By morning, they left Fengqi behind.
The scent of burned incense still clung faintly to their clothes — a memory of warmth already fading into the dawn mist.
Only the cold road stretched ahead, winding north beneath a pale, sunless sky.
There was an awkward silence between Mei Lian and Zhen Yu.
She rode slightly ahead, her violet robe fluttering faintly in the wind.
He followed, gaze lingering on her back — the unspoken words between them weighing heavier than armor.
Liang Hu said nothing. Even he felt it — the invisible rift that now split their small world in two.
By midday, they halted near a stream for lunch.
Zhen Yu sliced a small fruit and offered it to her.
She looked at it once, then shook her head.
Instead, she gestured toward Liang Hu.
"I'll share with him," she signed.
Zhen Yu said nothing, though his fingers tightened on the knife.
She took a bite of dried rice cake, too quickly — the crumbs caught in her throat. She coughed softly, covering her mouth.
Zhen Yu immediately reached for the water flask.
She didn't take it.
Liang Hu, wordlessly, handed his instead — and she accepted.
The silence deepened.
Later, when the wind picked up, Mei Lian reached for her ribbon.
Her hair had come loose in the ride — black silk tangled by the cold breeze.
She tried to braid it herself, fumbling with the strands. The ribbon slipped from her fingers.
Zhen Yu noticed.
He opened his mouth. "Let me—"
But before he could finish, she flipped her hair sharply back.
The strands brushed across his face, carrying the faint scent of osmanthus.
She turned away, leaving her hair loose, eyes fixed on the horizon.
Liang Hu looked between them — once, then again — and sighed.
That evening, as they camped beside the old pine road, he sat beside Zhen Yu by the fire.
"She won't forgive me," Zhen Yu murmured, eyes on the flames.
Liang Hu poked at the embers with a stick. "You didn't trust her when she needed it," he said quietly.
"That kind of wound doesn't heal with apologies — only time, if you're lucky."
Zhen Yu was silent for a long while. Then, quietly: "I made a mistake. I saw her power, but not her pain."
Liang Hu's gaze softened.
Later, when Zhen Yu went off to gather wood, Liang Hu sat beside Mei Lian.
"You're not the only one haunted by mistrust," he said softly. "He cannot trust easily because everyone has betrayed him."
She glanced at him, silent.
"He was the one worthy of the throne," Liang Hu continued, his tone low and steady, "but his brother — the king — took it from him. Since then, he's been sent to wars, to exile, to death's edge more times than you can count. And every time, he returned alive — but less human."
Mei Lian looked toward Zhen Yu — quiet, still, eyes dim in the firelight.
After a while, she stood, walked toward him, and knelt before the fire.
She held out the violet ribbon.
Her hands signed gently, without looking at him: You forgot this.
But in the small motion of her fingers, there was something that felt like forgiveness.
Then she turned her back to him and sat, wordlessly inviting him to finish what he'd started.
For a moment, Zhen Yu simply stared — unsure, unworthy.
Then, with quiet care, he took the ribbon from her hand and gathered her hair.
His fingers moved slowly this time, reverent. The braid was neat, the violet silk tied perfectly at the end.
When he finished, she didn't speak — but she didn't move away either.
The silence between them no longer felt like a wall.
It felt like the fragile beginning of forgiveness.
The fire burned low between them, fragile but alive.
Above, the stars watched in silence — distant, cold, yet constant.
And though no words were spoken, something broken began, quietly, to mend.