The journey to Shen Liang's refuge took them two days and a night.
They traveled in silence for the most part, conserving energy and listening for footsteps in the trees. It wasn't just fear that made them quiet; it was something else—something heavier. Questions neither dared to ask out loud.
On the second morning, the bamboo grove appeared like a hidden world behind the hills.
The grove was vast and ancient, with tall green stalks swaying in the breeze, their leaves whispering secrets overhead. A narrow path wound through it, worn down by footsteps long past.
Wenyan paused at the edge.
"He used to say bamboo was the only thing that truly listened," he murmured.
Lianfang turned to him. "Are you sure he's still here?"
"No," Wenyan admitted. "But I have to believe he is."
They followed the path deeper into the grove, where sunlight filtered through the leaves in golden ribbons. The air was cooler here, fragrant with moss and the faint scent of ink and old parchment.
Finally, they reached a clearing.
A small thatched house stood nestled among the stalks, its walls draped with ivy. The wind chimes hanging from the eaves were made from hollowed gourds and bells of tarnished bronze. They gave off a strange, melodic echo.
Lianfang hesitated. "What if he doesn't recognize you?"
Wenyan stepped forward. "Then I'll remind him.
The door slid open before he could knock.
A man stood in the doorway—lean, gray-haired, with sharp eyes and the bearing of someone who once gave orders to armies. His robes were plain, but immaculately kept. He looked at Wenyan for a long moment, and something flickered in his expression—surprise, then suspicion, and finally, recognition.
"Wenyan," the man said slowly. "You still walk the earth."
Wenyan bowed deeply. "Shen Liang."
The older man sighed. "Come in, before the wind changes."
The interior was sparse but warm. Scrolls lined one wall, carefully tied and labeled. In the corner sat an inkstone, still damp. A pot of tea steamed on the brazier, and the air smelled faintly of camphor and sandalwood.
Shen Liang gestured to the cushions. "Sit. Tell me why you've risked everything to find me."
Wenyan did not sit. "We're being hunted."
Shen Liang's gaze drifted to Lianfang, who remained close to the door. "The girl from the Xiang household?"
Lianfang flinched. "You know who I am?"
"I know your father. I also know the men who are tracking you." He turned back to Wenyan. "You've tangled yourself in something deep."
"I need sanctuary. Just a few days."
"And then what?"
"We'll disappear again."
Shen Liang poured the tea. "Disappearing is not so easy when your name is in the mouths of generals."
Over tea, silence settled like dust.
Shen Liang finally broke it. "Do you remember what I told you the day I burned my seal and walked away?"
Wenyan nodded. "You said a man can lose everything and still find peace, but he cannot lose his name and remain a man."
Shen Liang studied him. "Then why did you throw yours away?"
Wenyan met his eyes. "Because I found something worth losing it for."
The old man looked at Lianfang again—this time with something almost like respect.
That night, they stayed in a side room lit only by a single oil lamp. Lianfang wrapped herself in a worn blanket, watching Wenyan as he carefully dried his damp poem book by the hearth.
"He knew about my family," she said softly.
"He knew about mine, too," Wenyan replied. "The past reaches further than we think."
She leaned back, staring at the wooden beams overhead. "Do you think he'll help us?"
"I think he already has. He let us in."
But even as they found brief peace, something unspoken passed between Shen Liang and the wind chimes at the door.
Outside the grove, riders moved under cover of night.