Chapter 31
The mist coiled around the mountain peak like a living thing, thick enough to muffle sound but thin enough to let the moonlight paint everything silver. Ting-zhi materialized mid-step, boots sinking into damp moss, and froze.
Yun-si stood ten paces away, sword already drawn.
Not his dreamy Yun-si who tripped over her own sleeves or stared blankly at teacups while composing mental novels.
Nor the fox vixen Yun-si who had invaded his dream and tortured him.
This one wore fitted black robes, her hair bound in a single braid that whipped behind her as she turned.
The blade in her hand was no prop; it hummed when she shifted her grip.
“Ah,” Ting-zhi said. “This is new.”
Yun-si’s eyes narrowed. “This is definitely my dream now.”
She lunged.
Ting-zhi barely twisted aside, his scholar’s robes flapping uselessly as he stumbled back. The sword hissed past his throat, close enough to feel the wind of its passage. “Si-er, let’s discuss this—”
“Discuss?” She slashed again, this time a diagonal cut that forced him to drop into an undignified crouch. “You lied to me. For months.”
She swung. He ducked. The blade sheared through a sapling behind him; it toppled with a sad little crack.
“I never lied,” he protested, scuttling backward on his hands. “I omitted.”
The blade pressed against his collarbone. “You wrote about me.”
“Not about—”
“And you wrote to me as someone else and never told me!” She shrieked. “Was it a joke to you?”
Yun-si’s foot connected with his ribs. He gasped, curling around the impact, and she flipped the sword to point downward at his chest. “You deceived me.”
Her voice cracked and the sword trembled. “Why?”
Ting-zhi’s mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again, only for his lips to press into a thin line as he stared up at the blade hovering dangerously close to his throat.
The cold metal glinted in the dappled sunlight filtering through the trees, and for the first time in his life, he found himself utterly at a loss for words. His mind raced, but every carefully crafted excuse dissolved under the weight of her fury.
Cheng-yi’s words surfaced from his muddled thoughts... need to be more honest than anything in his life.
He swallowed hard, the movement making the sword’s edge press just a fraction deeper into his skin.
“The—the first letter,” he began uncertainly, “I just wanted to know what you thought of my books. Only that. I never meant to—” His gaze flickered to her hands, white-knuckled around the hilt, then back to her flushed face.
“Then you wrote back. And I... I wanted to stop. But then you looked so sad when he stopped writing to you. I didn’t want you to be disappointed. ”
“You could have just told me!” Yun-si shrieked. Her blade jabbed repeatedly for emphasis, the sharp tip pressing into the soft flesh just above his heart. “You could have said, ‘Si-er, I’m Moonlit Brush’! You could have trusted me!”
Her voice shattered the quiet of the dreamlike forest, the sound so uncharacteristically loud that Ting-zhi flinched. Since when did his soft-spoken, dreamy Yun-si scream like this?
The sound was almost as shocking as the blade at his chest. He hadn’t realized she could scream like this, with such fire, such volume. It was rather terrifying.
Her next question cut through his daze like a whip. “What about the huabens?” she demanded, her voice trembling with accusation. “Did you write about us?”
“No!” The denial came out sharper than he intended, laced with desperation.
He scrambled backward, only to hit the rough bark of a tree, the sword still following him like a vengeful shadow.
“I started writing them because I missed you,” he admitted, the words spilling out in a rush.
“When I was traveling, every time I saw something new or interesting, I wanted to share it with you. And then I’d write it down, and it would turn into a story.
They were never about you. They were just...
things I wished I could do with you. Things I imagined.
” His voice dropped, quieter now, raw. “Things I wanted.”
The sword wavered for a fraction of a second, the pressure against his skin easing just enough for him to breathe. But then Yun-si’s expression hardened again, and the blade dug in deeper. Ting-zhi hissed in pain.
“Ouch—” He winced, instinctively raising a hand to press against the wound, only for the sword to follow, pricking his fingers. “That actually hurts.”
Yun-si’s eyes widened. The sword trembled in her grip as she finally seemed to register what she was doing. “You’re bleeding!”
Wen-xin’s advice from the other day flashed through his mind—pretend to be sick.
Desperation made a man clutch at straws.
With a dramatic exhale, he let his shoulders slump, his free hand pressing against his chest as if to staunch a mortal wound.
His voice dropped into a pitiful whine, “Si-er... if you kill me here, in this dream...” He let his gaze flicker up at her, wide and pleading.
“Do you think I’ll die in the real world too? ”
Yun-si’s brows furrowed slightly as she considered the question. For a long, stretched moment, she just stared at him.
Then, to his immense relief, the sword lowered just an inch. Two.
Finally, she exhaled sharply through her nose, the fight draining out of her posture. “I...” She hesitated, then shook her head, the braid whipping behind her like an annoyed cat’s tail. “I think I’d better not kill you here.”
Ting-zhi let out a slow, careful breath, his fingers still pressed to his chest. The wounds stung, but it was nothing compared to the relief he felt at her anger fading. Still, he kept his expression carefully miserable, just in case she changed her mind.
The sword clattered to the moss as Yun-si’s grip loosened. She stood there, chest heaving, staring at the dark stain spreading across his robes.
Ting-zhi didn’t move. The forest held its breath.
“Will you forgive me?” The words tore free before he could stop them, raw and unguarded. His voice cracked. “I’m sorry.”
Yun-si’s fingers twitched at her sides. She looked at the sword, then at him, then at the blood seeping between his fingers. A muscle jumped in her jaw.
“You’re such an idiot,” she whispered.
His breath hitched.
She knelt abruptly, pressing her palm against his chest. The warmth of her skin seared through the fabric. “Does it really hurt?”
Ting-zhi swallowed. “Yes.”
Her lips thinned. “Good.”
“Hold still.”
Before he could react, she ripped a strip from her sleeve and pressed the wadded cloth to his chest. The pressure stung, but he didn’t dare flinch.
“...I’ll think about it,” she muttered.
The forest exhaled. Birds resumed singing. Somewhere, a stream trickled.
Ting-zhi let himself breathe.
A branch snapped.
Ting-zhi turned his head slowly.
A red fox with a crescent moon on its forehead sat three paces away, tail curled around its paws, watching them with curious eyes.
YUN-SI JOLTED AWAKE with a gasp, her fingers clawing at the embroidered quilt as if it were the hilt of a sword. The morning light spilled through the lattice windows, painting stripes across her rumpled bedding. She blinked, disoriented, then—
A laugh bubbled up, wild and breathless.
She had done it. She had screamed at him. She had stabbed him. Not just once—repeatedly. And he had bled. And he had apologized.
Her chest still heaved with the remnants of dream-fury, but beneath it, something lighter, something almost giddy, fizzed in her veins. She flopped back onto the pillows, grinning at the canopy above. The silk tassels swayed gently in the draft, utterly unaware of her triumph.
“Serves you right,” she muttered to the empty room, imagining Ting-zhi’s dramatic, wounded expression. The way his voice had cracked when he said I’m sorry. The way he’d pressed his hand to his chest like a tragic hero in one of her own stories.
She rolled onto her side, hugging a pillow to her middle. The dream had felt so real—the weight of the sword, the resistance of his robes as the blade bit into fabric, then skin. The way his dark eyes had locked onto hers, wide and afraid. Not of the blade. But of her anger.
A shiver ran through her, half thrill, half lingering anger.
Outside, a magpie chattered in the peach tree, its cry sharp and mocking.
Yun-si kicked free of the quilt and swung her legs over the edge of the bed, her bare feet pressing into the cool wooden floor.
The dream’s euphoria still hummed under her skin, but now, in the waking world, the edges of it were already softening. Doubt crept in, quiet and insidious.
He didn’t actually apologize. Not in real life. Not with words she could hold onto.
She padded to the washstand, splashed her face with water from the porcelain basin. The cold shocked her fully awake. In the bronze mirror, her reflection stared back—cheeks still flushed, eyes too bright, hair tumbling from its loose braid. She looked alive. More alive than she had in weeks.
Outside, Chun-xi’s voice called through the door. “Third Maiden, Lady Shen requests your presence in the inner hall.”
“I’m awake,” Yun-si called back, her voice carrying an uncharacteristic lightness.
Chun-xi slipped into the chamber and laid breakfast on the table. Yun-si finished every bite, smiling all the while. It was the first time she had eaten with an appetite in weeks.
Yun-si hummed as she cut through the garden. The fresh morning air carried the sweet scent of jasmine and the morning calls of larks.
A flash of dark green caught the corner of her eye near the moon gate, where Ting-zhi leaned against the latticework, one hand idly turning a branch of leaves between his fingers.
Her steps faltered.
Isn’t he too free for a newly minted flower scholar?
Shouldn’t he be buried under congratulatory visits? Preparing for imperial appointments? Writing new huabens? Anything other than lounging in her family’s garden like he owned the place?
She watched his long fingers play with the leaves with infuriating leisure.
Hmpf.
She veered left resolutely. She would take the long path around the reflecting pond. The very long path that curved past the servants’ quarters and the storehouses. Anywhere that didn’t require passing beneath that particular crabapple tree.
Her detour added fifteen minutes to the walk, but she reached the inner hall without incident, her composure mostly restored.
“Yun-si.” Lady Shen’s voice carried its usual measured authority. “Finally.”
Yun-si stepped through the doorway and stopped short.
The hall had been transformed into a textile merchant’s paradise. Bolts of silk in every imaginable shade draped across low tables—deep crimson shot through with gold thread, pale rose pink embroidered with blossoms, spring green scattered with—why did they embroider that with leaves?
Her phoenix headdress and wedding jewelry rested on the table, pearls, jade, and delicate gold filigree glinting softly in the morning light.
Yun-jia was darting from one display to another, bursting with excitement as she touched and admired all the finery. “Third Sister! You are finally here! Look at all the beautiful silks and jewelry!”
Oh. The final fitting. She had completely forgotten it.
“We must make the final alterations to your wedding robes today if they’re to be ready in time. You’ll also need more new clothes in your dowry.” Lady Shen stated.
Wedding robes. The words hit Yun-si like a splash of cold water, washing away the last traces of her jovial mood.
The wedding... to a husband she had not spoken to in weeks.
One month. That was all that stood between her and the wedding.
One month, and then—
Then what?
Yun-si’s stomach twisted.
“Come,” Lady Shen continued, “Madam Liu needs your measurements. And tonight we’re hosting a family dinner. Master Gu and Ting-zhi will both be joining us.”
Yun-si nodded mutely, stepping deeper into the sea of silk.