Chapter 24

Pei Muci’s hands were hidden within his sleeves, trembling with exhaustion.

"Can you walk?" Qingwu reached out to pull him up.

Pei Muci shook his head, his vision spinning dizzyingly. Everything was blurred and indistinct, as if viewed through a haze of shifting shadows.

Finding her current attire too cumbersome, Qingwu took Hanyue’s sword and drove it into the ground, then loosened her outer robe and tied its long sleeves tightly around her slender waist. As she pulled them taut, her waistline was accentuated, lithe and graceful like a willow branch, barely a handful in circumference.

Pei Muci brushed aside the dark hair that had fallen onto her shoulder, looking at her with a helpless, pitiable expression. This unfamiliar allure reminded Qingwu of that infamous, ruinous favorite concubine from the previous dynasty, whom legend said was a fox spirit reincarnated to bewitch the souls of men.

"Oh, my—" she drawled, pulling out a silk handkerchief to wipe his face. She stepped over his legs to tighten the sash around his waist, letting out a helpless sigh. She could not fathom why her resolve was so weak; a mere glance from him was enough to make her uncontrollably yearn to be kind to him.

Her attention wandered to other things, and her hand slowed, eventually coming to a stop. Pei Muci stared blankly at her wrists, the searing heat coursing through his brain scorching his thoughts, dulling his usually sharp reflexes.

He asked unconsciously, "Am I no longer pleasing to look at?" Otherwise, why would she not flee immediately instead of wasting time wiping his face?

"You are," Qingwu blurted out. "You are pleasing to look at, no matter what." She had never imagined that Pei Muci, stained with blood, would possess such a breathtaking, desolate beauty. The crimson smear at the corner of his eyes, seeping into his pale skin, held a bewitching strangeness that stirred the imagination. It was truly a visual feast; she was neither deceiving him nor speaking empty words.

Pei Muci lifted his chin, cooperating as she wiped away a blood droplet that had splashed onto his earlobe. He then seemed to deliberately brush his temple against her palm. The handkerchief slowly became soaked, the warmth of his blood seeping into Qingwu’s fingertips. Her movements were light, like a tuft of cotton drifting across his ear, leaving behind a lingering, ticklish sensation.

Pei Muci clung to the feeling of each touch, wishing she would press harder. Thinking this, he spoke his mind: "Your Highness, a bit firmer." His tone was mournful and aggrieved, like a devotee begging for the protection of a celestial being.

Before he could finish, however, he received a heavy slap on his upper arm. Qingwu rolled her eyes, kicked his knee with feigned impatience, and stood between his legs. "What is wrong with you?" she chided.

The pure white handkerchief was stained filthy with blood, some parts caked with dark clots and scabs. She folded it with a look of distaste, holding it in her palm with nowhere to put it.

"It's dirty." Pei Muci seemed to scratch behind his ear inadvertently, snatching the handkerchief from her hand. "I'll hold it." The silky fabric passed through his fingers like soft, dark hair.

Qingwu didn't fuss. She tucked her bow into the gap between her waist and her robe, gripped her bow with one hand, rested the other on the sword hilt, and crouched before him. "Get on."

Pei Muci did not move; he held the handkerchief with a complex expression. It still bore a faint, sweet fragrance that washed away the waves of pain rampaging through his body. Seeing no movement behind her, Qingwu turned back and touched his forehead—it was burning hot.

She nodded to herself, speaking with firm conviction: "Fever has burned your wits away." She was ready to carry him, so why was he still sitting there like a fool? The more she thought about it, the more pitiful she found him, especially after he had just suggested she leave him behind. Who said she would abandon him here?

She grabbed his wrists, draped his arms over her shoulders, and with one great effort, heaved him onto her back. Qingwu buckled under the weight. He looked so refined, yet he was surprisingly heavy—much heavier than the sandbags she used to carry. She held her breath, using the sword as a crutch, and reached back with her free hand to hoist his legs.

After several failed attempts, seeing his legs dragging on the ground, Qingwu bent lower to support his body. The mountain path was difficult; after taking a few steps, her joints felt weak and unresponsive. She tilted her head and bumped it against his. "Can you wrap your arms around my neck?"

Silence followed.

"Pei Muci?" Qingwu could hear her own heart thumping.

"Your Highness." Pei Muci lifted his arms, resting them listlessly on her shoulders. Strands of his hair slid over his arms and fell across her chest.

"Don't sleep." Qingwu used the sword to hack away the branches blocking their path, shifting the man on her back upward. She didn't have the energy to care about her disheveled appearance; her only thought was to reach their hiding place quickly.

Pei Muci didn't open his mouth, his voice seeming to emanate from his chest: "Mm."

The mountain wind howled, drying their skin until it cracked. Qingwu used the faint starlight to discern their path, stumbling into the dark, brush-filled woods. Her pace, steady at first, gradually slowed. Several times, she stumbled, nearly falling into shallow hunting pits.

"Who is so heartless to dig pits in a place like this?" she muttered. "I was also a fool. I should have dragged you toward the city instead of running out here into the wilderness with no reinforcements."

Though she said this, both knew the men in black would never have let them reach the city center. Only by leaving the city could they gamble on a path to survival. Qingwu, feeling uneasy, kept up a stream of chatter, trying to create some sound in the strange, silent environment. As they went further, her voice grew quieter, eventually fading away like a dying flame.

The weak breaths against her neck grew heavy and light, and she knew that heat must have left a red mark on her skin. Suddenly, her steps faltered.

"Caught," Qingwu hissed. A low-hanging tree branch had snagged the hair at her crown, while the ends were pinned between Pei Muci’s chest and her back. The man on her back seemed unconscious, his lashes covered in a thin layer of dew. If she were to cut the branch directly, the twigs would fall onto Pei Muci, and in his current state, he could not withstand such a burden.

Hardening her heart, Qingwu bit her lip and raised her hand, severing the strands of hair the moment they touched the blade. The tension she had been holding onto snapped, and she nearly collapsed to the ground. Unsure whose hair kept falling onto her chest, she tidied it away and comforted him: "There is a cliff cave ahead; I'll take you there to rest."

It wasn't just Pei Muci who needed rest; her own feet were trembling, and she was nearing the end of her strength. She prayed there would be no more accidents in the mountains.

Almost there. Just a few more steps.

Pei Muci felt as if his head weighed a thousand pounds, lolling weakly on her thin shoulder. A faint warmth touched his indifferent eyes. Through a narrow slit in his eyelids, he saw the girl cutting her hair without hesitation, stumbling forward, muttering encouraging words to herself. Although her steps grew heavier, she never once mentioned putting him down.

As the hair drifted away, he reached out and gathered the severed strands, tucking them into the blood-stained handkerchief. The vast, starry sky was obscured and revealed in turns, the dark night air like the deep ocean, tinged with an ethereal, azure blue. The majestic expanse of the heavens held a grandeur that made all things seem insignificant. In the midst of such immersive, profound beauty, a heart long dead began to beat slowly once more.

—

"Here, we're here," Qingwu called out, relieved.

Part of the cave was buried beneath the mountain; in the pitch-black woods, it was difficult to identify as an entrance without careful observation. Qingwu set Pei Muci down in the furthest corner, letting him lean against the stone wall. "Rest a moment, I'll go gather some firewood nearby."

The temperature inside the cave was much lower than outside. Without a fire, they would freeze to death by morning. If rumors were to spread that a princess had run off with an imperial scholar to die for love in a mountain valley, it would be humiliating.

Qingwu untied her bow, placed it on a flat stone, and strapped her soft sword to her waist.

Pei Muci felt as if his throat were filled with hot oil; even a slight swallow felt like a knife cutting through bone. The cave was pitch black. He stared blankly at the entrance, where thin slivers of light revealed the girl's retreating back. Qingwu held her long sword, the blade smelling of dried blood and the filth picked up along the way, yet she held it nonchalantly in her palm, using her other hand to brush the dust from her skirt as she walked.

She seemed unaware of the consequences of trekking through the forest with someone like him—someone who had lost the ability to survive and was prone to sudden illness.

Qingwu ducked through the waist-high cave entrance. As her warmth disappeared, the crushing pain returned. Blood, sweet and metallic, surged into Pei Muci’s throat, but a faint arc appeared on his lips.

As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he looked around. He pulled off his tattered outer robe and spread it on the ground. He smoothed out the wrinkles with slow, patient movements. Touching the hem, he felt large, hardened patches—blood from the people who had fallen at his feet earlier, which had soaked through the silk. He recalled the image of Qingwu clumsily brushing dust off her skirt. He couldn't let the little princess return to sit on the cold, gritty ground.

His outer robe was dirty, so Pei Muci began to undo his inner garment’s sash. Every movement, under his hand, seemed to carry a sense of unhurried grace. He gripped a stone pillar, spread the clean inner robe on the floor, and put his outer robe back on. The effort exhausted him; his face was devoid of color, his lips covered in a frost-like pallor.

His wounds began to seep blood, and a sharp, throbbing pain in his joints felt like iron nails being hammered into his muscles. He curled up involuntarily, but the pain, like a searing red-hot knife, pierced his soul. Pei Muci exhaled slowly, leaned against the icy wall, and closed his eyes, letting the bone-chilling agony crawl through his bones.

—

Qingwu prowled outside for a while, mapping the terrain before ducking back into the cave. She threw a bundle of dry wood at the entrance, went to the depths of the cave, and crouched before Pei Muci. She didn't touch his forehead again, but instead pressed two fingers to his neck. Only after feeling his pulse did she cover him with the garment she had piled nearby.

Pei Muci did not open his eyes; he feared that if he spoke, the blood he couldn't help but spit out would frighten her. Fortunately, after confirming his vital signs, Qingwu did not linger, curling up in a corner near the entrance with her sword to adjust. The gunpowder in the signal flare wouldn't ignite such thick wood; she needed to recover some strength before she could split the logs.

The last two hours had been too exhausting; within minutes, her breathing grew rhythmic and steady. Pei Muci opened his eyes to see her head wedged into a narrow gap, her upper body sitting straight as she guarded the entrance with her sword.

There were no pursuers, yet they were trapped in this small cave because of his condition. The moonlight grew increasingly desolate. Qingwu was clearly at the entrance, but the pale light struggled to reach her, leaving her huddled silhouette looking exceptionally lonely.

Earlier, when they rolled down the slope, she had said they were the same. Pei Muci pondered this—how could they be the same? How could a princess, raised carefree under the Emperor's doting, say such a thing?

Before he could reflect further, a sharp pain struck the back of his head, as if someone had struck him with a brick, his brain roasting over a fire. The torture left him utterly drained, his vision swimming. Breathing was a burden of pain, and his senses blurred. The persistent poison was like a sandstorm, swallowing him in a suffocating sense of drowning. Mist on the stone wall condensed into beads, dripping down the smooth surface. Time ticked by, slow and steady.

—

Qingwu opened her eyes, stretched her stiff fingers, and let her joints loosen.

"It hurts." She supported her neck with her palm, grimacing. She regretted tucking her head into the stone crevice to sleep; her spine felt misaligned, and even the slightest movement caused sharp, bone-deep pain.

Qingwu lay on the ground, moving her limbs minimally before trying to figure out how to handle the thick logs. She had never split wood before. After much deliberation, she gripped the sword hilt with both hands and began hacking at the heart of the wood. If she dawdled any longer, the person inside might freeze to death. Small pieces would have to suffice.

Qingwu picked up a pointed twig and dug the gunpowder out of the signal flare. If she didn't return by tomorrow morning, Hanyue would naturally tell the Emperor to search for her.

The sparks from the two flint stones flickered and died. Qingwu’s hands began to shake as various disastrous possibilities raced through her mind. What if the cotton thread in the tube was damp? What if these meager sparks couldn't ignite the thick wood?

Panic, unbidden and dark, crept over her shoulders. Qingwu took a few deep breaths, shifted to use her back to block the cold wind from the entrance, took the sash from her robe, folded it, and bundled it with the cotton thread.

The sparks caught the silk sash. Qingwu dared not delay; she threw on some dry bark she had scraped off and cupped her hands to shield it from the wind. "Finally." Her heart settled.

Unsure of the situation outside, she didn't dare let the fire grow too large. She placed a few shaved branches on top and waited for them to smoke. Once they ignited, Qingwu stood up, stretched her limbs, and by the firelight, saw Pei Muci lying motionless, having not moved an inch.

Qingwu hurried over to him. As she approached, the cold emanating from him made her shudder. It wasn't a fleeting chill, but a persistent, freezing aura. It was like walking in knee-deep snow in the dead of winter, where the ice melted into water, draining away all heat.

She recalled that Pei Muci had been lying at the bottom of the cave longer than she had, and she wondered how stiff his limbs must be. She pulled his arm, supporting him as she moved him closer to the fire. In those few moments, Qingwu felt the fabric on her shoulders freeze, as if she had been tossed into a frozen lake and hauled back out.

It was too cold... she couldn't stop shivering. Pei Muci seemed to be asleep, his eyelids drooping like a sickly beauty in the wind. She wondered how he endured such temperatures.

Wanting to make him more comfortable, she used her sword to nudge the fire closer. They wouldn't be leaving this place anytime soon. She paced the entrance for a long while, confirming there were no predators, but still uneasy, she gathered thorny brush and tangled weeds to pile at the cave mouth.

The fire grew, casting their shadows against the jagged stone wall. Sitting on a flat stone, she felt the muscles in her calves tighten into knots; they ached with the slightest movement. They were truly rusted from disuse.

Qingwu leaned forward, her upper body pressed against her thighs, rubbing her calves to relax them. The flames seemed to dance with her movements. As she rubbed, her brow furrowed, and her gaze darkened.

Why were there assassins at the porridge stall? Her arrangements today had been improvised and spontaneous. Even if Qin Susu wanted revenge, she couldn't have tracked her so quickly. Could they have been after Pei Muci? That was impossible. Pei Muci had stayed in the Princess's estate—how could he have made enemies outside?

Then who could be targeting her?

Qingwu rested her cheek on her knees, her movements slowing. After reflecting for a moment, she held her breath and tiptoed over to sit beside Pei Muci. The air in the cave grew thin from the burning wood. As she placed a hand on Pei Muci’s pulse, her eyelids grew heavy, and she drifted off.

—

Qingwu dreamt of the catastrophe from ten years ago. She had hidden with Ningchun in a cellar only two people wide, surviving on hard rations for eight days until the chaos outside subsided. At first, she knew she was dreaming, watching as if from a distance, but the mist slowly cleared, and she merged with the self from ten years ago. The heartbreak, the pain, and the tearing grief—she relived it all in her memories.

The heavy, sealed door was pushed open inch by inch. Qingwu was grabbed by the hair and dragged out of the cellar. The familiar terror surged, and her voice was laced with tears: "I have finished the books the Empress gave me, practiced three sets of sword forms, and passed the equestrian instructor's test. I only neglected them these past few days because I had no choice."

She spilled it all out, but the person pulling her didn't respond. Was she wrong? Was the person pulling her a rebel? After days in the dark, her eyes couldn't adapt to the light. Struggling uselessly, her limbs weak, she resigned herself to being dragged away.

The person in front seemed to have no strength, resting after less than a kilometer. Qingwu clutched her hair, feeling as if her scalp were being torn off. She stood stunned, not speaking, because she had recognized her captor: the current Empress, her biological mother—Qinghua.

The woman wore her grand phoenix robes, followed by a majestic honor guard. She threw Qingwu to the ground and told her, "It is because the Yong Dynasty has no heir that your Imperial Uncle rebelled against your father."

The Empress’s emotions seemed stable as she stated what she believed to be a fact. As soon as she finished, she let out a scream toward the stone bricks.

"Ah—"

The sharp, female voice threatened to pierce everyone's eardrums. She brushed her hands with distaste and ordered the guards: "Take her away. Take her away quickly." As if the girl were not her own flesh and blood, but a filthy thing she hated to look at.

Two armored imperial guards hoisted Qingwu by the shoulders. Her toes scraped the ground as she struggled, but the soldiers dragged her mercilessly forward. After a while, Qingwu recognized the direction—the square in front of the Ganquan Palace.

Had something happened to her father? Qingwu dared not imagine, and the scene before her didn't allow for it. The square, usually solemn, was filled with kneeling people. Women and children were crying and fainting. The crowd was a black sea of heads, all burying their faces, desperately trying to avoid something.

The guards dragged Qingwu directly toward the six-foot-high platform in the center. She saw many familiar faces in the crowd—people who had stood before her father's desk, some who had even greeted her in the palace.

The Imperial Uncle’s rebellion had been sudden, inciting half the court and even convincing the Great General Du Yan to lead the vanguard. Thus, kneeling below were General Du’s entire family, and even unrelated students and servants were implicated.

"How could it come to this?" Qingwu couldn't understand. Why would Uncle Du, who had always been kind to her, rebel and harm so many of the royal family? Her father had always been generous to him; even in his rage, he wouldn't implicate the innocent.

A guard looked down at the young Qingwu, unable to bear it, and whispered away from the others: "The Du traitor killed the Grand Princess, so the Emperor ordered the execution of the nine clans."

"What!" Qingwu’s eyes widened. "They killed the Aunt?"

The little aunt was her father's only sister. After she returned from abroad, her father had wanted to compensate her with a life of comfort. Who could have foreseen such a tragedy? The aunt was only twenty, yet she had died at the hands of these rebels. No wonder her father was so ruthless.

Qingwu suddenly remembered something else. She grabbed a woman on the ground who seemed composed, her fingers digging into her arm. "Where is Lingyu?" If the relatives were here to witness the execution, why wasn't the Prince there? They should have been kept together.

Qingwu’s teeth chattered. Could he have already...? She looked at the woman with desperate pleading. Unexpectedly, her hair was yanked; the Empress, dragging her heavy robes, was dragging her toward the execution platform like a madwoman.

No one dared look up. The executioners continued their work as if the mother and daughter were invisible. The Empress threw her onto the platform, right beside the prisoners. The smell of decaying flesh assaulted her nose, and the executioner’s axe hung right beside her. She was so close to that bloody mess that she could clearly see the executioner using a shining dagger to slice the flesh off her uncle's body, piece by piece.

The meat was stacked like pork at a market, emitting a sour, rotting stench. Qingwu wanted to vomit, but days of hard rations left her only able to retch dryly.

"The rebel isn't dead yet; stop embarrassing me." The Empress, impatient, bent down to straighten her daughter's collar, her movements brutal. Sticky red juice stained Qingwu’s dress. She stared at her palm, coated in the liquid.

"Why is he still alive after losing so much blood?"

The Empress rubbed the patterns on her nail guards, the cold gems scratching Qingwu’s face and leaving white marks. The sharp sensation cut across her jaw. At that moment, she wanted nothing more than to flee. But she was too small, too weak to resist.

Before she could stand, her mother was pulling her back and forth like a rag. The Empress’s eyes were bloodshot, her mind unraveling as she screamed in a breakdown: "Why couldn't you be a prince? Why must you be a useless princess..."

The people below thought the Empress had lost her mind. She alone didn't think so, letting out a piercing, hysterical laugh. The sound echoed across the blood-soaked square. Qingwu heard the hidden bitterness and sorrow within it. Whenever something happened to her father, her mother was like this—blaming her for not being a prince, for not being able to share her father's burdens, for not helping her secure her position as Empress.

But her father had promised never to take other concubines, that he would have only her mother for his whole life. Yet her mother never believed him.

Qingwu laughed mockingly—a strange, complex expression on her young face.

"What are you laughing at?" The Empress loosened her grip, and Qingwu was tossed aside, landing on the pile of quiet flesh. She saw the uncle who used to play with her being carved up by a dagger, the muscles tearing with stubborn fibers, the ground covered in meat and blood.

Whether the victim’s will was too strong or the executioner’s technique too precise, the man still had a breath left. He opened his lips weakly, his voice no louder than a mosquito. Qingwu, thinking he had last words, leaned in despite her discomfort, hoping he might have a message for her father.

The man was dying. Qingwu, remembering their past bond, leaned in close to his lips and finally heard it: "So what if the Empress taught you to be well-versed in both pen and sword? How can a girl inherit the throne?"

After saying this, he even wanted to laugh, but his mouth only opened to vomit a large pool of black blood. The executioner pierced a vital spot, and blood began to spill from his features. Yet he still stared fixedly at Qingwu until he finally stopped breathing, his eyes wide open.

Qingwu felt cold. Her consciousness detached from the scene. She saw her younger, ignorant self, clutching her chest. She must have felt some pain then. Her father had been in a coma for days and nights, and she had truly blamed herself for everything. But now, she felt no guilt.

She felt only an endless, numb pain. Whether because it was a dream or because so much time had passed, the pain of that event had become insignificant. Everything was as blurred as flowers in the mist. She tried to recall what else they had said or done to her.

She couldn't remember... Everything turned to foam in an instant, evaporating into nothingness.

The dream ended.

—

The cold wind howled. Pei Muci slowly straightened his legs, trying to get his blood flowing to regain some warmth. The girl beside him was leaning against a stone protrusion, nodding off, her head lolling to the side. She didn't seem to be sleeping well, her brow furrowing and relaxing in turns.

Pei Muci watched her for a long time. He wanted to lift his hand to smooth the crease between her brows. Waves of cold flowed toward his limbs; his joints felt frozen, unable to bend. This seemingly small movement exhausted the tiny bit of strength he had gathered, and even clenching his fist was a luxury.

He leaned on the ground, wanting to get closer to Qingwu, but fearing he would pass his chill to her. After wavering, he gave up and slumped back. The movement pulled at his ribs, and an itch rose from his lungs to his throat, threatening to erupt. Pei Muci bit down on his thumb, stifling the cough.

A warm flow surged into his nasal cavity, and the root of his tongue tasted the metallic tang of blood. Qingwu heard a stir, then was shaken awake by the muffled grunt from Pei Muci’s chest. She opened her eyes to see a handsome side profile.

He leaned lazily against the stone wall, his dark hair scattered over his collarbones. He didn't sit straight, his body loose and his expression exhausted. Yet, in this state, he still possessed a sense of noble grace.

Facing such a fragile, glass-like beauty, Qingwu feared that even a slightly loud sound would shatter him. She pushed the heart-wrenching dream aside and asked him, as if nothing were wrong, "Are you hungry?"

She didn't know if he was hungry, but she certainly was. Now that she had recovered some strength, she could hunt a rabbit or bird to roast. She had to be prepared for any eventuality.

Qingwu stomped her feet and stood to retrieve her bow and arrows.

"I'm not hungry." Pei Muci spoke, reaching out to grip her wrist, preventing her from leaving. His senses were dulled by endless pain, and he used more strength than intended.

"It hurts." A faint red mark appeared on her wrist, reminding her of the dream. Her pupils contracted as she met Pei Muci’s clear eyes. She didn't pull away, but instead sat beside him, maintaining a distance out of caution.

"Alright, I won't go. Let go." Qingwu whispered, unsure if he could hear her.

Pei Muci felt the sharp stabbing in his brain, like an ice pick drilling into his temples, scattering his consciousness. He didn't notice her soft words, only loosening his grip once she sat down.

Qingwu sat beside him in silence. They remained like statues for a long time. Pei Muci’s internal inferno calmed briefly, and he heard a faint rustling sound, like a mouse stealing food. The "little mouse" beside him fumbled for a long time before pulling out a package and placing it on her knees.

She had been two fingers away from him, but now she moved closer, holding the only food they had before him. "Eat?"

Pei Muci pushed her elbow away, but the unique fragrance still lingered at the tip of his nose, refusing to dissipate.

Qingwu scoffed at him, chiding him for being ungrateful. "You're in this state and still picky!" She took a piece, shook off the excess crumbs, and threw it into her mouth.

It tasted cheap, sour, and sweet, the floury texture as coarse as a mouthful of sand and ash. And it was very choking. Even Qingwu, after two bites, wrapped it back up and put it away, realizing she only enjoyed the finely milled pastries from the Princess's estate.

"Why are you so quiet?" Qingwu sat close enough to him that she could barely hear his breathing. If not for the firelight revealing his form, she might have forgotten someone was sitting right there.

Fearing further accidents, she didn't throw the food away. Lacking Pei Muci’s skill, she folded the corners of the paper to hold the filling and tucked it into his robe.

"Pei Muci?" Receiving no response, she panicked and placed her fingers under his nose. His breath was faint, a mere wisp against her palm, carrying the dry heat of a summer cicada.

She pressed her palm to his forehead. It was as hot as a burning coal. She realized then how the poison worked. Pei Muci’s face was blue-white, his eyes half-closed, a soft, spring-breeze smile hanging on his lips. Qingwu’s heart contracted; she felt an ache.

"Stop smiling."

She couldn't name the feeling—sour, a little heart-wrenching. She reached out to hook her arm around his waist, wanting to hold him. Pei Muci looked down at the bloodstains on his robe and shifted slightly.

"What are you hiding from?" Qingwu leaned against his shoulder, nesting in his arms, pinning him in place. "I worked so hard to carry you up here, and I can't even hold you?"

Pei Muci rolled a muffled word in his throat. Qingwu didn't catch it, lifting a hand to brush the wet hair from his forehead. His temples were damp with sweat, yet his body below his shoulders was chillingly cold. She couldn't tell if the freezing sensation came from the stone wall behind them or from him.

"Just pretend to comfort me, alright?"

As she spoke, she rubbed her cheek against his collarbone. Despite the layers of clothing, she could feel his sharp frame, so she found a comfortable spot and buried her head inside. Since the Empress had passed, she hadn't experienced such a harrowing night. Once the tension eased, pain and numbness surged through her limbs.

She closed her eyes, listening to the weak heartbeat, and drowsiness crept in. The surroundings were deathly quiet; any movement would be easily detected. In this environment, Qingwu lowered her guard and let her consciousness sink.

Until something cool brushed her cheek.

Pei Muci saw the blood from his clothes on her face and, as if handling a rare herb, used his thumb to gently wipe away the stain.

Qingwu’s eyes snapped open, and she gripped his wrist, her eyes clear. Pei Muci’s wrist lay limp in her grasp; he didn't resist, not having a single thought of opposition.

"Oh, it's you." Qingwu saw who it was, her strength relaxing, her tone becoming light and airy. It was as if that sharp, alert air had never been there.

Pei Muci’s expression was faint, his phoenix eyes slightly curved, the corners lifted, as if he were deliberately suppressing certain emotions churning in his depths.

Qingwu was depleted inside and more sensitive to the cold than most. After being close to Pei Muci for so long, the little heat she had was being drained away, and her bones felt as if they were freezing and cracking. She tightened her grip on her own wrist, her fingers still shaking violently.

But she didn't let go.

"Your Highness, I can hold on myself," Pei Muci sighed.

How could he not see her intent? The heat from her body was useless, like a ladle of hot water poured into the sea.

Qingwu seemed dissatisfied with his pushback and raised her head to glare at him. Her eyes were filled with a captivating, watery light. Through that shimmering brightness, Pei Muci felt as if he could see the brilliant stars outside the cave.

The moonlight was heavy, and the cold wind mingled with the pale light to drift into the dim, mottled cave, stretching their two clinging shadows long. Their breaths mingled. Pei Muci’s hand rested on her leg, his touch neither heavy nor light, before he slowly reached out to wrap his arms around her slender waist.