Chapter 57
By morning, the forest had changed again—tall red pines rising like pillars carved from gold. Their needles whispered like quiet bells in the wind.
Poppy spun in a slow circle, mouth parted. “Mingxi… it’s—”
“A boundary of Moonwell Valley,” he said. “It shifts with magic.”
“It’s beautiful.”
He watched her awe with a warmth he didn’t voice.
They walked until a rustle froze Poppy mid-step. Not the dramatic freeze from before. Not the shriek. Just… stillness.
Mingxi paused. “Poppy?”
She inhaled. “Something brushed my boot.”
A small, jade-green snake slid into view.
Poppy did not scream. She also did not breathe right away. “I’m fine,” she said through clenched teeth.
“You are shaking.”
“I am vibrating with courage.”
Mingxi choked on a laugh. “It’s just a normal snake,” he said.
“I know.”
“It cannot harm you.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you hiding behind me?”
She pressed closer to his back. “Because knowing and feeling are not the same thing.”
He bit his lip to keep from laughing outright. “You’ve improved,” he said softly.
“You liar.”
“No.” A soft smile. “I’m proud.”
Heat rushed to her cheeks, and the snake slithered away, bored with them both. Mingxi’s low laugh followed it.
When the sun dipped low and the wind cooled, Poppy sat on a fallen log and pulled at her tangled hair with rising misery. Mingxi watched for all of four seconds before stepping forward.
“Give me the comb.”
She blinked at him. “What?”
“You’re hurting yourself.”
Her breath tripped. “Y-you don’t have to—”
“Poppy,” he murmured, “give me the comb.”
She handed it over. He knelt behind her, fingers brushing her shoulders as he gathered her hair with reverence she’d never known from anyone. The world hushed.
“Tell me if it hurts,” he whispered.
It did. But not the kind that made her want him to stop.
Mingxi worked slowly, tenderly, easing every knot with deliberate gentleness. His thumbs brushed her scalp occasionally, sending warmth spiraling through her spine.
“You’re very gentle,” she breathed.
“I would never harm you.”
She swallowed hard.
When the tangles were gone, he didn’t stop. He separated her hair into three long sections.
Poppy blinked. “You braid?”
“In my clan,” he said quietly, “grooming is how we honor those who matter.”
Her heart hammered.
He braided slowly, fingers confident and careful, weaving her hair into something elegant and soft. When he finished, he tied it with a thin strip of his own cloth.
Mingxi lifted the braid, letting it fall gently along her back.
“You should wear it like this,” he murmured. “It suits you.”
She turned her head slightly, and his face was closer than she expected—too close, too warm, his eyes molten amber.
“Mingxi,” she whispered, “this place… all of it… I never knew the world could feel like this.”
He reached out—hesitated—and let one finger trace the braid he’d made.
“You are seeing it as you truly are,” he said softly. “And perhaps… so am I.”
Poppy’s breath caught. They didn’t move. Not for a long time. As twilight deepened, Mingxi gathered fallen branches and coaxed a small fire to life. The flames crackled softly, painting the clearing in amber light.
Poppy hugged her knees, watching embers drift upward like fireflies.
“Is the moonwell frightening?” she asked quietly.
Mingxi paused, gaze reflecting the flames. “It is… honest.”
“Honest?”
“It shows you what you fear. And what you hide. And what you are.”
Her throat tightened. “What if someone doesn’t want to see those things?”
“Then they should not go to the moonwell alone.”
She looked at him. He did not look away. Warmth curled through her chest—soft, fragile, terrifying. The fire burned low.
Mingxi rose. “Rest. I’ll keep watch.”
She curled beneath her cloak, braid brushing her cheek, listening to the quiet rhythm of his breathing as the world faded into night. The last thing she felt was safety settling over her like a second blanket.