Whoosh.

A black-feathered arrow flew out, then struck a decorative garden rock with a sharp crack and clattered to the ground.

Together with the sound of the falling arrow came a mocking snicker.

Bolao was leaning sideways against that garden rock, a peach in hand, two apricots tucked against her chest — she looked like an impudent monkey.

“Keep shooting like that and you’ll wear the arrowhead flat.”

Xiao Nanhui lowered the longbow and frowned, adjusting the new thumb ring on her right hand. “I just haven’t gotten used to it yet. The draw still feels a little off. A few more tries and it’ll be fine.”

Bolao looked on as if she could simply not bear to watch, then flipped herself down from the rock, carelessly picked up one of the arrows lying scattered on the ground, and walked toward the decorative rockery.

The rockery had an unusual, craggy shape, with a very small opening in the center — vertical, about an inch tall, but extremely narrow, like a keyhole carved into the stone.

Bolao took the arrow and tried to push it into the opening. It made it halfway in before getting stuck and going no further.

“Look at that — it won’t even fit when you push it in by hand. And you think you can shoot it through from a distance?” She tossed the arrow aside and took a bite of her peach. “The Marquis is clearly trying to let you down easy and give up, so why are you being so stubborn about it?”

Xiao Nanhui shot her a sideways glance. “Father wasn’t speaking to you when he told me about this, so how would you know what he was thinking?”

Do I need to have been there? The evidence is right in front of your eyes!

Bolao bit back her retort. She knew Xiao Nanhui well enough — that single-minded streak of hers meant even if she said it, it would make no difference.

Xiao Nanhui had no intention of listening to Bolao anyway. She went off on her own to gather the scattered arrows from the ground.

This was something between her and Xiao Zhun — a promise. Whatever anyone else said, she had never much cared.

When she was small, Xiao Zhun had hired people to teach her riding and archery. But she was young then, her frame not yet fully grown, and she could not pull a full draw. Targets beyond a hundred paces were out of reach, and she had been reprimanded for it more than once. One day, she had seen a beautiful bow in Xiao Zhun’s room — delicate and elegant in appearance — and wanted to borrow it for practice, but Xiao Zhun refused.

He explained that it was not a bow suited for the battlefield. Extended use would diminish her strength, and would do her more harm than good. Xiao Nanhui was crestfallen, but seeing her disappointment, Xiao Zhun had brought her to this garden rockery and told her: if she could shoot an arrow through that small opening from a hundred paces away, the bow would be hers as a gift.

Now, ten years had passed since that promise, and she still came to this spot in the rear courtyard from time to time to practice — yet after all these years, she had never once succeeded.

Xiao Nanhui put the arrows back into the quiver and stepped close to examine the opening. Covered in small dents and pockmarks from all her failed shots over the years, the surface around it looked densely cratered.

For just a moment, a small voice rose from somewhere inside her: All this effort — has Xiao Zhun ever actually seen it?

“Changed your mind? Want me to help you chisel that opening a little wider? I doubt the Marquis would even be able to tell the—”

Bolao’s words cut off mid-sentence, her mouth abruptly stopped up by a round, plump apricot.

Xiao Nanhui dusted off her hands and looked at her with casual indifference. “I figured not even a fruit that size could stop that mouth of yours.” She picked up both the bow and quiver and tossed them to Bolao. “I’m going to see Aunt Dai. Put these away in my room.”

Bolao spat out the apricot and glared daggers at Xiao Nanhui’s retreating back. “I come out of pure goodwill to keep you company, and you call me a nuisance? I see through you now! You’d better never come asking for my help! And if you do, I will absolutely refuse!”

Xiao Nanhui walked away without a backward glance. Bolao shrieked in indignation a couple more times, then finally deflated, pouting as she flopped back down on the rock.

The Qinghuai Marquis Mansion was a large estate, but most of its courtyards stood empty. Some had not been opened since the household first moved in, cleared only periodically of fallen leaves and weeds. Since there was no one living in them, Xiao Nanhui often preferred to scale the walls when moving from one section of the estate to another — the paths through the mansion all curved and wound about, and going over the wall saved considerable time.

Going to see Aunt Dai was different, though — for that, she always used the main entrance, because the walls around the side courtyard had been built considerably higher than the others.

A copper lock hung on the gate. When Xiao Nanhui knocked, the inside was completely still.

After a brief wait, she took out her key and opened the lock. She stepped into the courtyard and turned to carefully pull the gate shut behind her.

A woman with long hair sat in the courtyard on a swing, her back to the entrance. Her silhouette was exquisitely graceful. Her raven-black hair had been loosely braided into a single plait that fell to her waist, swaying gently as she moved.

“Aunt Dai.”

The woman seemed not to hear, and continued humming to herself as she swayed.

Xiao Nanhui stepped closer and called again.

This time the woman paused, and slowly turned.

She had a face that bore a striking resemblance to Xiao Zhun’s — time had left its marks, yet her arched brows and deep, expressive eyes remained, and her gaze was soft. But across that fair complexion ran a deep scar, cutting from her left temple all the way to the right corner of her mouth. Her lips, once beautifully formed, had been split through the middle, and no trace of gentle softness remained.

“Is it time to leave? I’ve been waiting so long, and no one has come to call me.”

Xiao Nanhui offered an apologetic smile and gently gestured for her to stay seated. “Aunt Dai, the carriage that was to take us out broke down. The steward has gone to have it repaired.”

A look of involuntary disappointment crossed the woman’s face. “How can something like that happen? It must be that lazy carriage driver of his. How long will repairs take? Half a day? A full day?”

“Perhaps half a day. Perhaps a full day.”

“Then maybe tomorrow we’ll be able to leave. Just as well — it’s not too late. Huan Ge’er must still be waiting for me.”

Though she had witnessed this scene more times than she could count, something still ached in Xiao Nanhui’s chest. She kept her voice as gentle as possible, as if coaxing a child who would not sleep. “Huan Ge’er has grown up — he’s so sensible now. He certainly won’t cry or fuss.”

A look of relief and tenderness came over the woman’s face. She rose and walked to the corner of the wall, pointing to a series of marks carved into the bricks. “I measured his height just last month — he’s still a child, no matter how you look at it. You mustn’t be too strict with him.”

Xiao Nanhui looked steadily at those marks, which had never grown any higher, and nodded with care. “That’s true. Huan Ge’er grows so fast — I almost thought he was a little grown-up already.”

The woman’s expression finally brightened. Then, remembering something, she took Xiao Nanhui by the hand and led her inside.

The small room in the side courtyard was neat and pretty, but its windows had all been sealed, and the door had been specially modified — come nightfall, someone would come to lock it from the outside. The woman knew nothing of this, for by that hour she had already fallen asleep.

“Look — I finished weaving this just today. I’m not quite practiced yet, but it has a decent shape.” The woman lifted a ribbon from the loom in the corner of the room. The pattern on it was fine and intricate, clearly the product of careful effort.

“It’s really beautiful,” Xiao Nanhui said, and she meant it.

“Of course it is — I tried several different weaving techniques.” A small, girlish pride showed on the woman’s face, making her seem younger than her years. “Once I’m more practiced, I can weave more of them for A’Heng and the others. Jin Ge’er is still too small — he doesn’t need one yet. But A’Zhun certainly does. He’s nearly old enough for his coming-of-age ceremony in a few years — a ribbon like this would make a perfect waist sash. Do you think he’ll have grown heavier by then? I can always weave extra length in case. If he’s bigger, we can just trim it down…”

The woman drifted into her own quiet thoughts, her delicate fingers sorting through the strands of colored silk as though she had already decided exactly what to make next.

Xiao Nanhui listened in silence and quietly slipped the ribbon into her sleeve.

Aunt Dai’s given name was Xiao Dai. She was Xiao Zhun’s aunt — the elder sister of the late Prince Shuo Xiao Qing — and the only living member of the Xiao Family still in this world. Fifteen years ago, during the Catastrophe of Yu’an, the entire Xiao household — over a hundred people — had perished. When Xiao Zhun found her, she had been thrown into a dried-up well inside the mansion, left with barely a breath remaining. She lay still for a month before she woke, and when she did, her memory had stopped on the day of the massacre. She had never emerged from that moment again.

Xiao Zhun knew that Aunt Dai’s survival must have been an oversight on the attackers’ part. If word got out that she was still alive, those who had come to silence the household would return to finish what they had started. For her long-term safety, from the time Xiao Zhun established his own household, Aunt Dai had never stepped outside that courtyard again.

Apart from Xiao Zhun and herself, only Nanny Chen, Dujuan, and Bolao knew of Aunt Dai’s existence. They took turns going to the side courtyard to tend to her daily needs and keep her company, year after year, without exception. This was not something that fell to Xiao Nanhui — but in earlier years she had harbored a quiet hope, and had taken to sneaking over on her own, believing that if they talked enough, something would eventually come back to Aunt Dai.

Many years had passed. Aunt Dai spoke of the same things, over and over, her emotions never shifting. If not for the scar on her face, Xiao Nanhui often found herself forgetting what had once happened to her.

But she knew there was one person who would never forget. And that person was Xiao Zhun.

The food, clothing, and daily comforts Xiao Zhun provided for Aunt Dai were always of the finest quality, yet he himself seldom visited the side courtyard. Xiao Nanhui suspected that seeing Aunt Dai’s face was something he could not bear — the guilt it brought him was too much. In truth, there was no need for it. When the massacre took place, he had been barely a boy whose frame had not yet filled out. That he had survived at all was already more than most could have managed — he could not have changed what had already happened.

And now, nothing could change it.

Nor could anything change it in the future.

This was Xiao Zhun’s wound that would never fully close.

Xiao Nanhui had always believed that if the Xiao Family had not suffered its great catastrophe, Xiao Zhun would have been far more free and open-spirited — far more easily given to laughter. Though the Xiao Zhun of now was also gentle and fond of smiling, she always felt there was a loneliness beneath those smiles, a careful restraint, as though the next breeze might scatter them entirely.

From the age of sixteen onward, Xiao Zhun’s happiness had always been fleeting.

If there were any way to help him walk out of that shadow for good, Xiao Nanhui would be willing to try it.

What he could not do himself — she would do for him.

Xiao Nanhui pressed her fingers around the ribbon inside her sleeve, and the thought that had been forming in her mind became, in that moment, certain.

Xiao Zhun had once made his vow: that a lifetime of battle and war would be given over to the will of the emperor.

She had made hers as well.

Only, the emperor in her vow was not the one who sat upon the throne. Her vow had always been given, and would always be given, to one person alone.