How could no one choose Shen Qingwu?

Because anyone with eyes would choose Shen Qingye instead, surely.

Shen Qingye, easily embarrassed, couldn’t let all the attention rest on herself alone. She said to her cousin, gently and softly, “Why would they choose me? If we’re being honest, it was you alone who saved that Zhang family’s third son. You were the one who brought him into the carriage, who got us away from those pursuers. Because of him, you put yourself in danger. Surely fate binds Zhang Sanlang to you, not me.”

Shen Qingwu asked back, “So what if I saved him? He doesn’t even know it was me. What kind of fate is that?”

Shen Qingye faltered for a moment, then said, “A debt of life should be repaid with…”

Her face flushed, and she couldn’t finish the sentence. Just then Shen Zhuo stepped into the room, laughing. “Repaid with marriage. Silly Qingwu—if he doesn’t know, can’t you just tell him?”

Shen Zhuo studied his sister. Though she rarely spoke and had for years, he noticed—looking closely—that she always sat with a straight, proud posture, and that her features, on closer inspection, carried a certain fine, spirited handsomeness.

Not as delicately beautiful as Shen Qingye, perhaps, but a good face all the same.

Shen Zhuo threw an arm around her and teased, waggling his eyebrows. “Sister, I’d bet that little moon of the Zhang family is fated for you.”

Shen Qingye smiled along from the side, playing into it.

Half-convinced, Shen Qingwu picked up a bronze mirror and studied her own reflection.

She hadn’t expected anything from Zhang Xingjian to begin with, and didn’t think that saving him would lead anywhere in particular. But both Shen Zhuo and Shen Qingye believed wholeheartedly in that old idea of “repaying a life debt with marriage,” insisting Zhang Xingjian was bound to repay her, that this matchmaking banquet had been arranged for her sake.

Amid her brother and cousin’s teasing, Shen Qingwu began, little by little, to take the joke seriously.

She knew she was nothing but mud and withered grass at heart, yet still she found herself hoping that the moon might spare her one glance.

She knew she had no right to hope for such things—but if she could marry, could leave the Shen household behind, spread her wings and fly free at last… might her life turn out differently?

Because of the expectations others had planted in her, Shen Qingwu found herself paying strange, unaccountable attention to Zhang Xingjian.

Her thoughts wandered: at the banquet, would he recognize her? Would he choose her?

She resolved firmly: if he didn’t know she was the one who’d saved him, then she would simply tell him.

The Great Zhou court held audience four times a month, and once Zhang Xingjian had recovered enough, it happened to fall on one such day.

At the fifth watch, after the drums sounded from the city towers, the distant clang of iron plates and wooden clappers echoed through the lanes. Monks and wandering criers moved through the wards, calling the dawn, their chants pure and clear, ending each round with the reminder—”Court convenes today!”

So began another day for the people of the Great Zhou.

Through the hazy morning mist, lanterns swaying, Zhang Xingjian rode on horseback in the pale dawn light, surrounded by his attendants, making his way toward the imperial city.

Along the road he passed colleagues, exchanging respectful bows. Everyone’s eyes lingered on the young man again and again: the youngest jinshi in memory, envoy of peace in the negotiations between the two states, scholar of the Hanlin Academy, now serving as an investigating censor in the Censorate.

This spirited young master of the Zhang family had a future without limit.

Shen Qingwu had climbed atop a wall, half-hidden among the lush pines and cypresses, watching the handsome young man on horseback below. One glance was enough—she knew at once that this was Zhang Xingjian, the man she had saved.

She watched him in secret, filled with curiosity.

As he rode, she moved along the walls and through the trees, keeping pace with him. Her long hair brushed across her eyes; golden light fell over him from behind, gilding his figure.

It wasn’t a particularly brilliant light, and yet it suited him perfectly.

Shen Qingwu found herself staring, transfixed, and delighted all at once. Without noticing, she fell several paces behind; catching herself, she grabbed a tree branch and hurried to catch up.

She repeated his name silently to herself: Zhang Xingjian.

She didn’t know what it meant, but it sounded lovely. She liked it.

Below, as Zhang Xingjian rode on, Chang Lin spurred his horse forward and murmured, “Third Young Master, someone’s following us. Could Chancellor Kong be having us watched…”

Chancellor Kong and the Zhang family were at odds; the chancellor had sent assassins after Zhang Xingjian several times already, and Zhang Xingjian had used himself as bait to set a trap in return, all in his effort to bring the man down. This was his first day back at court, and no one dared let their guard down.

Zhang Xingjian kept his faint smile in place, a ripple of light passing through his lake-clear eyes as he said quietly, “Send someone to…”

He lifted his gaze idly and saw a figure standing on a wall between the wards.

He paused, startled.

It was a young woman, dressed in a light, practical martial robe, standing proudly atop the wall. She moved lightly over the tiles, brushing aside a troublesome branch with one hand, her face turned to the side. Golden morning light rose slowly behind her, and her whole figure remained cloaked in shadow.

He saw her eyes.

Dark, clear, calm, indifferent.

Like a river of stars flowing—a fusion of youthful innocence and a warrior’s cold composure.

Zhang Xingjian rode on, and she leapt along the walls, following at a careful distance, neither too close nor too far. Every time he turned his head, unthinking, he found her there. She followed him the whole way, her skill evident, her eyes never wavering from him, and yet she never once called out or approached.

Zhang Xingjian lowered his eyes.

Chang Lin was ready to send men to confront her: “My lord?”

Zhang Xingjian glanced toward her once more.

He watched the dawn light filter through thin clouds, shimmering in the young woman’s calm, still eyes. A breeze stirred along the top of the wall, and she lifted her face to it. Her robes fluttered; her expression remained serene. Golden light was on the verge of swallowing her shadowed form, but with a light leap, she outran it—the light could not catch her, could not consume her.

That grand, contradictory beauty sent a ripple through the still waters of his heart.

Still on horseback, Zhang Xingjian heard himself say, “…Never mind. Let it be.”

Chang Lin looked puzzled.

Zhang Xingjian asked, “Have we found out yet who saved me?”

Chang Lin said, “Still looking into it.”

Zhang Xingjian let his gaze drift away again, unconcerned, thinking to himself: probably some young lady from some family, overflowing with curiosity. Such fine martial skill, wasted on a young woman like that—what a pity.

And so, when the flower-viewing banquet came in the tenth month, Shen Qingwu made her own preparations too.

The Shen family had prepared the finest clothes and the most devoted maidservants for Shen Qingye. While she was surrounded by attendants doing her makeup, Shen Qingwu, freshly dressed as well, sat patiently and did her own—painting her brows, powdering her face herself.

With the nurse’s help, for the first time, she managed to apply her makeup without a single mistake.

Clumsily, she tried on the flowing, floor-length pale bluish-green dress meant for a young lady, paired with a silk shawl, jade bangles jingling on her wrists, a jade pendant hanging at her waist.

In good spirits, Shen Qingwu lifted her skirts and stepped out through the door, light and graceful on her feet. Passing by a curtain of hanging vines, she had a sudden impulse and plucked a flower growing in the corner, tucking it into her hair on a whim—leaving the maidservants utterly stunned.

The maids stammered, “S-S-Second Miss!”

Heavens above, their usually careless, blunt Second Miss actually had it in her to look this charming.

Shen Qingwu paid them no mind and strode off.

Behind her, the maids shook their heads: at first glance she’d looked every bit the proper young lady, but the moment she started walking—head high, strides wide—she was right back to looking like some wild boy.

The banquet was held under the pretense of a flower-viewing gathering, with sons and daughters of the Shen family all in attendance. The Shen matriarch chatted and laughed with the Zhang family’s second daughter, Zhang Wenbi, making a show of discussing flowers together, while Zhang Xingjian trailed behind his sister, distracted, the corner of his mouth curved in a faint smile.

The Shen matriarch was thoroughly pleased with this young man.

Zhang Xingjian suddenly caught some commotion among the gathering. He turned his head slightly and saw a young woman in a pale green dress, skirts lifted, tiptoeing nimbly, slipping into the seating area with practiced ease.

Her expression never changed as she darted past a row of young ladies, slipping into the lowest-ranked seat, bumping several teacups along the way and stirring up a small flurry of noise. She paid no attention to the disapproving looks around her, but caught and steadied the cups with quick, sure movements, so smoothly that the onlookers, about to speak up, swallowed their words instead, thoroughly exasperated in silence.

Zhang Xingjian couldn’t help but laugh softly.

“Zhang Yuelu!” Zhang Wenbi’s call brought him back to himself.

Zhang Wenbi smiled. “Tired of sitting with me all the time, are you? Why not go speak with the young people?”

The elders nearby watched him with knowing smiles.

Zhang Xingjian blinked lightly: such an obvious hint…

He bowed his head in acknowledgment. “Of course.”

He walked into the gathering, his pace unhurried, heading toward where Shen Qingye sat.

There was no need to make inquiries—everyone present today was, more or less deliberately, steering him toward Shen Qingye. The gentlest, most elegantly dressed young lady at the gathering could only be her.

As he walked, Zhang Xingjian noticed the young woman seated beside Shen Qingye—the very one who had slipped into the gathering so furtively earlier.

Her eyes were clear and dark, her expression unreadable. Beside Shen Qingye, who sat with her head bashfully lowered, this young woman’s indifference stood out sharply. But she was, without question, watching him—a single overly bright chrysanthemum tilted at an angle in her raven-black hair.

Sunlight fell over her, catching on the lashes above her upturned eyes.

Who had told her to wear a chrysanthemum in her hair like that? And crooked, too.

Something flickered in Zhang Xingjian’s gaze—he recognized her now as the same skilled young woman who had secretly followed him along the wall those days ago. A daughter of the Shen family, following him…

“My lord,” Chang Lin murmured a reminder from behind.

Zhang Xingjian plucked a flower from the blossoms beside him, dew dripping onto his hand, and suddenly he remembered that hazy morning when he’d woken for a brief moment and seen someone amid falling parasol leaves, back turned to him, leaping onto a horse and riding away…

The golden light of that morning, the patch of light on the wall, and today’s sunlight—all merged together as one.

The hand holding the flower trembled faintly.

After a moment of stillness, he steadied himself and walked, step by step, toward Shen Qingye.

Soft laughter rippled through the gathering around him.

Countless eyes were fixed on him. He knew exactly what was expected of him.

Sensing his intent, Shen Qingye, amid the teasing laughter around her, flushed deep red, at a loss, lowering her head further and further. From the corner of her downcast eyes, she caught sight of Zhang Xingjian’s robes sweeping past—pale moon-white, moving like drifting clouds and mist.

Behind them, the elders were still chuckling among themselves: “Third Young Master tells us it was a son of the Shen family who saved his life. What a heaven-sent connection—the Zhang family really ought to repay that debt.”

Madam Shen said, “And how shall we repay it? Shall we have Zhang Sanlang marry our daughter—repay a life with a life, so to speak?”

Amid the laughter around her, Shen Qingwu finally realized who Zhang Xingjian was walking toward: her cousin.

But that wasn’t right.

She was the one who had saved him.

Watching him, Shen Qingwu suddenly understood, as if struck by realization: she had forgotten to tell him that she was his true savior.

And so, in full view of everyone, the Shen family’s second daughter rose to her feet.

At the front, the Shen matriarch and Zhang Wenbi, mid-conversation, both turned to look at once—the matriarch especially tense, dreading that this troublesome girl was about to ruin everything.

And true to form, the troublesome girl did exactly that—

A faint smile still on his lips, Zhang Xingjian held out the flower he’d picked to Shen Qingye. Flustered, she rose, lifting her skirts, her trembling hand reaching out to take the flower stem.

At that very moment, before everyone’s startled eyes, Zhang Xingjian’s other hand was seized by Shen Qingwu.

In the half-light, half-shadow, Zhang Xingjian turned to look. Shen Qingwu lifted her chin, calm and composed: “I saved your life. You owe me marriage in return.”

Everyone’s expression changed at once.

Everyone except Zhang Xingjian. He kept that same faint smile, soft as flowing moonlight, and looked at her with quiet warmth.