The fire had ended, but its heat lingered in her veins.
Zhen Yu carried Mei Lian out of the cave, his cloak wrapped around her trembling body. The night air was sharp with frost; snow blanketed the ground in a pale shimmer. Each breath he took burned like smoke in his lungs.
He set her down against a rock, the cold wind biting at them both. Steam rose faintly from her skin — her body burned like flame, veins pulsing red beneath pale flesh.
"Mei Lian," he called softly. No answer.
Her lashes trembled, her breath uneven. Zhen Yu brushed a hand against her forehead — it was scorching.
He pulled the water flask from his belt and poured some over her wrists. The water hissed into steam. He kept pouring, desperate to cool her, but it wasn't enough.
"Liang Hu," he said sharply. "Bring snow. As much as you can."
Liang Hu returned moments later with armfuls of snow. Zhen Yu covered Mei Lian's body with it, layer by layer, until the frost melted slowly against her skin. Her breathing began to ease, the glow beneath her veins dimming little by little.
Beside them, Liang Hu stood in the silent dark. "She'll live?" he asked quietly.
Zhen Yu nodded, though uncertainty shadowed his eyes. "She's stronger than she looks."
The snow still melted where it touched her skin, steam curling up in soft spirals.
At last, Mei Lian stirred. Her eyes opened weakly, crimson light flickering faint beneath her lashes. Her lips parted, but no sound came — only a faint exhale, dry as ash.
Zhen Yu leaned close. "Don't speak. Rest."
He took her hand gently, his own still cold from the snow.
Too weak to move, she leaned against him, her fingers curling faintly into his cloak.
Liang Hu looked away, pretending not to see. "I'll gather firewood," he muttered, and vanished into the trees.
Zhen Yu stayed beside her. He wrapped his cloak around them both, shielding her from the wind. The moonlight caught on his sword — its silver edge reflecting her face: pale, beautiful, fragile against the snow.
When the fire burned again, Mei Lian's breathing was calm. Her head rested lightly against his shoulder. For once, she looked at peace.
He whispered, more to himself than to her,
"If this silence is the price of your strength… then I'll be your voice."
The wind carried his words into the night.
The sword lay beside them, and the witch slept.
And for the first time since their hunt began, the silence did not feel empty.