Pov author
The air in Shou Feng's chamber was still, heavy with the final breaths of night, a silent witness to the vision unfolding before the polished bronze mirror. Anna stood there—motionless but for the slow, deliberate movement of her hand. She was a living contrast of fire and purity. The traditional white shiromuku kimono symbolized innocence, but over it lay the breathtaking uchikake in the deepest, most violent red Shou Feng had ever seen. It was the red of heart's blood and setting suns, embroidered with golden cranes rising in flight, wings reaching toward eternal union. The heavy silk pooled at her feet like a crimson lake in the dim room.
Her entire attention rested on the small lacquered pot of beni in her hand. With the focused tip of her index finger, she gathered a daub of pigment. Her eyes—forest green softened by hints of brown—watched her reflection with an intensity equal parts self-critical and entranced. With the care of a calligrapher, she painted her lips into a sultry, dramatic bow that stood in stark contrast to the porcelain clarity of her skin. That mouth was a declaration. A promise.
And her hair—this was what stole the breath from Shou Feng's chest. Freed from its usual tie, it cascaded over her shoulders in a river of obsidian silk. Not neatly arranged, but artfully disheveled, as though freshly tousled by a lover's hands. Strands framed her face, softening her jawline and drawing attention to the graceful column of her neck. She was no longer merely the woman he knew; she was a bride, a goddess… a phantom shaped from the very depths of his desire.
A soft, contented sigh drifted from her painted lips. In that suspended moment, the dream deepened.
A familiar footstep sounded behind her—solid, real, expected.
She didn't startle. A slow, knowing smile curved the corners of her crimson mouth just as his reflection appeared in the mirror behind hers. Shou Feng stood there, as he did in life, but without the armor of stern composure he wore by day. His sharp-featured face was softened by raw, undisguised hunger—for her, and only her.
His hands—strong hands that could wield a katana or ink a poem with equal mastery—found her. One settled at her waist, fingers splayed wide and possessive through layers of silk. The other rose to her shoulder as he stepped close, molding his body to hers and banishing the last breath of cold air between them. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, nuzzling the sensitive skin before inhaling deeply. Her scent—night-blooming jasmine mixed with something purely Anna—filled him. A low, primal rumble escaped his chest, vibrating against her very bones.
For a breathless moment, they were a statue carved from anticipation.
Then, with fluid strength, he turned her to face him. Her hands flew up instinctively to brace against the solid wall of his chest. Beneath her palms, his heartbeat thundered—wild and unrestrained.
He leaned in, his smoldering eyes locking onto hers. His nose brushed hers in feather-light Eskimo kisses, teasing, drawing out the tension until it thrummed tight between their nearly touching mouths. She laughed softly—until he dipped lower, bypassing her lips entirely to claim the frantic pulse at her neck with a hot, open-mouthed kiss.
Her head tipped back on instinct, a soft moan spilling free. She surrendered to him, her body arching in offering.
Wordlessly guiding her, he began to lead her backward, away from the mirror toward the waiting futon. His lips finally claimed hers—and the kiss was consuming, a wildfire. The wet, soft sounds of their mouths filled the room, a private symphony of hunger. Silk rustled with every movement, whispering as layers shifted, desperate for the heat of skin.
He laid her down on her stomach, the red uchikake blooming beneath her like a living flame. His hands wandered her back with slow, deliberate reverence. He found the collar of her inner kimono and tugged it down. The silk sighed as it slipped away, revealing pale skin inch by agonizing inch—from the nape of her neck to the tempting curve of her hips. His lips followed, tracing a trail of worship along her spine. Each kiss was a vow. She arched under him, her moans a soft, continuous melody meant only for his ears.
"Anna…" he breathed, voice thick with need. Her name was a prayer on his lips—
THUD!
The world shattered.
Shou Feng's eyes snapped open, heart pounding like a war drum. The phantom scent of jasmine vanished, replaced by tatami, cedarwood, and drying ink. The sensual weight of Anna was gone—replaced by something heavy, lumpy, and profoundly unromantic sprawled across his chest.
He blinked. The faint pre-dawn light revealed the culprit:
Mong.
His younger stepbrother lay sprawled like a stranded starfish, one arm draped across Shou Feng's torso, head mashed against his shoulder. A thin line of drool soaked into Shou Feng's yukata. Mong snored—a soft, gurgling sound that was the exact opposite of the passionate symphony in Shou Feng's dream.
Irritation hit like a tidal wave.
"Mong," he growled, voice rough with sleep and rage.
Mong snored louder, burrowing closer.
"MONG." This time, he shoved.
Mong only smacked his lips and mumbled, "Five more minutes, Mother… the philosophical badger… he questions the daikon…"
Shou Feng's eye twitched hard enough to injure.
Fueled by pure annoyance, he grabbed Mong by the shoulders and rolled him off the futon. Mong hit the tatami with a satisfying thump.
"Wha—? Is it an earthquake? A flood? A swarm of aesthetically displeased bees?" Mong scrambled up, robes hanging off his thin frame like sacks, hair resembling a mildly electrocuted hedgehog.
"Worse," Shou Feng said flatly. "You. Debating vegetables in my ear."
Mong blinked, then grinned. "Ah! Apologies, Brother. But listen—you were muttering in your sleep. Something about the crane flying at midnight? Planning to become a haiku master? Shall I prepare your ink set?"
Shou Feng glared hard enough to freeze magma.
"What are you doing in my room, Mong? And why at a time even the crickets refuse to acknowledge?"
Mong's grin turned triumphant. "I got it!" he announced. "I stayed up all night—strategizing! I have procured the map of the Hoshi no Tera—the Temple of Stars! And the plan… oh, it is brilliant. They'll write Kabuki plays about us!"
Shou Feng sighed. The dream dissolved completely now, leaving only frustration and cold reality. "Fine. I'll be there. Get out so I may make myself presentable."
Mong bowed so deeply he nearly fell over before scampering out.
Shou Feng stood alone. Anna in her red kimono flashed before his mind again—her lips parted in a moan. He exhaled sharply and strode into the bathing room. Filling a wooden basin with icy water, he dumped it over his head.
The shock was brutal, perfect.
Again.
And again, until the dream's heat was gone and only purpose remained.
After drying off, he dressed with precision. A deep navy kosode and hakama, embroidered subtly with waves—a noble samurai's attire. His hair was bound into a severe topknot, sealing away the man who had lived in that dream.
When he entered the study, Mong stood over a detailed map. And by the window—
Anna.
Dressed simply in pale grey, hair tied neatly back, she still radiated a quiet brightness the dawn envied. When she turned and their eyes met, a flicker—recognition, unspoken and sharp—passed between them before her serenity returned like a shield.
Mong clapped his hands. "Excellent timing! Now behold—the Temple of Stars!"
He pointed at the mountain on the map. "The main stairs are guarded day and night. A frontal assault would be… well, an embarrassing story."
"Your commitment to tactical disaster is impressive," Shou Feng muttered.
"But! We do not go through the front. We go under." Mong tapped a cave marked near the base. "The Cave of the Whispering Stream. It leads to natural tunnels—one opening directly into the inner library."
Anna stepped forward. "Is the cave stable? And unguarded?"
"According to a one-eyed monk fond of pickled plums—yes!"
Shou Feng studied the route. Reckless, unpredictable… and possibly their best option.
"And the Book?" he asked.
Anna pointed to the center of the drawn chamber. "It rests on a pedestal under a crystal dome, warded by ancient magic. Touching the dome without the key triggers an alarm and seals the doors permanently."
"The key?"
"The full moon's light," she answered, meeting his gaze. Heat flickered between them. "The crystal becomes intangible only when bathed in direct moonlight. The next full moon is in three nights."
They discussed diversions, timing, signals, escape routes. But Shou Feng's gaze kept drifting to her—her lips, her voice, her fingers tracing the map. The real Anna and the dream phantom tangled dangerously in his mind.
Mong noticed.
His grin widened. "Brother," he said sweetly, "are you studying the map… or admiring the room's topography?"
Shou Feng shot him a lethal look—
—but the door slid open.
A maid bowed deeply. "Forgive the intrusion. His Majesty, the King, requests your immediate presence. He says it is a matter of utmost urgency."
The moment shattered.
The dream.
The plan.
The tension between Shou Feng and Anna.
All swept aside by royal command.
Shou Feng straightened his sleeves, expression becoming unreadable once more. The game had changed—on the whims .
End of the chapter