Shen Qingwu walked through the market stalls with an easy, unhurried air, letting the cries of “Tea for sale!” and “Buy your flowers!” fade behind her.

The tip of her military boot stopped in front of a thatched medicine stall with its herbal stove. The boy tending the brew looked up, and the harsh sunlight stung his eyes—he blinked and found himself looking at a tall, straight-backed young woman standing in the winter sun. He faltered for a moment.

Shen Qingwu was undeniably good-looking, but nothing like the delicate, tender beauty fashionable among young ladies these days. Her bright brows and eyes, paired with a high-bridged nose and a tall, slender frame, gave her a bold, heroic air.

The chill that radiated from her very bones made the boy shiver.

This was a martial young lady not to be trifled with.

The boy scrambled up eagerly to package the medicine for her, promising with enthusiasm, “Young Mistress Shen, the medicine’s ready. Just three doses a day, and within a month your husband will be back on his feet.”

Shen Qingwu said lightly, “My husband is frail. He can’t withstand medicine that strong. Reduce the dosage by two-tenths.”

The boy muttered, “How is it too strong…”

He’d gone along with his master to examine that young master before—the man was seriously ill, sure, but not that frail…

A hoarse, aged voice spoke up from behind the boy, near the medicine stove: “Listen to the young mistress. Reduce it by two-tenths. It’s her own husband—wouldn’t a wife know her own husband’s condition better than anyone?”

At those words, Shen Qingwu lifted her eyes slightly and glanced at the hunched old man cowering behind the stove.

The old man gave her a fawning smile—small business, can’t afford to offend a person of your standing, please be merciful.

Expressionless, Shen Qingwu took the packaged medicine from the boy.

The wooden door creaked open, then shut again.

Footsteps landed softly on the floor, unhurried, leaving no trace—

just like the torment that had become routine these past days.

The corner of the bed curtain lifted slightly. The person within made no sound.

Shen Qingwu drew back the curtain and studied the young man lying motionless on the bed—

His eyes were injured, wrapped in white cloth; wounds covered his body, and his wrists and ankles were bound tight with cloth, knotted fast. His long hair lay in disarray across the pillow, his snow-white robe rumpled and creased. With his eyes covered, only his high, straight nose and soft, red lips showed.

Lying there, he looked like a pool of moonlight sunk into a deep sea—battered as he was, the moonlight remained clear and gentle, carrying its own warmth.

The smile in Shen Qingwu’s eyes deepened.

The man on the bed recognized the sound and turned his face slightly toward her, brows knitting faintly. “Shen Qingwu?”

His voice, too, was pleasant to hear.

If misfortune hadn’t struck him, who else would it strike?

The young man in the room was named Zhang Xingjian.

Her connection to him: he was her cousin’s betrothed.

Unfortunately, Zhang Xingjian’s luck had failed him—just before he was to marry her cousin, disaster struck the Zhang family, and the entire household was sentenced to exile. Her cousin broke off the engagement, and Zhang Xingjian was sent under guard toward exile in Lingnan.

At the time, Shen Qingwu, far away commanding troops in Yizhou, heard the news, requested leave, and rushed back to Bianjing without rest to find him.

But she hadn’t gone to save him. She had gone to take advantage of him while he was down.

When Zhang Xingjian had been the moon hanging in the sky, Shen Qingwu could never have reached him. Now that moon had fallen into the sea—and this was exactly the moment, exactly the chance, for him to fall into her arms instead.

He leaned against the bedpost, his face tilted slightly downward. A few strands of black hair had caught in the cloth binding his eyes and wrists; his exposed wrists were thin and pale as a handful of snow. Hearing the footsteps, he turned his face toward her.

Zhang Xingjian’s voice was gentle. “Shen Qingwu.”

Neither of them spoke further.

Of course they didn’t—they had never been close, had barely exchanged more than a few words in the past.

Zhang Xingjian, adrift in confusion, turned the thought over slowly in his mind: what had he done, to make Shen Qingwu treat him like this?

What did she want from him?

Why would the Great Zhou dynasty’s one and only renowned female general save a condemned prisoner like him, only to keep him confined in some stranger, stranger way?

Was it because, all these years…

Zhang Xingjian asked softly, “These past years—have things not gone well for you?”

Shen Qingwu answered, indifferent, “They’ve gone just fine.”

Zhang Xingjian fell silent for a moment. “If you didn’t want to go to the army, back then…”

Shen Qingwu said, “I wanted to go very much.”

Zhang Xingjian’s brow furrowed slightly.

He truly couldn’t find anything more to say to her. Being alone in a room with her left him only with awkwardness—and with his eyes and limbs both injured, he couldn’t see her at all, couldn’t tell what kind of look this female general was giving him.

Zhang Xingjian had always taken everything in life lightly, but now, a trace of confusion and unease rose in him.

Lying there, the young man’s voice was warm as moonlight as he finally asked the question he had wanted to ask all along: “…A’Wu, why are you doing this?”

Shen Qingwu leaned down, mocking him word by word: “Because I’ve gone mad.”

She gathered a lock of his glossy black hair, winding it lightly around her fingers.

The torment crept closer, inch by inch.

Shen Qingwu closed one hand around the young man’s long, slender neck.

She leaned down and bit into Zhang Xingjian’s neck. The young man’s hand shot up, pressing hard against her shoulder.

Man and woman faced off as if on a battlefield, drums thundering, blow for blow, yet without a drop of blood drawn. Madness burned in Shen Qingwu’s eyes as she answered him, indifferent and soft all at once:

“I’ve been mad since the nineteenth year of Tianlong.”

Before the darkness was swallowed by that blaze, Zhang Xingjian’s scattered thoughts drifted back to the nineteenth year of Tianlong—

the year he had first come to know her.