The snows had quieted in Long Zhi, but their hush lingered in the corners of YongShen hall like the breath of some unseen watcher. Wind swept past its stone gates like a whisper through silk, and in that stillness, Lianhua moved with purpose—alone, and carrying the Weight of emotions too long hidden.
She had not seen her Lord Shen since the morning briefing, and his voice echoed only through his commands. Cold, short, always controlled. But today, she could not bear it any longer.
Tonight, she would not wait for affection.
She would offer warmth instead.
The eastern kitchens were near empty at that hour. Most of the staff had retired after the evening meals had been cleared. Only the embers glowed in the main hearth, a pot left half-covered, still warm.
She took it over herself—unrolling her sleeves, tying her hair back in the Odia braid her mother once wore, and laying out ingredients quietly.
She prepared what comforted her soul first: Machha Tel Jhal—fish marinated in mustard oil, garlic paste, and turmeric, fried to a golden crisp and simmered in a bright, spicy mustard-based gravy. She added kakharu phula bhaja—pumpkin flower fritters dipped in chickpea flour and shallow-fried with ajwain and salt, delicate and crisp. A small bowl of Kheeri, sweet rice pudding laced with jaggery, cardamom, and crushed cashews, sat cooling beside the hearth.
But she hesitated.
He wouldn't eat it.
Not all of it.
So she prepared something more familiar to him—a soft Chinese tofu and vegetable stew, subtly seasoned with ginger, scallions, and soy, served with warm flat rice noodles folded into a bamboo tray.
The blend of flavours was odd. A union between homes. Much like her marriage.
If not in words, let there be warmth. If not in smiles, let there be soup.
Let this be a meal he does not forget.
She set the dishes on a tray with care. Her hands trembled.
She walked through the western wing in silence. Outside, the night deepened. Moonlight stretched thin through the latticed corridors, and frost dusted the stone balustrades. The guards bowed as she passed, but she didn't speak.
His door was ajar.
She hesitated—just long enough to second-guess herself—then stepped in.
Liwei sat alone, hunched slightly over his maps. A single lantern lit the room, casting sharp angles across his cheekbones. He looked up with a start, then stilled.
"I didn't call for anyone," he said plainly.
"I know," she replied, voice steady. "But… I brought you dinner."
His eyes flicked to the tray.
"You cooked?"
"Yes."
"For me?"
"I didn't know who else to offer it to."
A pause.
Then, without a word, he laid his brush aside.
She laid the tray down before him.
He examined each dish, eyes unreadable. Then, slowly, he lifted the chopsticks.
He tasted the fish first—eyes narrowing just slightly at the spice. Then the pumpkin flower, which earned no reaction. He tasted the stew last and ate a second spoonful without comment.
She watched, silent.
Then finally, he took a bite of the kheeri. Sweetness lingered in the air. He paused, ever so slightly, then finished it in three measured spoons.
Still no smile.
Still no praise.
But when he set the bowl down, he said softly, "Thank you."
Just that. But it reached somewhere deep inside her.
"You're welcome," she said. And smiled.
She stood slowly, reaching for the tray.
"You shouldn't serve me," he said abruptly.
"I wasn't serving you," she answered, turning toward the door. "I was offering you something. There's a difference."
And she stepped into the corridor.
The air had turned brittle with cold.
She took a breath, feeling—for once—that perhaps he had truly seen her.
Then—
The corridor split with a whistle.
A sharp sting in her lower thigh. A tearing sensation. Her breath caught.
The tray dropped, shattering against the stone. Kheeri and broth spilled together.
She stumbled forward.
Pain spread quickly—like fire beneath the skin.
Then, another arrow hissed past her shoulder, embedding into the wooden beam ahead.
"Lianhua!"
His voice shattered the corridor.
In an instant, he was there, arms catching her before the floor could. His robe brushed against the spilled broth, his hands already pressing against the wound, warm and trembling. The world blurred, lantern-light spinning, but his grip anchored her.
"An arrow—poisoned—" she gasped.
"I know," he breathed, binding her thigh with a torn sleeve, his jaw tight, his eyes burning. "Stay awake. Stay with me."
The guards came rushing. Wei An commands cut through the chaos. Captain Yuchi's sword was already drawn. The lanterns flared as shadows danced along the walls.
Liwei didn't move from her side.
He tore the sleeve from his robe and bound the wound tightly, pressing it hard as her teeth clenched from pain.
"Stay awake," he said.
"I tried…" she whispered. "I tried to just… bring you something good."
His eyes flared.
"You did," he said. "You did."
They carried her to her room. She faded in and out. The physician came, and the air filled with smoke and boiling tinctures. Her skin burned. Her blood slowed. But one thing did not fade—
His voice.
"I'm here. I'm here."
He gripped her hand the entire time.
She woke, hours later, to find him still seated by her bed. Still watching. Eyes bloodshot. Hair loosened from its knot. His fingers clutched hers as if to anchor her to this world.
This man, who never spoke what he felt.
Who never asked her to stay.
Now could not let her go.
When she stirred, he stood abruptly, walking to the door—but before stepping out, he paused.
"You almost died," he said. "And I—"
He didn't finish.
Just shut the door behind him.
And in that silence, her heart broke open— because his silence was no longer empty.
It was full of all he didn't know how to say.