She had been heading there with a purpose.
The distinct, unyielding way Lin Yuxi moved through a space—shoulders drawn back, pulling the fabric of her silk robes taut across the subtle swell of her breasts, her chin leveled. Her injured hip voiced its sharp complaints with every step, and she firmly ignored it, driven by a singular resolve.
She wanted to see him.
Not wanted in a way that required deep, blushing examination. She needed to look upon the cultivator who had dragged her off a frozen mountain slope. It was the pragmatic need of a woman who had woken up in strange sheets, her bare skin overly sensitive against the unfamiliar linens, needing to put a face to the debt before it became a weight she carried blindly.
That was the reason.
She navigated the western wing corridor with that exact justification shielding her mind.
The first thing she noticed was the maids.
