Chapter 32
They landed on moss.
Warm air rushed around them—a sharp contrast to England’s winter bite. The spectral horses slowed to a glowing halt, steam curling from their forms like silver fog.
Poppy stirred weakly.
“Mingxi…?”
“We crossed safely,” he murmured, shifting her in his arms.
Then the forest answered him. Branches rustled.
Three fox-spirit sentries descended from the trees, landing with fluid, predatory grace. They wore layered charcoal and crimson coats, foxfire blades at their belts. Their eyes—amber, bright as autumn embers—locked instantly onto the unconscious woman in Mingxi’s arms.
The leader stepped forward.
“Shen-gōngzǐ,” he said, voice reverent and sharp. “You return wounded.”
“And carrying a human,” another murmured, eyes narrowing in wary respect.
Mingxi straightened, taking a moment to face the one who spoke.
Then, in his own tongue, he answered, “Tā shì wǒ de qīn yǒu.”
She is my dear one.
The sentries froze. Shock broke across their faces, followed by immediate, deeper bows—spines curved, heads lowered, blades sheathed in deference. She tried to lift her head, but Mingxi gathered her closer, protective.
“Qiànyuàn, qīn yǒu. Forgive us, honored one,” the leader said to Poppy with a softer voice.
“She requires sanctuary,” he commanded. “Get a healer. Send them to 莲池阁(Lián Chí Gé).”
One sentry sprinted toward the deeper forest, foxfire trailing in his wake.
Mingxi stepped forward, the remaining two sentries forming an escort. The path lit beneath his feet—glowing stones responding to his returning magic.
Poppy blinked up through half-lidded eyes. “Mingxi… where… where are we?”
He looked down at her, voice softening in a way he only did for her. “My home in my clan’s forest.”
She exhaled faintly as the luminous canopy shifted overhead—violet to gold to moon white.
“It’s beautiful,” she whispered.
His arms tightened. “You belong here now,” he said quietly.
She startled slightly, but he didn’t correct himself.
Ahead, the first structures of the clan’s city—火瑶境 (Huǒyáo Jìng)—emerged from between the trees: sweeping roofs curved like fox tails, lanterns of gold and sapphire dancing on the breeze, shrines carved with ancient runes, bridges arching over glowing streams, Guardian statues watching with serene and foxlike pride.
A low gong sounded from deeper in the forest—a welcoming tone reserved for returning clan nobles and for someone precious enough to be sheltered in their arms.
Mingxi lowered his head toward Poppy’s ear and murmured, “No matter what hunts you, you are safe here, qīn yǒu.”
Her eyes fluttered shut.
He hoped she heard him and believed him.
The inner pavilion doors slid open at Mingxi’s approach, the foxfire runes responding to his signature with a soft golden flare. Two healers hurried forward—robed in pale violet, their dark hair tied back with ribbons marked by tiny fox-tail charms.
One healer drew in a sharp breath. “Shen-gōngzǐ, she is—”
“Exhausted,” Mingxi cut in gently, “not injured.”
He stepped into the central chamber, carrying Poppy to a low platform covered in embroidered silks and a foxfire-warmed blanket. He laid her down with exquisite care, as if she were made of moonlight itself.
The elder healer pressed glowing fingertips to Poppy’s wrist. Her brows rose.
“Her pulse is steady. Deeply depleted, yes, but not harmed.”
She traced her hand above Poppy’s sternum, faint moonlight rising to meet it.
“Her magic burned too bright for a body unprepared for it. She needs sleep, not salves or tinctures.”
Mingxi exhaled softly, a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.
The younger healer bowed. “We will prepare restorative wards around her.”
“No,” Mingxi said quietly.
Both healers froze.
He moved to Poppy’s side and knelt on the cushion beside the platform, fingers brushing the back of her hand.
“I will hold the ward myself.”
The younger healer glanced at him. “And you, Shen-gōngzǐ—”
“I am fine,” Mingxi said immediately.
Yunlian’s eyes softened, but her tone didn’t waver. “No, you are not.”
He froze.
She stepped closer into his line of sight—not obstructing Poppy, but gently, firmly commanding his attention.
“Mingxi,” she said, voice low and warm. “You are shaking.”
He bristled. “I can hold the ward. She needs—”
“You will hold nothing until you are whole.”
Her voice was still soft, still gentle, but immovable.
He opened his mouth to argue, but Yunlian simply lifted a hand, palm up.
“Enough,” she whispered. “You carried her home. Let us carry you for one moment.”
The healers moved as soon as she spoke, not roughly, instead with firm insistence. They each took one of Mingxi’s arms—not to restrain him, but to steady him—and he was too exhausted to hide the small stagger that betrayed how much he hurt.
His eyes flicked to Poppy. “I won’t leave her side,” he said through his teeth.
“You won’t,” Yunlian replied. “You will return to her as soon as you can stand without falling.”
That did it. His resistance eased—not in defeat, but in reluctant acceptance.
The healers guided him to the adjoining alcove, foxfire blooming around their hands as they began to stitch spirit, bone, and breath back into alignment.
Mingxi endured the treatment silently, jaw clenched, eyes slanted toward the doorway as if he could see through the carved screens and back to Poppy.
The moment the foxfire dimmed and the healers stepped back, Mingxi was already moving.
“Careful,” the elder healer warned.
He ignored it.
He crossed back into the main pavilion with long, decisive strides, breath steadier, ribs no longer grinding with every step. Poppy lay exactly where he’d left her, moonlight flickering faintly beneath her skin.
Mingxi went to her side and knelt, taking her hand with a gentleness that didn’t match the fierce desperation in his gut.
Yunlian watched from near the door, arms lightly folded, expression softening as Mingxi settled beside Poppy with the certainty of someone returning to the only place he belonged.
She nodded once, approving, and said quietly, “You may hold the ward now.”
Mingxi didn’t look up, but his grip on Poppy’s hand tightened in silent gratitude.
The foxfire-laced ward hummed to life around them—strong and steady under Mingxi’s command. Yunlian turned away, letting them have the room. Only the sound of soft foxfire lanterns glowing along the walls remained.
Poppy drifted on a warm tide of sleep, deeper than any she’d known.
Not the fitful sleep of fear. Something gentler, healing, and safe.
She surfaced slowly, senses forming one by one: warm silk beneath her, a faint herbal scent, golden light flickering behind her closed eyes, and a steady warmth encircling her hand.
She blinked.
Mingxi sat beside her on the cushion, still in his travel clothes, coat shrugged off, sleeves rolled to his forearms. Foxfire hovered in a small orb above his free hand, pulsing in time with her breath.
His other hand held hers. Firmly. As if to anchor her in this world.
Her voice was soft, raw from exhaustion. “Mingxi?”
His head lifted instantly. His eyes—gold brightening from worry to relief—met hers.
“You’re awake.”
She swallowed, feeling the dryness in her throat. “Where…?”
“In my family’s home, our guest pavilion.” His thumb brushed the back of her hand, slow and gentle. “You are safe. And you are not hurt.”
She dropped her gaze to their joined hands. “You stayed with me.”
“Of course,” he murmured. “As long as you slept, I remained.” A faint smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. “You would not let go.”
Her cheeks warmed. “I… did I?”
He glanced down at their hands. “Yes.” A beat and then he said more softly, “And I would not let go, either.”
She exhaled, a shiver of emotion moving through her, and her fingers curled around his.
“Mingxi… I thought I lost control. I thought—”
“You fought,” he said. “You survived.” His voice deepened with quiet pride. “And you found your light.”
Her breath trembled.
His thumb traced slow, soothing circles across her knuckles—intimate, unguarded, almost reverent.
“You frightened me,” he admitted quietly. “When you collapsed.”
She blinked. “That’s… surprising.”
“Yes,” he said simply. “It is.”
He didn’t hide it. Didn’t retreat. He just stayed there—her hand in his, golden foxfire painting his features with warmth, his presence steady and unwavering.
A strange, aching truth settled over Poppy—this was the first moment since Lysandra died that Poppy had felt safe.
Truly, deeply safe.