◎Mutual Affection◎

Zhou Tan felt his fingertips trembling.

“I…”

He remembered the first time he’d practiced with a sword at age five, his mother holding his arm, standing beside him for a long while, until his arm ached unbearably, and only then did she carefully carry him aside and bring him fruit to eat.

“Tan’er must study hard and train hard in the martial arts, so that one day, like your father, you can protect our great Yin and become a great hero.”

Until he was fifteen, he had believed Zhou Shu was his birth father. Even after Zhou Yang was born, Zhou Shu had remained extremely kind to him. He often watched little Zhou Yang, looking thoroughly miserable, practicing his horse stance in the courtyard with Zhou Shu, and would secretly slip a piece of ice into the boy’s palm whenever he looked about to faint from the heat.

The moonlight over Lin’an had been soft and hazy—the very same moon, yet utterly different from the one over Ruozhou.

By the time it reached Lin’an, the moon always seemed to take on an especially tender, romantic quality.

In his reckless youth, he had loved many things—loved the riot of flowers that filled Lin’an in spring, loved racing horses through the streets with friends to admire a single lotus blossom, loved the moon lute played by Chun Niangzi at the Zhaoyue Tower, who sold her art but not herself, loved his “father,” his mother, and his younger brother.

Then, overnight, he had been forced to lose everything, fleeing Lin’an with his brother in his arms. Now, all that remained of his impression of that place was a thick, heavy darkness.

Afterward he had come to the capital.

Though his aunt sometimes complained to him about how wildly his mother had once behaved within the clan—how she’d had the audacity to flee an arranged marriage and chase after someone to the western frontier, causing her own expulsion from the family as a result—he knew that deep down, his aunt still thought of his mother fondly. Every Qingming Festival, she would take him to Xiuqing Temple to light incense for his father and mother.

Ren Shiming and Zhou Yang had gotten along extremely well, both respecting and caring for him. After his parents’ deaths, he had fallen gravely ill and could no longer practice martial arts. In order to uncover the truth behind the cryptic words his mother had spoken on her deathbed, he had thrown himself into studying day and night without rest, finding respite only in watching his two younger brothers play and roughhouse.

And then… there was his teacher.

Just after the palace examination, he had encountered Fu Qingnian, the man his mother had deeply hated, in a game of chess against him—his killing intent so sharp it had nearly given him away. It was Gu Zhiyan who had covered for him, then taken him on as a student and helped him investigate the very thing he most wanted to know.

Even though he had already lost so much, back then he had still felt he had people watching over him, and people who needed his protection in turn. The tangled hatreds of the previous generation weighed on him, but standing atop Fan Tower, gazing out at the misted rivers and mountains, all he could recall was his mother’s words: “protect our great Yin.”

In the fourteenth year of the Yongning era, Zhou Tan entered the Court of Judicial Review. The following year, the Burning Candle Case broke out. Gu Zhiyan drowned himself in the river, and Zhou Tan collapsed unconscious in the Xuande Hall, receiving a single “lone wild goose” token from the Emperor.

Three months in the imperial prison finally shattered his pride and integrity.

The stench of blood had seeped into every limb and bone of him, and no matter how he scrubbed, it never washed away.

Ren Shiming came to his door and hurled the precious books he’d once given him back in his face. Zhou Yang broke ties with him entirely, resolutely throwing himself into the army and never returning home again. On the day of Gu Zhiyan’s funeral, alone in a cold, dim room, he’d held himself and thought, with some self-mockery, that the things he loved never seemed to stay with him.

The whole world stretched before him, and still he longed for what was far away.

Falling blossoms in wind and rain only deepened the wound of spring.

In truth, he had wanted so little.

In his youth, he had only wished for his family’s peace and wellbeing.

As an adult, even after learning the truth of old affairs, he had never harbored any other ambition—he had simply followed his teacher’s example, constantly examining himself, holding onto the last shred of his true heart amid a turbulent world, hoping only to be worthy of himself and of his family.

But in the end, all these people had left him too.

If he were honest, before the assassination attempt in the fifteenth year of Yongning, he had already given up on everything. Had he died then, for the Zhou Tan of before, it might almost have counted as a release.

And yet he had woken from unconsciousness to see the woman before him.

Zhou Tan opened his eyes and saw Qu You’s face very close to his own, watching him intently, showing not a trace of displeasure at his struggling and hesitation—only patient, gentle warmth, and quiet confidence.

It seemed that ever since meeting her, he had found friends again, accomplished many things he’d never dared to imagine before. Now, beneath the moonlight, even with the lessons of the past clearly in mind, he couldn’t bring himself to let go.

Even if this was his final act of greed.

“I like you,” he answered, his voice trembling.

“I like you too.”

Qu You buried her face against his shoulder and neck, embracing him in a lingering, affectionate posture, her voice rising lightly at the end, bright and cheerful.

Her feelings had always been open and direct, blazing like the newly risen sun.

Even though the two of them had long understood each other’s feelings, he still couldn’t help the way his heart trembled at such affection.

Qu You swayed gently, delighted, then suddenly spoke again, though it wasn’t clear whether she was speaking to him or to herself. “Flowers and moonlight, vows sworn to mountains and seas, ‘I like you,’ ‘I love you’—there are, in fact, more elegant ways to say such things… I used to scoff at them, thinking that if it were me, I’d never be so clichéd. But faced with a moment like this, I can’t think of any other way to say it, and somehow, being ordinary and clichéd feels just fine.”

He felt the same way.

He had once found the riot of red flowers and green willows, the endless comings and goings, thoroughly tedious—even firecrackers had seemed like nothing but noise to him. Newlyweds with their rosy, joyful faces had seemed, in his eyes, like nothing more than people draped in fine robes and shackled at the same time.

At nineteen, Zhou Xiaobai’s mind had been entirely occupied with how to abolish the Begonia Decree without harming the people.

Now, on his way home at night, he found himself worrying the entire way whether his wife still harbored resentment over their farce of a wedding.

“By the way, what did you want to tell me just now?”

Qu You rested her hand on his shoulder, pressing lightly, intending to push him back, but Zhou Tan held her tightly, with no intention of letting go at all.

“I want to hold a proper wedding banquet for you all over again,” Zhou Tan answered hoarsely. “The proposal, the exchange of names, the three letters and six rites—I’ll send countless betrothal gifts, choose an auspicious day… ride through the streets on horseback for all to see, personally lift you down from the bridal palanquin, and you’ll bow to Heaven and Earth with me, drink the cup of union, scatter the bedding blessings, and we’ll tie our hair together…”

“Back when you were by my side before, I always felt it wasn’t real. When I woke from the assassination attempt, I opened my eyes and there you were… why did you appear? I was truly afraid—afraid you were nothing but a delusion, a phantom my mind had conjured up in that moment, just to keep myself alive… afraid that one day, you might simply vanish.”

He had never said anything like this before.

Qu You’s heart softened so much all at once that she didn’t know what words of comfort to offer. She could only reach up and gently stroke his back, repeating over and over, “I’m here. I won’t leave you.”

Zhou Tan reached out and clasped her hand tightly, gripping so hard that the veins stood out on the back of his hand.

“You said this yourself.”

The moment Qu You opened her mouth to speak, that mourning poem surfaced clearly in her mind.

But in this moment, she had no more room in her heart to worry about such things. A fine night was too short to waste; nothing in the world seemed more important than holding onto the person before her.

“I did say it,” she steadied her thoughts and made her promise in a low voice. “I’ll stay with you always. This life is too short—there’s still the next one, and a thousand years after that. Life after life, I’ll be by your side.”

Zhou Tan’s voice, when he spoke again, carried the faintest hint of tears. “Now that we’re here in Ruozhou—if you’re tired of all the political scheming, I… I could travel the world with you, couldn’t I? We could go see Singing Sand Bay and Crescent Moon Spring, visit all the great mountains and rivers you’ve longed to see. You want freedom—I’ll show you that staying by my side can be its own kind of freedom too.”

It was as though he were echoing words she’d once said to him on their wedding night; he remembered them so clearly, as though he’d turned them over in his mind countless times since.

He finally loosened his grip a little, his eyes damp as he looked at her. Qu You reached up and cupped his face in her hands, saying earnestly, “That day, when we climbed Fan Tower together, you asked me what I wanted most in life.”

“You matter more to me than the truth of history,” she said, unsure whether he could truly understand what she meant, but determined to say it anyway. “So even though I don’t know what the future holds, I’m willing to make this promise to you here and now.”

Before coming to Ruozhou, amid the wind and sand of the desert, she had once vaguely pondered the future—but only now did she feel it had become truly clear to her.

For Zhou Tan’s sake, she could summon the courage to defy history and fate itself. Even if the future remained uncertain and unclear, as long as she held onto this one hand, she had the resolve to walk forward together with him.

In all this time she had spent here, she could no longer remain a mere outside observer of history—all the more so now, having witnessed with her own eyes the hardships of the refugees on the western frontier, the bitterness of the beggar children in the capital, the churning storms within the imperial court, and the cold, merciless nature of imperial power.

What Zhou Tan sought his whole life—a world at peace, where the capital abandoned no one, where the western frontier knew tranquility, where those in power heeded the counsel of those beneath them, where tragedies like those of Xiao Yue and Gu Zhiyan would never happen again—was, in the end, no different from her own ideal.

If that could be achieved, then her own hopes asked for nothing more.

“Once Ziqian ascends the throne safely, and the troubles of both nation and family are set right, I’ll resign my post and travel with you, to see every corner of the world… I used to feel I’d never live to see such a day, but now I feel that as long as you’re here, no matter what happens, I can hold on.” Zhou Tan sketched out their imagined future for her, his gaze flickering slightly. “A’Lian, do you think we’ll live to see that day?”

“Of course.”

“I don’t know how to make you understand,” Zhou Tan murmured, eyes lowered, “but I… love you the way I love these rivers and mountains. I once made a vow to my teacher, and now I make the same vow to you—I will use everything I have to protect you both, until the day I die.”

Before he could finish speaking, Qu You leaned in and pressed her lips to his.

The touch was soft, carrying the scent of still water.

Zhou Tan froze for a moment.

He felt a dizziness he’d never experienced before, spreading from where their lips met to every part of his body, warm and smooth, carrying a fragrant scent.

“Open your mouth,” Qu You whispered against his ear, her breath carrying a note of helpless, affectionate reproach. “Close your eyes.”

He did as she said, still not knowing where to put his hands, only following instinct to pull the person before him closer into his arms, tighter, then tighter still.

If their very bones and blood could merge into one, that would have been more than he could ask for.

When the kiss finally ended, he opened his eyes to steal a glance and saw her face flushed red, breathing slightly unsteady, yet offering him a sweet smile.

“You…” Zhou Tan found himself stammering. “Why… why are you so skilled at this?”

One might as well ask how a man from ancient times could be so innocent.

Though she’d never actually dated anyone before, she had at least seen it done on screen; Zhou Tan, on the other hand, was utterly, completely clueless.

Qu You couldn’t help but reach out and touch his handsome lips, now slightly reddened from her kiss, somewhat at a loss for words. “You’re the one who’s too inexperienced—and you have the nerve to say that about me?”

The moment she said it, she felt a wave of embarrassment and rose from the pavilion to cover it, fanning herself with her hand. “Oh my, this early-summer weather—why has it suddenly turned so stuffy…”

She hadn’t taken more than a few steps when Zhou Tan caught hold of the gauzy sash of her robe. Qu You nearly stumbled, and he swept her up into his arms sideways in the same motion.

He carried her all the way back to his own room—ever since moving to Ruozhou, the two of them had still been sleeping in separate rooms, a fact that had rather puzzled Nanny Yun at the time.

Qu You lay languidly on his bed, which felt hard and uncomfortable beneath her. The servants had already shut the door for them. Zhou Tan said nothing at first, fetching water to carefully wipe the rouge from her face.

“You seem quite practiced at this too—how did you—”

Before she could finish, Zhou Tan had finished wiping her face clean and immediately leaned in to kiss her.

Back in the garden, perhaps because of the night air, his lips had been cold—but now, warmed by the flickering candlelight in the room, they burned hot enough to make her shiver.

Belatedly, Qu You realized he must have had more than just that one jug of wine earlier—he’d had dinner at the Marquis of Xiangning’s residence before coming home, and there was no telling how much he’d actually drunk.

“Since my wife says she’s inexperienced, she really ought to practice more diligently.”

The next morning, in the pale early light, Qu You woke groggily from Zhou Tan’s uncomfortably hard bed, finally certain that the two of them must have both been rather drunk the night before.

She glanced down and found her clothes still on; Zhou Tan hadn’t even taken off his outer robe—only his shoulder had been pulled down where she’d tugged at it, and she’d left a retaliatory bite mark there in return.

Rubbing her eyes, Qu You gradually began recalling the events of the previous night, and the more she remembered, the hotter her cheeks burned. She meant to slip quietly off the bed past Zhou Tan, but happened to catch sight of the corner of his mouth curling up suspiciously.

“Stop pretending to be asleep.”

Qu You reached out and pinched his chin. Amused, Zhou Tan opened those amber eyes of his, his voice low and hoarse, carrying a tone she’d never heard from him before. “Was I a good student?”

Thinking it over, she had to admit that Zhou Tan wasn’t only gifted at his studies—he seemed to pick up other things with remarkable ease too.

So she threw herself against his chest and, with genuine sincerity, gave him her honest assessment.

“Very good. Practically a natural talent.”