Chapter 16
The next day at breakfast, Zhen-ting surprised her again. “Shall we try horseback riding?”
Yun-yao froze mid-sip of tea. “I can't ride.”
“Not yet.” He leaned against the courtyard wall, watching her with that infuriatingly confident smile. “But you will.”
She set down her cup. “Ladies don't ride astride. It’s—”
“Practical.” He cut through her protest. “If you ever need to flee quickly, a sedan chair won't help. A horse will.”
The urgency in his voice betrayed him. Yun-yao studied the tightness around his jaws and the concealed worry in his eyes.
He’s preparing me for something.
The courtyard’s usual hum of servants faded as her thoughts sharpened. Rumors had slipped through the household like wind—whispers of unrest in the north, of a new Tribe stirring new alliances. Her husband, the war hero, wouldn’t fear bandits.
But an invasion?
“What if I fall?” she asked weakly.
“I won't let you.” Simple. Certain.
After Zhen-ting left for his duties that morning, Yun-yao found herself pacing the courtyard, his words echoing in her mind. If you ever need to flee quickly...
What dangers are her husband worried about? Bandits, assassins, or... something worse?
But as the day passed, her thoughts drifted from the serious to the ridiculous.
Between approving the week’s menus and reviewing the household accounts, absurd questions bubbled up in her mind: Do horses bite?
How tall are they, really? Would I need a stool to climb up?
Would the stable master laugh himself sick watching the Chancellor’s daughter try to mount a warhorse?
The sensible part of her mind catalogued all the ways this could go wrong: torn clothes, dangerous falls, scandals. But another part—the part that secretly devoured tales of sword-wielding ladies—whispered excitedly about wind in her hair and the ground flying beneath her.
At the barracks, Zhen-ting found himself unusually distracted. Twice, Lieutenant Chen had to repeat questions about supply lines.
“Forgive me,” he said, rubbing his temples. “My mind is elsewhere.”
Chen’s weathered face broke into a knowing grin. “The young wife, eh?”
Zhen-ting felt heat creep up his neck but didn't deny it. “I'm teaching her to ride this evening.”
Several of his officers exchanged glances. Captain Liang coughed discreetly. “The Perfect Maiden of the Chancellor’s household? On horseback?”
“My wife,” Zhen-ting corrected simply, “will learn practical skills.”
He didn't add what worried him. The reports of Huoqu scouts crossing the northern borders, the whispers of new alliances forming. If trouble came, he wanted Yun-yao prepared, not helpless.
But beyond necessity, he found himself genuinely looking forward to sharing this with her. He could almost see her—perfectly composed on the outside, probably both excited and terrified on the inside—attempting to maintain her dignity while facing down Thunder.
The idea brought a faint curve to his mouth, and he found himself eagerly looking forward to going home. He wrapped up his responsibilities sooner than usual, and made his way back to his wife while daylight still lingered.
He saw her waiting for him as soon as he thundered into the stable grounds—a vision of grace in yellow and green, standing slender and poised as a flower beneath the golden light.
Breathtaking, he thought, fighting the sudden tightness in his chest. She was beautiful like a dream, that familiar mask of calm flawless as ever.
Her hands rested demurely together at her side, but the tiny hitch in her breath when her dark eyes fell upon Thunder’s massive frame betrayed her.
Afraid, but trying not to show it. How typical of her.
Without hesitation, he nudged Thunder forward with his knees, a flick of his wrist loosening the reins.
As he leaned down in one smooth motion, his arm encircled her waist and he lifted her up onto the horse.
He grinned as she yelped. A moment’s hesitation, and she was settled sideways across his thighs, trembling faintly.
How unladylike but absolutely adorable. The thought made his grip tighten, just slightly.
He couldn’t help but relish the way her composure unraveled just a little, just for him.
“We’ll go riding together first today. You can have lessons once you get suitable clothes made. ”
Yun-yao barely registered Zhen-ting’s words through the haze of panic.
Her body still quivered, yet the steady pressure of his arms slowly soothed her frantic pulse.
His arms came around her, long fingers closing over the reins.
Too close, she thought, far too close. Heat radiated through her dress—why must silk be so cursed thin?
The breadth of his chest pressed against her back, solid as a fortress wall.
She flushed, the memory of his body behind hers in the study room rose unbidden.
No no no no. Not now, not here. Her traitorous pulse quickened all the same.
“Relax,” he murmured, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. A shiver raced down her spine; the fine hairs at her nape lifted.
She gripped the pommel, knuckles whitening. “I don't know how to—”
“Look around,” he interrupted gently.
She forced her shoulders to unlock and turned her head.
The world unfurled below them—rooftops giving way to fields, ribbons of silver streams, distant mountains veiled in morning mist. For the first time in her life, she saw beyond the confines of courtyards and lattice screens.
No polished jade window frame this time. No guarded view.
This is what freedom feels like.
Zhen-ting clicked his tongue, nudging the horse forward.
They moved at a walk, then a steady trot, the rhythm lulling despite her tension.
Wind tugged at her hair, sending loose strands fluttering against his jaw.
He didn’t flinch. Instead, she felt his chest rise with a slow breath, as if savoring the weight of her against him.
They followed a dirt path lined with willows. He guided the horse without speaking, letting the land speak for itself—wild chrysanthemums buds clinging to stone fences, ducks bursting from reeds in a flurry of wings, the distant cry of a farmer calling his ox.
After an hour, they reached a small rise shaded by a ginkgo tree, its golden leaves trembling in the breeze. Below lay a quiet valley dotted with grazing sheep, a shepherd boy strumming a reed flute.
He dismounted first, then lifted her down, his hands firm and gentle, lingering at her waist a few heartbeats longer than necessary.
“Like it?” he asked quietly. “This is one of my favorite places.”
Yun-yao turned in a slow circle, arms half-outstretched as if to catch the wind. “I don’t know how to describe it. It feels... like... tasting the wind”
He smiled, unclipping a cloth-wrapped bundle from the saddle, spreading out a simple meal of steamed buns, pastries and tea. She sat beside him beneath the tree, their shoulders nearly touching.
When she shivered, he pulled her against him without a word, wrapping his cloak around them both.
The sky blushed apricot and rose as the sun dipped behind the hills, painting the valley in warm, fleeting light.
Zhen-ting cupped her face, his thumb brushing the curve of her cheekbone. No words. None needed.
He leaned in slowly, gazing at her. Yun-yao closed her eyes and met him mid-kiss.
The kiss was soft at first, a tender whisper. His lips moved with a reverence that undid her, as if she were something rare, something sacred. Then, when her fingers curled into the fabric of his tunic, he deepened it, just slightly, drawing a breathy sound from her throat.
She melted into him as the cloak pooled around them, trapping warmth, trapping the moment.
His arms tightened, one hand sliding to the nape of her neck, fingers tangling gently in her loosened hair.
The scent of the sun-warmed wool and leather, entwined with the heady aroma of him, filled her senses.
Another kiss. Then another.
Each one lingered longer, bolder. The cautious tenderness gave way to quiet hunger carefully leashed. Now, here, beneath a ginkgo tree with the world hushed around them, it unfurled.
They broke apart only when the shadows grew long and the air turned crisp. Yun-yao’s lips throbbed, flushed and kiss-swollen. She pressed them together, as if trying to seal in the sensation.
Zhen-ting didn’t rush to move. He rested his forehead against hers, his breath uneven. “We should go home.”
She nodded, mute.
He helped her onto the horse again, then mounted behind her, drawing his cloak around them both like a warm embrace, holding her close, never once letting go.
The ride back was slower, the pace easy as dusk settled over the land. Yun-yao leaned back against his chest, her head fitting just beneath his chin.
No words. Only the rhythm of the horse, the rustle of trees, the soft chime of harness bells.
The General’s Residence came into view—its sturdy gates, crimson lanterns now lit, guards bowing as they passed through. Inside, servants moved silently, but the house felt different. Home.