Shen Qingwu searched through the sea of flames.

Smoke stung her eyes, the heat scorching, the wooden framework and the plants in the courtyard feeding the fire ever higher. Amid the ceaseless crackling, Shen Qingwu cut straight through the inferno, heading directly for the main house where Zhang Xingjian should have been trapped.

Her heartbeat stayed calm; though the flames repeatedly blocked her view, they could not rob her of her judgment in this moment.

She dodged a falling roof beam and vaulted into the house, when she heard, from somewhere off to her side, a young man’s voice, slightly hoarse with strained breath: “Shen Qingwu!”

Zhang Xingjian.

The moment she heard it she snapped her head up, locking onto a blurred figure within the hazy inferno. Zhang Xingjian moved freely, struggling over broken timber, running toward her.

His eyes were fixed on something behind her; he opened his mouth to warn her, but what came out was only a hoarse fit of coughing.

Shen Qingwu spun around at once, a dagger flying from her sleeve backward. Outside the burning house, a furtive figure had raised a bow—before the arrow could loose, Shen Qingwu’s dagger struck him in the chest, and he toppled with a thud into the flames.

At the same moment, Zhang Xingjian had already reached her side.

Flame licked at his white robe; Shen Qingwu struck it away with her palm, smothering the fire. She caught his shoulder; he caught her wrist and pulled her toward him—right where she had been standing, a crossbeam collapsed with a crack, flame leaping high, a small explosion thundering close behind.

A wave of heat rushed at them.

Holding each other, they rolled together across the ground, dodging the blast of heat.

The flames coiled higher, the fire growing fiercer still; a stone on the ground scraped her cheek, drawing blood.

Shen Qingwu held Zhang Xingjian, gazing at him with perfect calm. In the dim red glow she made out every line of his face, his faintly furrowed brows, his pomegranate-red lips… He truly hadn’t died.

A moment ago her heart had beaten steady and even; now it quickened, a wave of relief and belated fear washing over her.

She coughed from the smoke, her eyes red.

His sleeve brushed her face. Shen Qingwu climbed up from the ground, never once letting go of his hand. He kept coughing; he heard her voice, hoarse: “Zhang Yuelu.”

Zhang Xingjian gave a faint nod.

He rose from the ground with the help of her hand, his dark eyes glimmering with smoke-stung tears, soft with light. He pulled at her hand to bring her up with him, but Shen Qingwu did not rise.

Zhang Xingjian turned back to look at her.

Half-kneeling on the ground, soot-streaked and disheveled, she looked at him coldly, her grip still locked around his wrist—yet she would not go with him.

In her eyes burned a wildfire more boundless than the real one around them. The real flames raged sky-high, but the wildfire in her eyes raged wilder still, and she did not care in the least.

She was a madwoman who paid no mind to life or death.

Something in Zhang Xingjian’s chest lurched heavily.

He was always moved by that look of hers, always at the wrong moment.

He softened his voice, trying to persuade her: “Let’s get out of here first. I mean nothing by it—I have horses arranged outside. Whoever set this fire, it wasn’t me. Whatever you want to say… let’s say it once we’re out.”

The horses had originally been meant for his and Chang Lin’s escape—now put to this use instead. He wondered what the abandoned Chang Lin would think of that.

Just then, Shen Qingwu heard broken footsteps beyond the flames.

Soldiers, while ordering others to fight the fire, crept in behind them with weapons drawn, sneaking into the blaze to tie up loose ends.

Shen Qingwu turned to glance at the chaos behind her.

A soldier’s shadow had just appeared at the end of the path when Zhang Xingjian’s blade rose and fell, dispatching him in an instant. At the same moment Shen Qingwu spun, flipping through the air, kicking away a high wooden frame that was collapsing toward them.

Shen Qingwu and Zhang Xingjian exchanged a glance, both breathing hard, their noses and mouths slightly labored from the scorching air they’d inhaled.

Different emotions moved behind their eyes.

Her stubbornness had not changed.

Zhang Xingjian held her hand, his voice low, soft, patient: “Shen Qingwu, come with me. I’ll explain everything.”

There was more than a little pleading in his eyes as he looked at her with what he believed was a sufficiently moving expression. Her gaze fell on his fair, elegant face, flickering again and again, and at last her stance softened.

The scorching sea of fire was no place for lengthy conversation.

And sure enough, a voice rose behind them: “After them!”—

The skies over Yizhou hung gray and overcast.

The common people carried goods before the city gate, cheerful over a recent small victory against the Western Di. As winter arrived, the Western Di grew increasingly reluctant to provoke the border, and the people could look forward to a peaceful winter.

Bo Rong stood with his officers and men before the city gate, arranging for soldiers to help the people carry grain. It was surplus provisions the Yizhou army had this year; the people of Yizhou had lost some of their livelihood to the war, and Bo Rong, even as he petitioned the court, had the army supplement the people’s stores.

Yet a month had passed since his petition was sent, and the Eastern Capital, under the young emperor’s endless revelry, had sent back only a few perfunctory words of comfort, telling Yizhou to find its own way to gather grain.

At this moment, Bo Rong was among the crowd, helping the people with their labor.

The first snowflake fell from the sky and landed on his lashes.

When he looked up, he saw the gray, hazy horizon, dense clouds rolling in the distance, and the people nearby bent over their work.

He drifted into thought for a moment.

Amid the bustle, Yang Su made his way to Bo Rong’s side. Yang Su, a son of the Yang family of Hongnong, had served in the army for years and could now handle matters independently, assisting the Marshal with military affairs.

Yang Su cupped his hands toward Bo Rong and said in a low voice, “Marshal, more than a dozen carriages have arrived at the city gate. They’ve gotten stuck in the trenches we dug—several have sunk right in. Whoever can afford to travel by carriage is bound to be someone of rank or wealth, and there are over a dozen of them! Should we send someone to look into it?”

Bo Rong’s thoughts settled somewhat.

When Yang Su repeated the question, puzzled, Bo Rong finally turned his head and asked mildly, “Did whoever’s in those carriages ask us for help?”

Yang Su said, “That’s the strange part! The carriages got stuck in the trenches, and more than a dozen able-bodied men got out—along with some maids. They circled the carriages for a while without saying a word, then quietly started pushing the wheels themselves, trying to get the carriages out on their own.

“Our men on the wall watched for a good while, and since no one asked for help, it left us all uneasy.”

Yang Su’s smile faded, and he lowered his voice further. “Marshal, if noble men and women traveling on the road ran into trouble like this, they’d surely declare themselves and ask us to help push. And if they weren’t confident enough to face us directly, they shouldn’t have the means to bring over a dozen carriages in the first place.

“I went and counted just now—there’s one carriage no one has gotten out of, from start to finish.

“Marshal, do you think this could be… some scheme from the Western Di? Could they be smuggling some strange device into the city, meaning to wipe us all out in one stroke? But making such a show of it… that doesn’t seem right either.”

Bo Rong considered this for a moment.

He said, “You take charge of the grain distribution here. I’ll take some men and go take a look.”

Yang Su agreed.

Then, hesitating, Yang Su raised another matter with him: “If the grain goes to the people, what about the army?”

Bo Rong smiled faintly. “I have it in hand.”

Yang Su’s mind eased at once.

The Marshal was gentle and composed, nothing like other generals with their fearsome bearing and bloodlust radiating from every pore. A commander like that always left people privately uncertain at first—but after long years together, who did not come to trust him completely?

Bo Rong held whole mountains and valleys of strategy within his heart.

Otherwise, the Longyou army would not have been outmaneuvered by the Western Di so many times, would not have needed Zhang Xingjian to negotiate on its behalf years ago—while the Yizhou army, with hardly any connections to speak of, had held the border firm for over a decade, never once letting the Western Di gain an inch.

Bo Rong led his men out of the city.

Snow drifted down, dusting his dark blue battle robe in a layer of frost-white.

The snow of the Bashu region fell thin and soft, and rarely at that—nothing like the goose-feather snow of the Eastern Capital. Even after so many years living here, Bo Rong still sometimes felt a disorienting sense of time slipping sideways.

When Bo Rong reached the city gate, he found exactly what Yang Su had described—the carriages, and the people pushing them. He paused, then stepped forward to speak with the guards pushing the wheels, his words measured, his manner calm and courteous, giving the name of the Yizhou army.

The leader among the pushing guards stepped forward and asked, “The Yizhou army? And how should I address this general?”

The leader looked Bo Rong levelly in the eye, his reaction to the name “Yizhou army” unremarkable, sizing him up from head to toe as though judging whether he was even worth speaking to.

Such a dismissive, condescending attitude enraged several of the soldiers behind Bo Rong.

Bo Rong raised a hand to still his companions’ anger and introduced himself: “I am the commander of the Yizhou army, Bo Rong.”

The man froze.

The guard leader’s expression shifted rapidly, turning respectful in an instant. “Marshal Bo? So it’s Marshal Bo… please wait a moment.”

He hurried back toward the carriages. Bo Rong watched clearly that he went straight to the one carriage Yang Su had mentioned—the one no one had stepped out of from start to finish.

The guards and maids helping push the carriages kept casting furtive glances at Bo Rong, sizing him up on the sly.

Bo Rong accepted their attention calmly.

Snow scattered through the air, mist rising over the land, the clouds at the horizon deepening, a chill sweeping in on the wind.

Bo Rong watched the carriage the guard had gone to, and at last its door opened. A slender, pale, delicate hand rested on the guard’s wrist, slowly emerging from behind the curtain.

Then a beauty in a gray-blue cloak stepped down from the carriage, supported by the guard and a maid. The wind stirred the snow; the cloak’s fur trim swayed; the hood was blown back, revealing a face of striking, radiant beauty to everyone present.

Li Linge’s long lashes were flecked with drifting snow. Her eyes narrowed slightly, and she drew back a fraction, as if startled by the damp cold. But the retreat lasted only a moment before she stilled.

The Imperial Princess wore a faint smile, one hand resting on her hood, her gaze turning toward Bo Rong, luminous and full.

Wind and snow swirled between them.

None of the onlookers knew who this woman was—they were simply struck by her beauty and bearing, guessing she must be someone extraordinary, for what ordinary family could produce such presence? Only Bo Rong stood quietly where he was, accepting her appearance, her arrival, without the slightest change in composure.

Li Linge took a few more graceful steps forward, bent low in an elegant bow, raising her clasped hands above her head in the formal salute of student to teacher.

Bo Rong accepted the gesture with perfect composure.

The princess’s attendants exchanged startled, uneasy glances behind her: they had only ever seen the princess in her full glory, seen her hold even the young emperor in utter disregard—when had they ever seen her bow so deeply to anyone?

This man, this man… They had followed the princess all the way to Yizhou without knowing her purpose.

Li Linge smiled softly. “Brother Rong. It’s been so long.”

The soldiers behind Bo Rong all drew a sharp breath in unison: Brother Rong?

Had the Marshal, unmarried all these years, been carrying some secret romance all along? But who on earth was this woman?!

She offered no explanation for why she had bowed to him.

Bo Rong only looked at her and said nothing.

She expressed, quite unremarkably, the joy of an old friend’s reunion, her eyes bright with sparkling light, her happiness plainly genuine. She stood there smiling, as though she had forgotten every drop of the blood-deep grudge between them, a feud that should have gone on unresolved to the death.

As though she had forgotten how, at their last meeting years ago, her heart had shattered, how she had watched him collapse in despair, drained of blood, how she had wept behind her hands…

The fifteen-year-old Li Linge, bewildered and helpless before fate, had died that day. What survived was the Grand Princess of Ande, long since accustomed to everything, accepting of everything, serene before whatever fate might bring.

She mentioned nothing of that year, only performed the appearance of joy before him, showing none of the excessive shock or tears of joy or bitter resentment one might expect from a long-awaited reunion. Any occasional slip, any loss of composure typical of the Eastern Capital, she concealed completely.

This was a reunion she had rehearsed a thousand times over, ever since she’d learned he was still alive.

Li Linge only smiled, watching Bo Rong.

She watched him lower his eyes.

Bo Rong, too, said nothing of the past, and led his soldiers in a courteous greeting to her instead: “Greetings, Your Highness.”

His soldiers looked on, bewildered and astonished.

These two former lovers, now in their thirties, had long since learned—through years worn sharp as blades and frost—to conceal every emotion, to bear whatever came without flinching.

Li Linge said gently, “You’ve all worked hard. Please, rise.”

She walked toward Bo Rong.

Bo Rong watched her approach, composed.

Li Linge said, “Why is Brother Rong standing out here in the wind and snow? My carriage got stuck in the trench—I thought you’d be too busy with military matters to be troubled over it, never imagining I’d run into Brother Rong so soon… What is all this you’re doing?”

Bo Rong then brought her into the city, explaining what he was doing, showing her the people quietly receiving their grain.

Li Linge watched in silence.

Bo Rong said, “The army’s provisions are currently insufficient…”

Li Linge smiled faintly. “I see. So Brother Rong wants this of me. Well then—why don’t I write letters first, to help the Yizhou army gather grain from the surrounding provinces? The Eastern Capital truly can’t spare any for now; it’ll have to wait for next year’s harvest.”

Bo Rong said warmly, “My thanks, Your Highness, for your concern for the common people.”

Li Linge only smiled and said nothing more.

She walked alongside him.

At first, the guards and maids followed close behind the two of them; later, they tactfully fell back, and even held off the less perceptive soldiers who might have intruded. And so this striking pair walked slowly through the crowd together.

Li Linge saw the people’s gratitude toward the Yizhou army, and saw too their eyes, numbed by the grinding hardship of their lives.

None of this could be seen from the high terraces of the Eastern Capital.

Li Linge mused silently to herself: had Zhang Rong… no, Bo Rong, lured her all the way out here just to show her this? Did he hope the court would treat Yizhou more generously?

But there were so many provinces the Zhou court ought to favor—where would Yizhou even rank among them? The bloodless, silent warfare of the Eastern Capital’s schemers, where one misstep meant total ruin—that was nothing Zhang Rong… Bo Rong would ever have to face.

Bo Rong had no idea what kind of life she lived day after day, no idea what she had paid to arrive where she now stood.

Such thoughts turned over in Li Linge’s mind, though none of it showed on her face.

She looked past Bo Rong’s shoulder at the wind and snow, at the faces of the common people, and sighed softly: “Such is the plight of the people—who could bear to watch them broken so?”

Bo Rong turned back. “Hm? Your Highness still remembers that line?”

It was the first line he had ever taught the two siblings, back in his days as their tutor.

Li Linge’s eyes curved into a smile.

She leaned toward him, almost coquettish. “I remember every single word Brother Rong ever said to me, quite clearly.”

Bo Rong said nothing.

Li Linge reached out, tentatively touching his fingers. He paused—but did not pull away. Delighted, Li Linge looped her arm through his, smiling brightly:

“This trip out of the capital was really just meant to be a rest for me. Whatever Brother Rong wants to show me, I’ll gladly look at it.”

Bo Rong said, “As for the Eastern Capital…”

The smile at the corners of Li Linge’s eyes faltered briefly before she said, unconcerned, “Nothing serious will come of it.”

In front of Bo Rong, she didn’t even want to speak Li Mingshu’s name. She knew perfectly well this warmth and closeness between them was hollow, but she wanted to walk this road with him regardless.

She was curious about his purpose here—and she also wanted to lay to rest the feelings of her youth.

She heard him say with a faint smile, “It’s a shame Yizhou has no fine scenery to offer, but at least winter has come, and there’s no fighting here for now. If you have the time, I could show you around.”

Li Linge said softly, “That would be wonderful indeed.”

She quickened her step to match his, letting him lead her down an unknown road ahead.

Watching him from behind, she picked apart, piece by piece, the ways he differed from the Zhang Rong of the past.

The fair, elegant face. The long, graceful neck. The narrow, vigorous waist.

He truly was a handsome man—truly the most complete embodiment of a gentleman’s grace she had ever encountered. His words never gave anything away; his conduct was steady and measured; his thoughts ran deep, unreadable to anyone. He was the closest thing to a perfect man Li Linge had ever known—he was the sun of the Zhang family, the sun of the Eastern Capital. A radiance the moon could never hope to reach. Zhang Xingjian could never compare to him; no one could compare to this gentleman.

She loved his beauty, his noble bearing, loved his eternal composure and calm.

She reveled in his reason and his dignity, never having to endure hysteria or interrogation.

If he wished to maintain his composure, she would play along to the very end.

But at the same time, Li Linge also wanted to see the side of him that wasn’t composed. If that undignified side of him could belong to her again, could be hers to capture, all the better.

Li Linge lowered her eyes.

She thought: how did a gentleman intend to treat her? Was Bo Rong still the Zhang Rong of years past? Did he still wish to play the gentleman?

She would wait and see.

After all these years, she finally stood as an equal to her old teacher, able to spar with him on level ground.

He had once told her she was the finest student he’d ever taught—and also the worst, most troublesome one. He had seen her innocent side, and he was the only person still living who had ever heard her speak of ambition.

That worst of students wanted to try, now, to see whether she could win against him—

Thin mist hung cool in the air, dew dripping “tap, tap” onto his face.

Zhang Xingjian woke, and the instant he opened his eyes, a great force shoved him backward. He had been sitting against a tree, with nowhere left to retreat—and that force closed around his throat.

Zhang Xingjian’s face flushed red; he coughed lightly twice, his hazy gaze slowly clearing to make out Shen Qingwu’s face.

The two of them had escaped the inferno, fled on horseback, clashing along the way with those chasing them. Shen Qingwu was as bold as she was skilled; they had switched horses and ridden a full day, finally losing their pursuers and entering a stretch of wild forest.

Zhang Xingjian had fallen asleep—only to wake to this.

The cold wind blew across both their faces; she pinned him down, his back aching where it struck the tree. Both their breaths misted in the air; for a long while, neither spoke.

Shen Qingwu studied him, and asked coldly: “Tell me. What did you do? If you don’t tell me the truth, I’ll kill you.”

Zhang Xingjian gave a bitter laugh: she was forever threatening him with death.

He said nothing for a moment; the fingers at his throat tightened—she truly did have the strength to choke the life out of him. Zhang Xingjian closed his eyes and slowly breathed out two words: “Bo Rong.”

The pressure at his throat stopped.

Zhang Xingjian closed his eyes and smiled faintly. “So obedient to Bo Rong’s word, are you—he tells you not to kill me, and you truly won’t? Even if I wanted to kill you?”

Shen Qingwu said, “You never wanted to kill me.”

She paused, then added, “If you’d wanted to kill me, you wouldn’t have run into that fire. You’d already gotten away—there was no need to turn back. I’m not that foolish.”

Zhang Xingjian smiled. “Then why are you choking me?”

His smile carried a faint chill, and some note of mockery she couldn’t quite place.

Shen Qingwu said nothing.

She didn’t understand the reason herself, but instinct told her that everything happening now traced back to Zhang Xingjian, one way or another.

Zhang Xingjian said softly, “General Shen, you’ve never once trusted me, have you?”

Shen Qingwu said, “That’s right.”

Zhang Xingjian’s eyes suddenly opened.

Ignoring the hand still pressed against his throat, ignoring the coldness of her gaze, he asked, “I have a question for you, too… cough—”

Shen Qingwu stared at his face, pale in the morning light, his lips flushed and parting with each breath. The more disheveled he looked, the more striking he became.

She cut him off. “Answer me first—what were you planning, and how did the two of us end up here? Tell me honestly.”

Zhang Xingjian looked at her for a moment, then said slowly, “Just like before—one question traded for another.”

Shen Qingwu understood at once what he meant—last year, at the Lantern Festival, when he’d come to tend her wounds. He’d wanted to see her jade pendant, and she’d traded him a question for it.

Shen Qingwu raised an eyebrow and agreed.

But she remembered well enough: this was a cunning moon she was dealing with.

She leaned close to his face, studying the blood on his cheek, his tousled, ash-streaked hair.

Reining in her own wildness, Shen Qingwu kept her tone as level as she could manage as she threatened him: “Answer my question first. Whether I tell you the truth depends on whether you tell me the truth.”

Zhang Xingjian’s mind was elsewhere.

Perhaps he really did have a question for her—this was, rarely for him, a moment of genuine relief.

He didn’t need her to repeat herself; he already knew what answer she wanted: “I didn’t set the fire. Soldiers recognized me and wanted to silence me for good. I broke free of the cloth you’d bound me with, meaning to escape, truly—but the fire was too fierce, I couldn’t get out. As for those soldiers you saw… because of Kong Ye, they don’t dare hunt me openly, only through underhanded means, trying to eliminate me quietly.

“You really were dragged into this because of me. That you had to flee with me all the way here—that’s my fault.”

Having said all this, he looked at her, tiny sparks flickering within the ice of his eyes: “Now it’s my turn to ask.”

Shen Qingwu paused.

She hadn’t expected him to cooperate so readily, to answer so cleanly. Weighing his words, she judged he probably hadn’t lied much. He looked far too wretched for this to have been deliberate.

After all… how could he possibly have fled and then come back?

He must truly have been unable to escape.

Shen Qingwu lifted her chin magnanimously. “Ask, then.”

Zhang Xingjian looked at her steadily. “How did you know that corpse wasn’t me?”

Shen Qingwu blinked, puzzled.

Zhang Xingjian spoke slowly, so she would understand exactly what he meant: “That body was made to look like me using one of the soldiers. I wanted whoever was hunting me to believe I was already dead. Why did you only glance at it once and know immediately it wasn’t me?”

Shen Qingwu’s gaze sharpened instantly, like lightning.

She said coldly, “You were outside the fire.”

Zhang Xingjian went still for a moment, and did not deny it.

But Shen Qingwu didn’t care about such details. She glanced at him and told him plainly: “Wasn’t it obvious enough? The shoulders were a different height, a different width; the waist was different; even the neck was shaped differently… nothing about that body matched you, not one thing. Why would I not recognize that?”

Zhang Xingjian said, “Don’t I look a great deal like Bo Rong?”

Shen Qingwu said, “You do… and you don’t.”

She added, rather pleased with herself, “I’m no ordinary person, you know. I could tell at a single glance.”

She was implying, none too subtly, that her powers of observation were beyond the ordinary.

Zhang Xingjian gazed at her steadily.

Then, suddenly, he raised his arm and pulled her into an embrace, ignoring the threat of her strength entirely. His fingers found her cheek, gently wiping away the trace of blood there, his gaze soft.

Shen Qingwu heard him laugh quietly, his voice hoarse but pleasant against her ear.

In that moment, the wind cold, the air freezing, the forest leaves rustling—with what feeling did he hold her, unwilling as she was?

Zhang Xingjian said softly, “Wutong… you really are… no ordinary person.”

Shen Qingwu frowned, puzzled by him calling her “Wutong”—and then heard him say, “Shen Qingwu. Let’s talk.”