Xuān froze, her breath faltering. She lowered the jug with care, telling herself, He isn't dangerous...
But her heart refused to listen.