Spring had arrived gently, breathing warmth into the earth and draping the plum trees in pink blossoms. Their petals unfurled like silk ribbons, swaying in the breeze, catching the sunlight with every turn. It was warmer than the springs before—not that Jia had much to compare. This was only her fourth year in this realm, a world far removed from the one she had known.

  A gentle breeze whispered through the branches, shaking loose a few blossoms that spiralled gracefully, one landing on her hair.

  She was sitting in a small pavilion, by the pond, the centrepiece of the garden, with lotus flowers floating and koi fish gliding in harmony. She was thinking, that in 2024 Tokyo it would be cherry blossom season soon, and she would be walking by the river, perhaps with friends, or a boyfriend. Jia never had many friends, not in Tokyo nor in this realm.

  Life in the realm of old dynasties was different. As the adopted daughter of the Taishou of Yu Yan and his wife, forming friendships within her station was no simple task. She rarely thought about the life she once lived—at least, not often—but the subtle scent of plum blossoms, the quiet rustle of petals, and the stillness of the garden had a way of stirring memories she'd long tried to forget.

  She didn’t remember much about how she came to this realm. One moment, she’d been alone in her room in Tokyo; the next, she awoke in the arms of a woman clad in the flowing robes of the old dynasties, her silver hair nearly identical to Jia’s own. Jia had never questioned it too deeply. Her past life had not been a happy one, and whatever strange twist of fate brought her here… it had given her peace. That was enough.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by the gentle weight of two hands settling on her shoulders. Jia glanced back.

  “You’ve been out here quite a while,” her adoptive mother said softly. “Come now—we still have a banquet to prepare.”

  Hua Lian, a striking woman with long silver hair that flowed like silk, held herself with quiet authority. Her beauty was serene, almost timeless—an elegance shaped by years of courtly grace and quiet resilience. The scent of plum blossoms clung faintly to her robes as she reached for Jia’s hand and guided her away from the pavilion.

  She gently escorted her through the garden, each step deliberate on the stone path winding toward the grand dining hall of the Yu Yan manor. Jia glanced back at the pavilion, the rippling pond, the drifting blossoms. A sigh slipped past her lips. She wouldn’t have minded a few more moments of tranquillity—just her and the stillness of her thoughts.

  “Couldn’t we host the banquet outside?” she asked, glancing up at her mother. “The garden is certainly large enough. And the weather feels perfect.”

  “This was your brother’s wish,” Hua Lian replied, her voice like soft silk over porcelain. “He preferred a modest celebration, but you know your father. I’d be surprised if fewer than a hundred guests arrived.” She smiled faintly, the kind of smile that rarely left her lips. “At least the grand hall is large enough.”

  “All the more reason to host it outside…” Jia muttered under her breath.

  Hua Lian laughed quietly.

  “Your spirit never changes.”

  Jia adjusted the sash around her waist for the third time, trying not to trip over her own sleeves as they approached the great hall. After four years, she still wasn’t used to it. Unlike her, everything felt so graceful.

  Man, I still had trouble talking like them. Thank God— no, wait— the heavens.

  Thank the heavens for MXTX and the three hundred hours I spent reading her books. At least now I can bluff my way through most situations.

  The servants of the Yu Yan manor bustled with purpose, weaving through the vast hall as they made final preparations. Lanterns had already been strung from the high beams above, their soft golden glow dancing over the room like fireflies. A long table stretched across the center, draped in embroidered silk the color of deep plum, each thread stitched with ornate patterns of peonies and waves.

  Fine porcelain dishes, hand-painted with dragons, phoenixes, and clouds, were laid with meticulous care. Gold-rimmed chopsticks and silver utensils, gleaming under the lanternlight, were placed with ceremonial precision. Around them the walls were adorned with beautiful silk tapestries and hanging scrolls, featuring scenes from nature, mythology, or historical triumphs.

  Although Jia had lived in this realm for several years, she had never witnessed a banquet of such scale before. She had read about occasions like this in history books and seen them brought to life in television dramas—but standing here, amid the preparations, the weight of it felt entirely different. The elegance, the symbolism, the sheer opulence of it all was mesmerising.

  Banquets hosted by the nobility were never just meals; they were expressions of power, orchestrated displays of harmony and hierarchy. Every detail was chosen with care—to cultivate refinement, to radiate luxury, to assert prestige. The guests were not only fed, but immersed—spiritually and intellectually nourished by music, poetry, and conversation. And at the heart of it all, always, were the ones being celebrated.

  The dishes laid out were ones Jia recognized by name, but not by taste—shark fin soup, bird’s nest broth, delicately steamed fish layered with fragrant herbs. Their aromas mingled in the air, rich and overwhelming.

  Then she spotted it. Roast duck. Golden, glossy, perfectly crisped.

  Her eyes brightened. Just one piece—

  She reached out, fingers hovering mid-air, when a deliberate cough broke her focus. Jia stiffened, glancing sideways.

  Her mother was watching with a knowing grin.

  Caught red-handed.

  “Can’t you at least wait for the evening? It’s not like you’re going to go hungry.”

  Her mother’s voice held a teasing lilt.

  The servants burst into laughter, the sound echoing warmly through the hall. Jia’s ears flushed with heat. Of course, they all knew by now—when it came to food, she had no self-control.

  She had never gone hungry in her life, not really. However, having lived alone for so long before entering this realm, she was mostly living with basic dishes, cup noodles and convenience store food. Fancy dishes like these had once only existed in books and dramas. Now that they were real, she found them nearly impossible to resist.

  “What’s with all the commotion?” asked a young man, stepping into the hall with the ease of someone who belonged there.

  He was tall, with a strong, broad-shouldered build and a narrow waist, his long raven-black hair half-pulled into a bun secured with a polished hairpiece. His robes were black, embroidered with crimson phoenixes that shimmered slightly under the light. A white jade pendant hung from his belt, catching the eye with its simple elegance.

  His face was striking—defined jaw, sharp cheekbones, and eyes dark as ink.

  “Yun!” Jia rushed forward to greet her brother.

  When Jia had first arrived in this realm, Yun Lan had not been among those who welcomed her with open arms. Their beginning was awkward, strained—marked by silence rather than conflict. He had kept his distance, cool and unreadable, barely speaking to her unless prompted.

  They had both been teenagers then, teetering at the edge of adulthood—an age when feelings ran hot and hard but were rarely expressed well. Jia had often avoided Yun, not out of dislike, but because the way he looked at her unsettled her. He hadn’t glared, exactly, but there was something simmering behind his eyes—a frustration, a weight.

  Looking back, Jia now understood that it might have been a kind of jealousy. She had arrived suddenly and taken a place in the household, in their parents' hearts. She didn’t blame him. Yun had always struggled to show what he felt, especially when it mattered most.

  It had taken time—and no small effort from Hua Lian—to help bridge the quiet divide between them. But eventually, the coldness melted. Bit by bit, they found their rhythm. They weren’t bound by blood, but they had grown into something real.

  Now, as young adults, Jia adored him with a kind of pride. They could bicker and tease like any siblings, but there was also respect.

  “I came to check if you needed any help setting up the place,” Yun said, stepping further into the hall, “but I see you’ve got everything under control.” His gaze swept across the rows of food, pausing with a faint smirk.

  “Although… it looks like my request for a modest gathering may have been completely ignored.”

  Jia rolled her eyes so hard it nearly hurt.

  “You really thought that would work on Father?”

  Hua Lian let out a laugh as she folded her arms.

  “Your brother may be clever, but he still hasn’t figured out how your father operates.”

  Yun sighed, shaking his head in mock defeat.

  “We’re not quite ready yet,” Hua Lian added, already turning them around by the shoulders like a shepherd with unruly sheep. “I still need my children to get changed and ready to receive the guests. Especially you, Yun!”

  Her voice carried a playful authority, but her smile was fond. “Off with the both of you. I’ve already sent for your clothes.”

  “Yes, yes, we’re going,” Jia grumbled, casting one last glance at the food as she was herded away.

  Yun escorted Jia to her private quarters and continued on to his own.

  The room exuded an air of elegance—every inch a reflection of her mother’s meticulous taste. Silk drapes in hues of pale jade and blush pink framed the latticed windows, filtering sunlight into a soft, golden glow that bathed the space in warmth.

  In one corner stood a finely carved writing desk, laid with ink pots, slender brushes, and neatly rolled scrolls—for writing letters; as if Jia had anyone to send them to.

  A canopy bed draped with sheer curtains occupied another corner, its bedding embroidered with delicate plum blossoms.

  The faint scent of lotus flower incense lingered in the air. The servants had lit it while she was away, a small detail, but one not forgotten.

  Every element spoke of refinement—and of her mother’s quiet effort to make this place feel like a home.

  The servants had already prepared Jia’s bath in her quarters, but she didn’t have time to enjoy it as much as she would’ve liked.

  Still, she let her mind wander as she soaked, wondering quietly if she would ever have a celebration so grand—one meant for her.

  For women, such banquets were usually reserved for major milestones: a coming-of-age ceremony, a wedding, or the formal presentation of their children to society.

  Both she and Yun were already past the typical age for marriage, a fact that made their parents increasingly anxious. For Yun, it was a greater concern—he was the eldest, and the heir.

  An arranged marriage would have been the natural course for them both, but they had each refused. So far, their parents had respected that choice. Still, suggestions came. Softly. Occasionally.

  Jia stepped out of the bathtub, water dripping from her skin, and the servants rushed to her side with a towel. She tensed automatically.

  She had never grown used to this part of noble life—the constant presence of others, even in the most private moments. In her old world, no one had ever entered her space without knocking. She’d never once gone to a public bathhouse. The idea of strangers, or even acquaintances, seeing her naked had always unsettled her. Here, that kind of privacy didn’t exist.

  Noble women were expected to be cared for, dressed, undressed, and observed. To be seen—graceful and composed—even when they didn’t want to be.

  Unlike most, she never allowed the servants to help her wash. That line, at least, she had drawn. She bore with the rest—tolerating their presence while she dried off or was wrapped in layer after layer of fabric—but the vulnerability still grated at her.

  Sometimes, despite the loneliness she once knew, she missed the quiet control she’d had over her life. Over her body. Over who could see her.

  Of course, dressing in a hanfu—especially one as elaborate as the one waiting for her—was no small task. She understood the necessity of the servants, even if she resented it.

  The hanfu her mother had selected for her was the color of the plum trees in Yu Yan manor’s garden—a soft, elegant pink with blossoms embroidered along the hem in delicate thread. Her mother knew her tastes well, always choosing pieces that spoke to Jia’s quiet preferences. The robe was a shade deeper than the flowing skirt beneath, and the pairing was flawless.

  As the adopted daughter of the Taishou of Yu Yan, Jia was expected to dress accordingly. For a woman of noble rank, clothing was more than attire—it was a declaration of status, refinement, and grace.

  Jia, however, kept to subtle deviations. She preferred to wear her hair down, letting it fall softly over her shoulders, though she still pinned part of it up in an elegant half-up style, held by a coral hairpin. It was a small act of rebellion within the bounds of decorum. But even so, she carried herself with natural poise.

  The servants escorted Jia to the great hall, where she was seated alone at the long banquet table. Her brother had yet to arrive, as he would be the one receiving the guests today. At the head of the hall sat Jia’s father, Taishou Yi Yong, and her mother, watching the preparations unfold from a position that overlooked the entire room.

  Some of the highest-ranking nobility were expected to arrive early, eager to be among the first to congratulate the Taishou’s only son and heir. The hall hummed with quiet anticipation.

  Then the side door slid open, and Yun entered.

  Dressed in formal black robes embroidered with crimson thread, he moved with the composed grace of someone who had done this before—even if he didn’t enjoy it. His hair was tied up neatly, held in place by a ceremonial crown carved with phoenix motifs. He crossed the room and sat beside Jia, exhaling deeply as he did so. “They never listen do they”, referring to the small celebration he had in his mind originally.

  Jia let out a small laugh.

  “What did you expect?”

  The guests began to arrive, each bearing gifts for Yun. One by one, the offerings were presented—precious, symbolic, and meticulously chosen. Each gift reflected not only the importance of the occasion but the status and wealth of the giver. They conveyed respect, allegiance, and a desire to remain in the Taishou’s good favor.

  There were precious stones that shimmered like river light, intricately forged swords in lacquered cases, fine calligraphy sets made of jade and ivory, bolts of rare silk, delicate ceramics, and ornate ceremonial artifacts—all tokens of reverence and prestige.

  Jia glanced at her brother’s expression, amused by the subtle discomfort on his face. He wasn’t one for fanfare.

  Jia looked at the door as the next guests were arriving. The guests varied from distant family to high nobility of other regions, also leaders of other sects and religious leaders, both Buddhist and Taoist cultivators.

  Jia’s heart gave a small jolt.

  Cultivators.

  She’d seen their kind from a distance before, but this was the first time she’d be sitting in the same room with so many. Her mind flitted to the books she used to read —MXTX’s layered worlds of fate and immortality, Rou Bao’s broken-hearted shizuns and redeemed disciples.

  Were these guests like that? Or was she just romanticizing things again?

  She sat up a little straighter, her eyes bright. Maybe if she paid close attention…

  Then entered Taishou Yi Yong’s most trusted advisor, Xin Yu—a man whose loyalty ran deep. He had stood beside the Taishou through the fire of war and the web of politics, not only as a strategist and attendant, but as a brother-in-arms.

  To the household, he was more than just a court advisor—he was family in all but name. His presence at any important gathering was never in question; wherever the Taishou stood, Xin Yu stood with him.

  Looking behind Xin Yu, Jia’s heart gave a small, involuntary lurch.

  There he was.

  Trailing behind his father, Xin Ya stepped into the hall with the quiet confidence of someone who didn’t need attention to command it. He looked scarcely older than she was—perhaps in his early twenties—but everything about him felt... heavier. His long, steel-grey hair was tied back with neat precision, revealing a face she pointedly avoided studying for too long. His eyes were sharp, unreadable—always watching, never lingering. His build was lean but solid.

  He was much taller than the average in this era, and his body structure was that of an experienced fighter, though he was only assisting his father in his work. This of course, was just a misconception on Jia’s part. Xin Ya had been practicing martial arts his whole life.

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  And Jia, for reasons she couldn’t quite articulate, immediately wanted to turn and walk the other way.

  It wasn’t that he was ugly—far from it. Everyone seemed to think Xin Ya was extremely handsome, but Jia? She didn’t care. She told herself she didn’t care. All she knew was that every time she saw him, her shoulders stiffened, and her mouth went dry.

  Whenever he glanced at her—which wasn’t often—it carried the faintest flicker of judgment, like he’d already decided she was frivolous, soft, and not worth the trouble. Inferior.

  She hated how aware she became of herself whenever he was near. She hated how he made her feel... small. Like he could see through every word she said, and still didn’t find it worth commenting on.

  She didn't even have a clear picture of his face in her mind—because she’d never dared to really look.

  Ugh. Why him?

  “My son and I, we offer you the most heartfelt congratulations on your son’s— the future Taishou’s—birthday. May he have many blessings in his path,” Advisor Xin Yu said, both men kneeling respectfully before Lord Yi Yong.

  “You do not bow to me, old friend,” the Taishou replied with warmth. “Come, sit beside me. Let us enjoy this evening properly.”

  He waved to the servants.

  “Wine for my brother-in-arms! The finest!”

  Then his eyes turned toward Xin Ya, appraising the young man with a look not just of approval, but of quiet hope.

  “Xin Ya, you’ve grown into a fine example of discipline and virtue. Come—sit beside my daughter and enjoy the celebration.” Her father would never say it outright, of course—not yet, but she knew. He was watching. Waiting. Secretly hoping that a bond might form.

  Jia stifled a sigh as Xin Ya bowed respectfully and made his way toward the seat beside her. Her spine straightened. Her stomach twisted. Her fingers fidgeted under the table, and she did her best not to shift in her seat.

  He barely glanced in her direction. Instead, he bowed politely to her brother, then took the empty seat beside her without a word. The silence sat heavy between them.

  She could have ignored him. Should have. But something about his aloofness pricked at her pride. Against her better judgment, Jia turned to face him. Her gaze lifted—finally—and for the first time, she took in the full shape of his face.

  He was, objectively, absurdly handsome. Her ears turned crimson in response.

  Too late to retreat now.

  “Good evening, sir.” Jia offered a polite bow.

  Xin Ya returned the gesture with the bare minimum of movement. He said nothing.

  She cleared her throat, subtly, just loud enough to nudge the silence.

  “I hear you’ve been inspecting around the county?”

  “Yes, Lady Jia Hua,” he replied stiffly, still not meeting her eyes.

  There was a pause—then, perhaps realizing how curt he sounded, he added,

  “We’ve been traveling through the towns. Assessing the effects of the recent drought, checking on the state of agriculture and food stores.”

  Such fancy words he uses… she rolled her eyes. Did he rehearse that?

  “How do you see things, then?” Jia asked, slightly more confident now that the silence had broken. Truth be told, she was grateful he'd continued at all—she wouldn’t have had anything else to say.

  “Things could be better,” Xin Ya said. “We’ll be discussing it with the Taishou later.”

  The answer landed cold.

  Jia blinked. Oh? Not with me?

  Her jaw tightened. It was obvious—he had no intention of including her in anything beyond empty courtesies. As if her title meant nothing. As if her thoughts didn’t matter.

  “Are you implying that my county’s affairs don’t concern me?” Jia snapped.

  Xin Ya’s expression didn’t shift, but his reply came cool and blunt. “I just think someone who’s spent their days in the comfort of Yu Yan manor wouldn’t understand what the world outside truly looks like. It’s not as graceful as banquets and garden walks. Most people out there don’t have the luxury of full meals, let alone feasts.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Well, now you’re just being rude.” She leaned in slightly, voice rising. “Just because I wear nice robes and show up at banquets—which, by the way, are the only times you’ve even seen me—doesn’t mean I don’t know what suffering looks like.”

  Her voice dropped, cold and tight. “I’ve seen things you couldn’t imagine in a hundred years… no—a thousand.”

  Literally, she thought bitterly.

  Xin Ya looked at her. Something flickered behind his eyes—then he gave the faintest, almost amused breath of a laugh.

  “Pardon me, then.

  That’s it? Jia thought to herself extremely annoyed by Xin Ya’s arrogance.

  Exactly who does he think he is? If he had any idea of the things I’ve seen in my past, he would cut his own tongue! He is the one who has no idea what is happening in the world. Although it hasn’t exactly happened yet… Well just wait for communism to hit then! Oh, but that’s a long time away, he won’t live to see that. I’m sure there was something horrible that happened around this time, it must have been in the history books.

  Jia’s thoughts spun like a wheel. Her heart was racing, her face burned—and the more flustered she felt, the faster she ate. Bite after bite of the roast duck she’d been dreaming about all day disappeared into her mouth without grace or strategy.

  Across the table, Yun caught the sight of her frantic chewing—and burst out laughing.

  Mortified, she froze mid-bite. To her left, she spotted Xin Ya—lips pressed tightly together, shoulders shaking ever so slightly as he fought a smile.

  Oh no.

  He was laughing too.

  Her embarrassment bloomed into irritation. She dropped her chopsticks with a huff, glaring at them both.

  “What is so funny?”

  Xin Ya tried—and failed—to keep a straight face. He glanced at her with something closer to amusement than mockery.

  “I’ve just... never seen a noblewoman eat like she actually enjoys it,” he said, the words tumbling out with a laugh before he could stop them. “It’s... refreshing.”

  Jia blinked. Then scowled.

  Refreshing? What the hell is that supposed to mean?

  “I’ll have you know,” she said, “a noblewoman can eat whatever and however she pleases. And if my enthusiasm offends you, you’re welcome to look somewhere else.”

  Xin Ya dipped his head slightly, still smirking as he returned to his meal. The servant pouring wine hesitated, clearly unsure whether to flee or keep pouring. Meanwhile, Yun was having the best time listening to the two of them argue from the beginning.

  Jia’s cheeks burned. Her temper flared.

  “You know what? I think I’m going to go outside to get some air.” She pushed her chair back, about to stand, when Yun caught her hand and looked up at her gently.

  “Jia, don’t go, I don’t think he means any harm.”

  “Oh, come on, he’s being awful to me. I will be back soon anyway; I just need to cool down. I’m here to celebrate you and not be laughed at.” Jia whispered to her brother and stormed off.

  Jia was furious walking rounds in the outside pavilion in a fast pace. Finally, she stopped to throw pebbles in the pond. The splashes of the pebbles hitting the water made no difference to how she was feeling. In fact, she was getting more and more infuriated as she thought of him ridiculing her.

  Jia stormed into the pavilion, her footsteps loud against the wooden planks. She paced back and forth in sharp, restless strides, arms crossed tightly over her chest. The garden, so serene earlier, now felt stifling—too quiet for the fury bubbling in her chest.

  Finally, she stopped by the edge of the pond. Grabbing a handful of pebbles, she began throwing them into the water one by one. Each splash was… unsatisfying. It didn’t help.

  She clenched her jaw.

  How dare he? Arrogant, insufferable—so smug with his perfect posture and his too-polite replies. She hated how easily he had gotten under her skin.

  Another pebble flew—harder this time.

  She didn’t want to care what he thought. She barely knew him.

  “Ugh!” she growled aloud, flinging one last stone with all her strength. It hit the pond with a loud plunk.

  And still—she was furious.

  Who does he think he is? She though while going for the next throw.

  “You’ll disturb the koi.” The voice behind her was low, familiar—and unwelcome. Jia didn’t have to turn around to recognize the grey hair catching the lanternlight like spun glass.

  “Oh, you again.” She didn’t hide the bite in her voice. “What now, Xin Ya? Back for round two? Want me to put on another show so you can have another laugh?”

  Xin Ya took a few measured steps closer, hands clasped behind his back.

  “Actually... I came to apologize.”

  Jia blinked, caught off guard.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I said I’m sorry,” he repeated, slower this time, with a hint of confusion—as if he wasn’t used to people questioning his sincerity.

  She tilted her head and squinted at him.

  “No, I heard you. I’m just trying to wrap my head around the fact that you said it.”

  Xin Ya hesitated, then looked away, rubbing the back of his neck.

  “I’m not exactly skilled in... conversation. Especially not with people I don’t know well. And you, well—” he gave a quick exhale—possibly a laugh, “have a unique way of putting things.”

  She crossed her arms.

  “That’s not a compliment, you know.”

  “It wasn’t an insult either,” he said carefully. “Just... unexpected.”

  Jia stared at him a beat longer, then snorted and shook her head.

  “You are so awkward it’s kind of impressive.

  He shifted, the tips of his ears going faintly red.

  “Let’s go back,” he said finally. “I’ll buy you a drink.”

  “Wow,” she said, dry as dust. “A drink and an apology? Are you trying to woo me, Xin Ya?”

  He didn’t answer that—just gave the faintest smile and turned toward the hall.

  Jia followed, lips twitching. “Better not make this a habit. I might start thinking you’re not entirely unbearable.”

  They had, for a time, found a strange rhythm—talking in half-sincere jabs, sipping wine under the lanternlight. Xin Ya listened more than he spoke, and Jia, flushed and swaying ever so slightly, grew louder with each cup.

  “Y’know…” she pointed at him with a chopstick, the gesture unsteady but determined, “you’re not that bad. Arrogant? Definitely. Rude? Mmhm. But you could be worshe.”

  Xin Ya raised an eyebrow, amused.

  “That almost sounded like a compliment.”

  “Don’t get ahead of yourshelf.”

  He took a slow sip of his wine, while she narrowed her eyes at him.

  “You’ve got this face,” she added, leaning in conspiratorially, “like you’re always judging people. Like... ‘I’m better than you because I don’t trip on stairs.’”

  “I am better than people who trip on stairs,” Xin Ya deadpanned.

  Jia gasped.

  “Oh my god, you’re insufferable!”

  “And you’re drunk.”

  “Am not.”

  Xin Ya chuckled—quiet but unmistakably real.

  “Also, what’s with the grey hair?” She jerked a lock of Xin Ya’s hair. Keeping himself otherwise mostly composed, he responded with an ouch!

  “Wouldn’t know, my father likes to say I’ve been stressed since I was a baby.”

  “Oh please,” she said, letting go with a dramatic flop of her hand. “You’re built like a pine tree. Maybe, listen, just maybe, you’re secretly ancient.”

  “Now you’re just insulting me.”

  “Just your attitude.” She grinned.

  They stared at each other for a beat—Jia swaying slightly, Xin Ya suppressing a smile.

  “Want another drink?” he offered.

  Jia smirked.

  “Only if you promise not to insult me again.”

  “Can’t promise that.”

  She groaned.

  “You’re the worst.”

  “You just said I was ‘not that bad.’”

  “That was before you started talking again.”

  Yun, who had been watching the exchange from a distance with increasing secondhand embarrassment, finally buried his face in his hands. He peeked out just in time to see Jia’s eyes flutter, her expression dazed and unguarded.

  She swayed once, then slumped softly against the table.

  “I think my sister’s had enough to drink,” Yun said, moving to rise. “I’d better—”

  “Yun Lan,” came their father’s voice from across the hall, firm and expectant. Yun turned toward him, torn.

  “I’ll carry her,” Xin Ya said, already rising to his feet. “The maid can help me find her quarters and take over from there.”

  Yun looked at him for a moment, searching his face. He trusted he had no ill intentions.

  “Thank you,” he said at last, and turned to answer his father’s summons.

  Xin Ya carefully lifted Jia’s arm over his shoulder, steadying her with one hand around her waist. She leaned heavily against him, her limbs loose and uncoordinated from too much wine. He adjusted his pace, making sure she didn’t stumble, even as she mumbled something incomprehensible under her breath.

  She was completely limp now—dead weight in his arms—and though a part of him felt responsible, another part found it almost… amusing. She’d been fire and wind just moments ago, and now she was all silence and warmth, pressed lightly against his side.

  They reached her quarters, and the maid slid the door open just as a voice called from behind her.

  “I’ll be right back to care for Lady Jia Hua,” the maid said quickly, bowing. “Please lay her down. I won’t be long.”

  Xin Ya nodded wordlessly and stepped inside.

  He laid her gently on the bed, careful not to jostle her. Jia murmured something incoherent in her sleep, her brow furrowing as if mid-dream. Xin Ya tucked the blanket around her, then brushed a loose strand of hair from her forehead.

  She looked peaceful like this—no sharp comebacks, no accusations, no dramatic sighs.

  Strange, he thought, his lips twitching into a faint smile. She’s quite cute when she’s quiet.

  The absurdity of the thought caught him off guard. He shook his head, chuckling to himself just as the maid rushed in. They exchanged a bow and a few quiet words, and as she moved to check on Jia, Xin Ya slipped out without another glance.

  “Father, I’ll go. There’s no need to send more men. It’ll be faster if it’s just me and one of my own,” Yun’s voice echoed all the way to the door as Xin Ya stepped inside.

  “Father, what’s going on?” Xin Ya asked, brow furrowed as he glanced between the Taishou and Yun.

  “I brought to the Taishou’s attention the unrest we’ve been hearing about in the southwest,” Advisor Xin Yu explained calmly.

  “Someone should go, that much is certain,” Xin Ya agreed, turning to Yun. “But with all due respect, Lord Yun Lan, I don’t see why someone of your standing should take the risk alone. The road is long and dangerous. We could assemble a proper escort by morning.”

  “I appreciate the concern, truly,” Yun said, offering a small smile. “And I suppose I should thank you. You and my sister made this party less of a chore.” His gaze sharpened again. “But in this matter, I’ve made my decision. I’ll go with Long. We’ll be back in no more than four weeks.”

  The Taishou studied his son in silence, then gave a nod.

  “Very well. But it’s still your birthday. You’ll stay through the night, let your mother enjoy her time with you. You may leave in the morning.”

  “Of course, Father,” Yun replied, his tone respectful but unyielding. He glanced at Hua Lian, who stood quietly nearby, her hands clasped, her eyes shadowed with worry.

  Jia woke with a pounding headache, the kind that felt like a drum beating behind her eyes. She was still in her banquet clothes, the embroidered layers tangled around her legs, though someone had removed the heavy hair ornaments—now resting neatly on the table beside her.

  Getting out of bed felt like trying to lift a mountain. She groaned, sat up slowly, and shuffled toward the washbasin, desperate for water. Her mouth was dry, her limbs sluggish, and her brain a foggy mess.

  I would sell my soul for an aspirin.

  She cupped her hands under the cool water and splashed her face. And then—like lightning striking a still pond—it all came back. The wine. The duck. The arguing. Xin Ya.

  Before she could spiral deeper into shame, hurried footsteps echoed down the hall. The door slid open a moment later.

  “Finally, you’re awake!” Hua Lian swept into the room with all the elegance of a court lady and all the urgency of a mother. “I thought for a moment you might have died.”

  “I’m fine mother,” she said while rubbing her temple,”just really tired, I have a headache and on top of that I’m mortified”

  “Don’t be. It seems like you and Xin Ya were having fun. He’s a nice boy.” her mother replied as she was digging into Jia’s closet.

  “Sure, he is... Anyway, why are you going through my things?” Jia asked.

  “No time to explain. Dress. I’ll tell you on the way.”

  Jia blinked but obeyed. With her mother’s help, she pulled herself together—layer by layer—and moments later, they were hurrying out the door.

  “Jia, your brother is leaving today—we need to see him off,” Hua Lian said, urgency in her voice as she adjusted Jia’s collar mid-step.

  “Wait, what? Leaving? Where is he going?” Jia asked, blinking rapidly.

  “He’s headed southwest. There’s been some restlessness that needs investigating. He’ll be back in a few weeks.”

  “Why didn’t anyone tell me?” Jia frowned, trying to keep up with her mother’s pace. “I would’ve—”

  “It was decided last night,” Hua Lian replied briskly, casting her daughter a quick glance. “You wouldn’t know about it because… well, you were passed out.”

  Jia groaned, face heating. “Seriously?”

  “Quite seriously,” her mother said with a smile. “Now hurry.”

  Once they stepped outside, they spotted Yun and his longtime companion Long saddling their horses in the courtyard. Jia hurried down the stairs—until she saw him. Xin Ya. He was helping one of the men adjust a strap, sleeves rolled, posture calm.

  She froze. Her steps faltered, and the memory of the banquet came flooding back. The slurred words. The hair-pulling. The duck. Mortification bloomed all over again.

  How am I supposed to face him? she thought, burying her face in her hand. Why did I have to drink so much?

  And what did he think of her now?

  Oh, shush now. Why would it matter what he thinks of me?

  She forced her feet forward, but as she got closer, Xin Ya turned—saw her—and looked away just as quickly. Without a word, he walked off to the other side of the horses.

  Her breath caught.

  “Jia?” Yun’s voice reached her, grounding her. She shook herself and turned.

  “Yun! What is this?” she asked, rushing to his side. “I just heard you’re leaving. It’s so sudden!”

  “I know, I’m sorry,” Yun said with a soft smile. “The decision was made late last night. Long and I will investigate the unrest in the southwest. We’ll be gone a few weeks at most.”

  Long gave her a reassuring nod.

  Without hesitation, Jia wrapped her arms around her brother in a tight hug.

  This was one of the things she hated most about this realm.

  Every time her brother went on a mission, it meant days, sometimes weeks without word. There were no planes, no trains, no cars to bring him back swiftly, no phones with texts. The fastest way to send news was through a pigeon or a swift-riding messenger, both of which could still take days.

  The cultivators had their own methods, of course—but their world felt far from hers. And they weren’t going to help.

  “Please come back safe, both of you.”

  Yun returned her hug with a squeeze, then swung onto his horse beside Long. In a matter of moments, the two rode out through the gates of the Yu Yan manor, the sun casting long shadows behind them.

  From the steps, Xin Ya stood watching Jia as she stared after her brother, her expression unreadable.

  Why had he ignored her just now.

  She hadn’t done anything wrong. If anything, she had been kind. Kind, even after the way he’d acted the night before. He exhaled through his nose, rubbing the back of his neck.

  “Xin Ya! Let’s go—Lord Yi Yong is calling us in,” his father called from the courtyard.

  “Coming!” he answered, snapping back into motion.

  He jogged to catch up, but the thoughts clung to him. This was work. They were here for duty, not for... whatever that moment at the banquet had been.

  He reminded himself, as he always did:

  They were not part of the family, they were not staff. They were something in between.

  And he—he was just the son of an advisor. No more, no less. Whatever line had blurred last night, he would make sure not to cross it again.