Morning came slow and golden, filtered through the green canopy above Shen Liang's home. The bamboo grove moved gently in the breeze, rustling like distant voices telling old stories. But Lianfang couldn't sleep.
Something in her chest felt too tight, like a knot she couldn't name.
Wenyan still lay sleeping beside the low fire, his breath finally steady, his brow cooler than it had been in days. She had watched over him for so long that she still measured peace by the rhythm of his breath.
She rose quietly and stepped outside into the crisp morning air.
The grove felt alive—each creak and sway of the bamboo somehow more alert than the day before. The chimes over the door let out a sudden low hum, as if stirred by something more than wind.
Shen Liang was already awake, seated on a smooth flat stone near the edge of the clearing. A brush in his hand, a long strip of mulberry paper unfurling before him.
"You rise like a ghost," he said without turning.
"I didn't mean to spy."
"You didn't." He dipped the brush. "You just don't yet know how to wait."
Lianfang hesitated, then sat a few paces away. "Waiting feels like drowning when you know someone is looking for you."
Shen Liang nodded. "You think flight keeps you alive, but it's the stillness that teaches you how."
She looked at him. "Then why did you help us?"
His brush stilled
.
"Because Wenyan is a man who walks into storms not to conquer them, but to carry others through. That kind of man is rare. Worth sheltering."
He returned to the scroll.
"You love him."
It wasn't a question.
Lianfang answered anyway. "I do."
Shen Liang dipped his brush again. "Then prepare yourself. Love is not shelter. It's fire."
Later that day, Wenyan awoke stronger. They shared rice porridge sweetened with mountain honey. It tasted like something from another lifetime.
"I dreamt you were reading to me," he said.
"I wasn't."
"You should've. Your voice would've made the storm sound beautiful."
Lianfang smiled faintly, but her eyes were distant. "They'll find us, won't they?"
"Yes," he answered. "Eventually."
"Then what are we doing here?"
"Resting. Gathering ourselves."
"Waiting to die?"
Wenyan reached out, took her hand. "Waiting to choose."
That night, Shen Liang called Wenyan outside.
They stood beneath the tall stalks, the moon silvering everything it touched.
"You taught me once that the pen is mightier than the sword," Wenyan said.
Shen Liang's eyes were sharp. "And yet you brought neither."
"I brought truth."
Shen Liang looked long at him. "Then let me give you something in return."
From beneath his robe, he produced a folded parchment—sealed in wax, marked with a symbol Wenyan hadn't seen in years.
"What is this?" Wenyan asked.
"A path."
Wenyan turned the scroll in his hands. "You kept your connections."
"I burned my title. Not my memory."
Shen Liang turned back toward the house. "This will get you as far as Changning. Beyond that, you're on your own."
Wenyan bowed. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me. Just don't waste it."
The next morning, they prepared to leave.
Lianfang packed their meager supplies, her hands working quickly, mind already racing ahead. Wenyan watched her, and for the first time in days, he felt the fire return to his limbs.
Before they left, Shen Liang offered a final warning.
"The man hunting her—her brother—he's not just angry. He's ashamed. That kind of man doesn't chase justice. He chases erasure."
Wenyan bowed again. "We'll stay ahead."
"I hope so. But even the cleverest fox must sleep sometime."
As they stepped back into the world, the wind picked up again.
This time, the chimes behind them did not sing.
They were silent.