"Send it to the East," Linyue replied calmly. "Master Yin Xue would love to study it. Something from the emperor can't be just a regular poison."
Shu Mingye's smile lingered, but his eye twitched. So she did know it was poison. Of course she knew. Unpredictable as she was, Linyue was never foolish. Just… alarmingly casual about things that could kill people. At this point, he wasn't even surprised anymore. Merely mildly worried about the state of his own mind. Between poisoned tea that wasn't poison, conversations about murder lists, and her ability to treat life-and-death matters like ordering soup, his brain deserved a long vacation. Preferably somewhere with no caves, no conspiracies, and no Princess who handed him medicine like it was a death sentence.
"So," he asked, forcing his tone into something light, "did you really come to Shulin just for herbs?"
Linyue answered without hesitation. "I've done everything I needed to do. After getting the herbs, I'll go back to Luyan with the others."
His fingers tightened on the reins. "You do remember that you're still technically a Princess, right? You think you can leave just like that?" His voice was low, slow, and dangerous. Most people would freeze. Some would drop to their knees. A few might even faint on the spot.
Linyue, of course, did neither. She turned her head slightly, her voice light. "Just do what you did to your previous brides."
Shu Mingye almost choked on thin air. The horse twitched under him at his sudden jolt.
What was he even supposed to say to that?
His previous brides. Four had committed suicide and two turned out to be assassins. He wasn't directly responsible for their deaths, but he also hadn't exactly stopped any of it either. They were all sent by the emperor. And now Linyue—this chilly, sarcastic, completely unpredictable woman—had waltzed into his life pretending to be bride number seven. And somehow, she was still alive. Still sharp-tongued. Still terrifyingly calm. Still impossible to read. Still casually saying things like "just do what you did to your previous brides" as if he hadn't built a quiet reputation for having the worst bridal track record in the entire realm.
He had known from the beginning that she would leave. That was her plan. He was supposed to let her slip out of his grasp when the time came. No fuss. No resistance. Just like every other arrangement made in this wretched political game.
What he didn't plan for… was how annoying the idea would be. What he really didn't plan for was that he would care. Not just a little. More than he should. Much more than he dared to admit.
He stared ahead, lips pressed tight, the rushing wind loud in his ears. Without even thinking about it, his hand tightened slightly around her waist. Not hard. Just enough. A quiet, wordless declaration: You're not leaving yet.
Then suddenly, he smiled.
The herb list was tragically long, right? Dozens of rare ingredients, scattered across dangerous mountains, misty forests, swamps that smelled like death, and possibly underwater caverns full of creatures that liked eating people. What a shame. Truly unfortunate. Surely no one could expect such a list to be completed quickly.
How very, very inconvenient. He should probably assign his men to search for them with great care. The kind of care that required… detours. Many detours. Maybe a few dramatic pauses. Perhaps even a scenic holiday in the middle. Tragically inefficient.
What a pity. Guess she would not be leaving anytime soon.
He didn't want to admit it, but he liked having her around. Her sharp tongue. Her cold logic that somehow caused more chaos than it solved. Her too-honest group of followers who met deadly mysteries and haunted caves with sarcastic reviews. Even her ice-cold hands, which logically should have been unpleasant, but somehow weren't.
They brought color to his bloodstained world. And even if he knew it was foolish—even if he knew she belonged somewhere far away from his life of blades and shadows—he wanted to keep her here. Just for a little longer.
Linyue, meanwhile, glanced sideways at him. Shu Mingye had been smiling to himself like a lunatic for the past few minutes. Not his usual smirk. Not a sharp, dangerous grin. A full, bright, suspiciously pleased smile.
She squinted. What in the world was going on inside that ridiculous head of his?
First, he offered to help find herbs. Helpful. Then he sent Zimo to the east with a serious face. Efficient. And then he showed up at that creepy cave like some dramatic hero with timing too perfect to be a coincidence. Very suspicious.
What was he planning?
She sighed quietly. Forget it. This was Shulin. She couldn't control him even if she wanted to. If Shu Mingye wished to act like a helpful, mysterious lunatic, then it was his own problem.
Her eyes dropped to his hand still wrapped firmly around her waist. It was... warm. Steady. Annoyingly comforting. Absolutely unnecessary. Completely suspicious. It was hard enough pretending she didn't notice it, let alone stopping herself from leaning back just a little. For warmth. Strictly warmth. Survival purposes only. Not because she liked it.
This was bad.
Why was the palace so far away? Had the road always been this long? Were they taking the scenic route? Had the horses slowed down on purpose? Were the trees conspiring with him to prolong this ride?
She only wanted a bath. A blanket. And maybe… maybe that warm hand that refused to let go.
No. Absolutely not. Dangerous nonsense. What was she even thinking? She shook her head quickly, as if the wind might carry the thoughts away before they lodged too deeply.
Shu Mingye felt her shift in his arms. Then she shook her head, quick and sharp, as if silently saying no to something.
His brow arched. Oh? What was this? Had she just decided something about him? Probably something fatal. That was usually how her brain worked. Her expression didn't move, her eyes stared forward, but the tiny head shake spoke volumes.
He narrowed his eyes, suspicion prickling. Was she silently writing his obituary? Planning the exact size of the grave?
His grip around her waist tightened just a little. Not rough. Just a warning. If she really was plotting his death again, he would at least like some advance notice.
"What are you thinking?" he asked, his voice low and careful.
Linyue startled. "Warm bath," she blurted out. Definitely not about the oddly comforting warmth pressed against her back. Absolutely not.
"Cold?" he asked.
She gave a tiny nod, eyes fixed stubbornly ahead.
Then, to her surprise, his arm around her waist loosened. She thought he was letting go, but no—his hand slid down, caught her left hand, and threaded his fingers neatly between hers. Before she could react, he pulled her closer. His other hand, the one holding the reins, shifted just enough to cover her free hand with his palm. Now both her hands were warm. Her back was warm. Her face was… too warm.
Slowly, she turned her head, stealing a sideways look. He was expressionless. Completely blank. As if he hadn't just wrapped her up like a living blanket and stolen every ounce of cold she had.
"Warm?" Shu Mingye asked casually, still staring at the road ahead. Not a twitch of a smile. Not a flicker of shame.
Linyue gave a small nod, face calm. Not a single twitch, not a blink out of place. She looked completely unaffected, an image of icy serenity.
On the inside?
Chaos.
What was he trying to pull? Was this another strange Shulin-style interrogation? Or worse, part of some elaborate revenge scheme? People always said revenge was a dish best served cold. Maybe the Demon King just didn't like cold dishes. Maybe he was warming her up so she'd be easier to cook later. That would explain a lot.
Meanwhile, Shu Mingye allowed a smile to creep onto his lips. He wasn't entirely sure why he did it. Maybe it was just one of his experiments, to see how close he could get before she decided to freeze him solid. The moment he realized she wasn't writing his funeral notice in her head, his body simply acted on its own. And she didn't push him away. No death glare. No dry sarcasm. No sudden elbow to the ribs. Miraculous. And oddly enough, he didn't mind her icy temperature. Most people would flinch from it, or politely avoid it. But he found it strangely... refreshing.
His arm stayed steady around her, his grip easy but firm. Then, very casually, he tugged the reins and let the horse slow down. Just a little. Just enough to stretch out the ride.
So tragic. The road was uneven. The trail narrow. The forest probably cursed. Maybe haunted too. Clearly, no choice but to ride slower. What a shame.
From behind, Song Meiyu was nearly sliding sideways off her horse just to get a better look at the two people riding ahead. She gasped so loudly that a bird in a nearby tree flapped away in panic. "What's happening? Are they hugging now?"
He Yuying squinted, unimpressed. "Are you sure he's not choking her?"
Song Meiyu whipped her head around to glare at him. "From what angle does that look like choking, huh?"
He Yuying pointed helpfully. "That arm around her waist. He looks like he's trying to squeeze her into dumpling filling. Or maybe crush her spine. Very assassin-coded."
"That's called hugging, you uncultured cabbage!" Song Meiyu smacked him on the shoulder.
He Yuying shrugged. "If I ever hug someone like that, you have my permission to throw me back to that blood canal."
While the two of them bickered like pigeons on a rooftop, Shen Zhenyu—who was riding alone behind them—narrowed his eyes at the scene ahead.
Shu Mingye. The infamous, icy "Demon King of the South." A man who cut down enemies like weeds in his garden, and sometimes looked like he'd rather burn the whole garden down than water it. That man was now practically plastered to Linyue's back like a heat patch in winter.
And Linyue. The same Linyue who once flinched when Song Meiyu tried to braid her hair. The same Linyue who dodged hugs as if they were poisoned arrows. She hadn't moved even a pinky to escape. No burning. No stabbing. No poking. No death glares. Nothing. Even he—Shen Zhenyu, her Senior brother, her unofficial babysitter—had taken over a year just to hold her hand without losing his fingers to frostbite or death glares.
He stared. He squinted. He frowned so hard his eyebrows nearly met. After a long, painful moment, Shen Zhenyu arrived at one very grim conclusion.
Something unholy was happening.
Feelings.
Possibly affection.
He was going to need stronger tea.