Xiao Nanhui had been trained from childhood in the arts of warfare and battle. When she used a bow to kill enemies, she always used a heavy war bow — only a bow with a draw weight of three stones or more could pierce through armor and take down a foe.

A bow as slender and delicate as the one in Bai Yun’s hands — she had never even touched one.

She had been raised and shaped entirely by Xiao Zhun’s hand. Besides marksmanship, many of the throws, combat techniques, and strategies of blade and sword had been personally taught to her by Xiao Zhun himself.

But archery, and archery alone, was something Xiao Zhun had entrusted to someone else.

Xiao Nanhui had seen Xiao Zhun shoot arrows with a reverse draw on a few occasions and had begged to learn, yet he always deflected her with a few words. If she pressed further, his expression would turn unpleasant, and she had learned to retreat wisely.

Why had Xiao Zhun refused to teach her archery?

That question had troubled the young Xiao Nanhui for a long time.

Now, at last, she had her answer.

Because it was Xiao Zhun who had taught Bai Yun to shoot.

They had both been girls in their teens. Teaching Xiao Nanhui archery would have made him think of Bai Yun as she once was. Or perhaps, over all these years, he had always been searching in Xiao Nanhui for traces of the Bai Yun he had known long ago. Only — she was not Bai Yun after all, and with each passing year she had grown even less like her.

And so Xiao Zhun had grown distant from her.

How absurd that she had known nothing of this, and had gone on making futile attempts at remedy. Looking back on every earnest hope, every self-abasing concession she had made, Xiao Nanhui felt a scorching, burning pain in her chest.

She had believed that the dignity she had forged through years of hardship and battle had become unbreakable — yet in a single instant it had been routed, armor shed, army scattered.

She raised her eyes again to look at the person before her, and her gaze suddenly fixed on the hairpin tucked among the beauty’s raven hair.

It could hardly even be called a hairpin — it was nothing more than half a wooden branch, its tip bearing a few flowers that had already dried and shriveled.

Xiao Nanhui’s attention fell on those flowers.

Before, she had only glanced at it briefly and taken it for an ordinary piece of dead wood. But thinking carefully now: this courtyard had not a single withered blade of grass — so how could there be a branch?

Though the flowering branch had already withered, she could still see, with perfect clarity, what those blossoms had looked like when they were alive.

Because a flower seen once is never forgotten.

She had seen one like it in Su Pingchuan’s hand, and had once picked it up from Xiao Zhun’s clothes — the Yingshui Chonglou.

Whether Xiao Zhun had visited the Xiao Mei Villa or Duke Xuanyuan’s estate no longer mattered. What mattered was this: Bai Yun was confined under house arrest here, and there was no way she could have sent someone to gather flowers on her behalf. It could only have been brought by a Tiancheng person who had access to come and go freely.

The answer she had been searching for so long — it was right before her eyes.

Xiao Nanhui stared fixedly at that half-length flower branch, her eyes as though they might bleed.

Her terrifying gaze caught the other woman’s attention. Bai Yun tilted her head slightly, and the moment she understood where Xiao Nanhui’s gaze had fallen, comprehension dawned.

The normally cold face of the beauty was suddenly overcome with panic she could not conceal. She yanked a few strands of dark hair loose to cover the wooden branch in her hair, her lips trembling. She looked at Xiao Nanhui with a nearly pleading expression, her voice falling to the dust: “Please, please don’t—”

In that instant, Xiao Nanhui suddenly pulled herself free from the emotions she had been unable to control, and for a moment could find no words.

The expression on her own face just now must have been terrifying — the very kind she had always despised most.

Jealous. Dark. A hatred that, unable to attain what it desired, longed to tear everything to pieces.

She had never imagined that her feelings toward Xiao Zhun would one day make her into the very thing she despised most.

From childhood she had devoted herself to martial training and taken up weapons to protect the weak. Yet somewhere along the way, she had become someone who wanted to use her advantage to bully and oppress others.

The sounds of the patrolling guards came from the entrance of the guest courtyard, footsteps drawing nearer and nearer. Bai Yun’s face went pale as paper, hope draining slowly from her body, so that her entire spine slumped without her realizing it.

Xiao Nanhui looked at the woman before her, and her heart at last began slowly to settle.

The Bai Shi clan had once been a respected and renowned family, living lives of dignity and esteem. Yet now Bai Yun had fallen to the status of a prisoner, hair unbound and feet bare, trapped in this cage where she could see neither a single flower nor a single bird.

The plum branch had long since lost its life, yet she could not bring herself to throw it away. She had carefully hidden it in her hair, fearing that someone might snatch from her this last scrap of warmth that was hers.

It was the last thread of connection between her and Xiao Zhun.

That state of heart — Xiao Nanhui understood it.

How many years does it take to forge a bond between two people, and how many more to sever it? Xiao Nanhui did not know. But she knew this: she had been deceiving herself, overestimating the bond between herself and Xiao Zhun.

Xiao Zhun had accompanied her to admire flowers year after year, but he had never once given her flowers.

Were golden camellia blossoms not beautiful? They were. Only they could not compare to the Yingshui Chonglou.

Had Xiao Zhun not been good to her?

He had been good to her.

Only not as good as all that.

The moment the guards’ footsteps reached the covered walkway, Bai Yun tremblingly raised her head — only to find that the woman who had arrived with bow in hand had already vanished without a trace.

The first month of the lunar year could not quite be called the beginning of early spring in Chizhou, yet it was truly the final act of winter.

The snow that had been piled so thick only days before had now melted into damp mist, soaking the earth into an endless expanse of black.

Jixiang pressed his nose to the ground, nostrils huffing out gusts of warm breath as he sniffed carefully among the damp fallen branches for the scent of newly sprouting mushrooms, wandering from the forest to the edge of the small river that had just begun to thaw.

The river’s surface had opened up for about half its width. Collapsed chunks of ice fell steadily into the flowing current, rolled over twice, and disappeared.

Xiao Nanhui watched in silence for a while, then let Jixiang wade across.

The icy water soaked her legs to the knee, and Jixiang gave a shiver alongside her. She reached slowly inside her lapels and drew out a thin name card.

The name card was a reserved seat invitation to Tingling Tower’s perch fish banquet in Jiaosong.

That morning when she had left, she had deliberately placed another name card — one she had prepared earlier — on Xiao Zhun’s desk.

Jiaosong County’s most renowned inn was Tingling Tower, and Tingling Tower’s most celebrated dish was the orange-cured perch soup. The fish were caught fresh each day through holes cut in the ice of the Yue River, their flesh even sweeter and more delicate than in summer, paired with orange wine preserved since deep autumn. While it could not be called a dish of precious delicacies, it was nonetheless a rare and exquisite pleasure.

Guests who wished to dine on the fish soup at Tingling Tower each first month typically had to make reservations before winter arrived the previous year, and could only enter with an invitation come the new year. Xiao Nanhui had no such foresight — after hearing that the sacrificial ceremony was to be held in Jiaosong County, she had specifically asked Yaoyi to purchase the invitations from someone else, all for the sake of sharing a meal with Xiao Zhun.

It had been a long time since they had eaten at the same table. She regarded Dujuan and Uncle Chen as family, but Xiao Zhun’s place at the table had always held a special significance for her. The Xiao Family rules were strict, and meals with Xiao Zhun were always quiet affairs — yet even so, she had found great contentment in them.

The Tingling Tower reservation was for this evening’s seating, and according to Yaoyi’s boasting, the position was excellent, with a view of the finest night scenery along the Yue River’s banks.

Xiao Nanhui had even prepared a special set of clothing for the occasion.

Yet here and now, she had no desire whatsoever to return to the guest courtyard to change.

She did not want to go anywhere crowded, nor to see anyone — including Xiao Zhun.

After leaving the Black Feather Camp, she had gone to the Light Vanguard Camp and taken on an errand, letting Jixiang roam freely through the wilderness. That evening she had casually found a farmhouse to rest in, and before dawn the next day had stepped outside, sitting on the woodpile watching the horizon until the sun rose.

In her life, Xiao Nanhui had witnessed a sunrise twice. Once was today, and once was in the marshlands of Bai Yaoguan.

Bai Yaoguan had been silent, permeated with the breath of death — yet even at the brink between life and death, the moment she saw the sun rise she had easily found strength.

But this time, sheltered in the comfort and warmth of the farmhouse, she found herself utterly unable to return to peace.

She recalled many things from the past, Xiao Zhun’s figure threading through them all — vivid, it seemed, yet blurred.

Not far away, the sheep that had spent winter together huddled in a mass of thick wool, looking from a distance like snow on the wasteland that had not yet thawed. A few mountain sparrows hopped on the sheep’s backs, chirping and twittering in cheerful noise.

When the sun climbed to the middle of the sky, Xiao Nanhui at last rose from the woodpile, left a little silver for the farming family, and led Jixiang away.

Today was the last of the three-day ceremony.

According to the schedule distributed by the ceremony officials, after dusk today the Emperor would hold the grand ritual of sending off the deity on the Yue River, followed by a banquet for all officials along the riverbanks.

She was one of those officials — no matter what, she had to be present.

The deity had been welcomed at Changmei Platform; on the banks of the Yue River, it would be sent away.

Yue — meaning the right eye of the deity in legend. The Yue River: a river formed from the tears of the god.

The ceremony officials regarded this as the closing chapter of the entire sacrificial ceremony and had poured out their every effort and all their ingenuity in arranging each detail. In just a few short days, they had erected a high platform above the river, so that they might look down upon the river’s westward flow and send the deity back to its rightful place.

The platform directly faced the newly restored Yellow Stone Ancient Bridge. At dusk the glow of sunset spilled across it from all directions; at night the moonlight flowed over it — a setting worthy indeed of the solemn charge of “sending off the deity.”

Unlike Changmei Platform, which rose straight from level ground so that one could only look up and never down, the Yue River’s banks were lined with countless pavilions and towers. Of these, Tingling Tower stood highest, commanding not only the full view of the river but also a vantage point from which to watch the ceremony. After the deity-sending ritual, when the Emperor hosted the officials’ banquet on the platform, the intention was to share in the people’s joy — so no effort would be made to drive the crowds away.

During the ceremony, the Emperor would personally scatter five-colored rice, seven-colored silk, and two-colored copper and iron from the platform into the Yue River, praying for a bountiful harvest in the coming year, favorable weather, and a strong army. Downstream, the common people would fish these items from the river and place them in their homes for blessings and protection against evil.

The tallest building along the Yue River’s banks was Tingling Tower. Seen from a distance it resembled a small wooden pagoda, fully five stories high. Long before the hour of Shen arrived, every floor was already packed with people — yet only those holding the perch fish banquet invitation were entitled to a private room, a luxury worth more than gold could buy.

The sunset glow gradually dimmed. Lights blazed on both banks of the Yue River in splendor. Had the water not been so frigid, people would have been tempted to leap in just to get a closer look.

But had anyone lifted their gaze at that moment, they would have noticed that amid all the glowing little windows of Tingling Tower, one window alone had gone dark.

Xiao Nanhui blew out the candle in her hand and sat in a daze for a while in the now-empty private room.

After a long moment, she lifted from among the newly prepared feast on the table a jar of wine, slipped out through the half-open small window, then climbed along the bracket arms and overhanging eaves until she sat atop the glazed tiles of Tingling Tower’s roof.

The crowd below had their eyes fixed on the platform over the Yue River, and no one noticed her figure.

The backs of the ridge beasts were lit by moonlight, merging with the surface of the Yue River not far away as though they were water beasts that had just leaped from the river. The fishy smell of the water mingled with the ash of orchid grass burned in the ceremony and drifted in the wind, creating the illusion that the air shifted between hot and cold.

She still remembered the feeling of climbing Pingyun Tower in Mu Er He. In the moment she passed through the clouds, the world beneath her feet had been so quiet and obedient, as though even the most troubling matters in her heart could be seen through with ease.

The clamoring crowd below sent up wave after wave of excitement. The people poured out onto the Yue River all the fervor they had been unable to release at Changmei Platform the day before. The Emperor was paying homage to the deity while his subjects were paying homage to their sovereign. The emperor prayed for mountains and rivers to endure; the people prayed for peace in their homes.

It was a pity that for her — whether “mountains and rivers” or a “home” — she had never truly possessed either.

Xiao Nanhui’s sense of detachment grew stronger and stronger, as though everything before her eyes was very far away.

She had once believed she no longer belonged to Lingxi Suyan. Yet now she felt she had never really belonged to Chizhou either. Her only connection to Chizhou, to the royal city, to the central plains, was Xiao Zhun. If Xiao Zhun denied the bond between them, would she then have nothing to do with this land beneath her feet?

Another wave of excitement surged through the crowd by the riverbanks, and someone suddenly gave a shout of delight. The cry spread like ripples, raising waves on both banks of the river.

Xiao Nanhui looked toward the platform. She saw strings of glowing points rise from among the procession of ceremony officials, then drift up over the river’s surface, bursting in an instant into dazzling blossoms of fire.

It was fireworks.

Xiao Nanhui’s eyes went wide.

She thought back to the schedule distributed by the ceremony officials that morning — no matter how hard she tried, she could not recall anything written there about setting off fireworks during the sacrificial ceremony.

Tiancheng’s fireworks were modified from firecrackers and needed to be placed on sky lanterns. When the fuse burned to the calculated length, they would burst into blossoms of fire high in the air. But fireworks were only set off for the New Year’s vigil — she had never heard of them being used during a sacrificial ceremony.

Countless sky lanterns were released into the air one after another, riding the east wind as they drifted westward along the winding Yue River, their flickering light illuminating the river’s surface as the fireworks bloomed and faded.

The firelight in the dark night reflected in her eyes. The sound of the noisy, jubilant crowd filled her ears. A brief smile crossed Xiao Nanhui’s face.

This was the happiest moment she had experienced since returning to Chizhou from Bijiang.

Free from all the troubles and calculations — a simple happiness. The kind she had once believed was the easiest to obtain.

Why did she love fireworks?

When she was small, it was because of the liveliness. The Xiao Mansion was sparsely populated, and every festival and holiday always felt lonely and cold. Fireworks and firecrackers alike could instantly scatter the ever-present silence that had settled over the estate for years.

Later, as she grew a little older, she came to understand something closer to the true reason she loved fireworks.

Even the longest-blooming flower must one day fade and fall. But fireworks, though brief, are fervent — so swift that one never has to witness the moment of their dying. She was someone who disliked farewells, and only fireworks could leave her without regret.

If she could, she would never wish for immortality or a long life. She only wished to be like fireworks: to have lived, just once, with everything she had. Then, at death, there would be nothing to regret.

Not far away, the blazing sparks from the spent fireworks drifted slowly down from the sky, falling at last into the rushing Yue River, raising a haze of pale blue smoke.

People grieve the flower’s brevity, cherishing and lamenting it for its fleeting nature and inability to last. But the river flows ever westward — has anyone ever mourned and memorialized that?

Xiao Nanhui raised the half-jar of wine in her hand and gently poured it over the glazed tiles beneath her feet.

Whether fireworks or flowing water — in the end, both are things one cannot hold onto.

She suddenly understood, a little, the words she had heard that day in the Mei household. The sorrow of parting in her heart grew shallow all at once, while the feeling of having let go stretched long and wide.

Tonight — let the fireworks send off the river for a stretch of the way, and mourn what she had lost in her heart.

Wherever things between Xiao Zhun and her might lead, Xiao Nanhui’s heart now knew: from this day forward, she could only be alone.

Or perhaps — she had always been alone.