Days passed in a haze of quiet recovery.The mountain winds softened, carrying the scent of thawing frost through the open halls of Jingshou Sect.
Ling Xiuyuan had been forbidden from practice for few days. So had Shen Lianxiu. Zhou Qingrong recovered fast since she had less wounds.
Sect leader's orders had been sharp and absolute — "Neither of you will touch a sword until I say so."
Ling Xiuyuan's room remained half-lit throughout the day. Pale curtains stirred at the windows; a bowl of cooling tea rested untouched by his side.
He had been ordered to rest — strictly, by both Han Yuejian and Zhou Qingrong — but rest did not come easily to someone who had lived his life in discipline. His right arm was swathed in thick layers of bandages; his fingers trembled if he tried to lift anything heavier than a brush.
And yet, every evening, he would reach for his sword.
The effort lasted only moments before the pain pulled through his arm like fire. Still, he persisted — quiet, steady, never crying out. The sword would slip from his grasp, landing softly against the floor, and he would sit there, unmoving, his expression unreadable in the moonlight.
Lianxiu had seen it.Every night, from his place by the doorway or beside the brazier, he had watched — and with each attempt, something inside him twisted.
He blamed himself — silently, stubbornly.If he had been faster, if he had protected Xiuyuan more carefully, if he had stood between him and the wheel—
The thoughts looped endlessly, each sharper than the last.
The others came and went — Roulan with bowls of soup, Nie Xiaohuan with medicines and half-hidden worry, Wei Jingyan with brief visits that ended in sighs. They all spoke softly to Xiuyuan, offered their comfort, bowed, and left.
Lianxiu stayed.
Master Pei and Yue had told him he was forbidden to train for a week. He needed to take care of his health.
And so, Lianxiu stayed in Xiuyuan's quarters, quietly taking care of him — changing bandages when the healers came, fetching tea, lighting lamps, and, when evening fell, feeding Xiuyuan by hand.
At first, Xiuyuan had refused. "You don't have to," he'd said, soft and embarrassed. But Lianxiu only smiled, lifted another spoonful of soup, and replied, "I know."
The routine settled into them like a quiet rhythm.
By day, Xiuyuan's friends would visit — Zhou Qingrong bringing reports, Nie Xiaohuan fussing over Lianxiu's bandaged wrist, Roulan teasing him until he smiled again. They filled the air with laughter that barely covered the worry beneath.
By night, the room belonged to stillness.
Lianxiu would sit by the window, mending Xiuyuan's outer robe or polishing his sword sheath, pretending not to see when Xiuyuan tried — once again — to lift his sword. The light from the lantern painted Xiuyuan's face in soft gold, catching on the thin sheen of sweat at his temple, the faint tremor in his jaw when the pain returned.
He never complained. He never let a sound slip.But Lianxiu could hear the silence behind his silence.
The moon was high, silver spilling across the floor like water. Xiuyuan sat at the edge of his bed, his sword across his lap, his injured hand trembling slightly as he tried to lift it again.
The blade quivered — then slipped.
Lianxiu's heart lurched. He was at his side before the sword even hit the floor. His fingers caught Xiuyuan's hand, warm and trembling, supporting it before it could fall again.
"Shixiong," he whispered, his voice barely a breath, "let me help."
Xiuyuan startled — the sound of his name breaking the silence like a bell.Their hands touched — Lianxiu's steady and calloused, Xiuyuan's thin and shaking under the bandages.
"Lianxiu…" Xiuyuan's voice was low, uncertain. He looked up, color rising to his cheeks as he realized how close they stood — Lianxiu's chest almost brushing his shoulder, breath warm against his ear.
Lianxiu stood behind him, both hands wrapping gently around Xiuyuan's — one steadying the hilt, the other guiding his movements. The blade rose, trembling faintly, then steadied in the air.
"Good," Lianxiu murmured. "Like this. Breathe with it."
Their breathing slowly aligned — Xiuyuan's shallow, Lianxiu's steady — until they moved as one. The sword caught the moonlight, tracing a faint arc through the air. It was only a small motion, barely a swing, but it was the first time in days that Xiuyuan's hand hadn't failed him.
A faint laugh — half disbelief, half relief — escaped his lips."I can… hold it," he whispered.
Lianxiu's chest warmed with quiet pride. "Of course you can," he said softly.
He didn't move away, not yet. The heat of their closeness filled the small room, and Xiuyuan could feel every heartbeat behind him — steady, unguarded, young. He wanted to speak, to thank him, but the words tangled somewhere between gratitude and something deeper.
Outside, wind stirred the plum branches. Petals brushed against the windowpane, falling soundlessly.
Lianxiu lowered his hands at last. The sword rested steady on Xiuyuan's lap.
"You should sleep now," Xiuyuan said, voice softer than the lamp's flame.
Lianxiu hesitated, then smiled faintly — a small, luminous thing. "Only if you do, Shixiong."
For a long moment, neither moved. The moonlight silvered both their faces — one calm, one full of quiet devotion.
Then, as Xiuyuan looked down at the sword still cradled between their hands, he thought, almost without meaning to—Perhaps this is what it means to be protected, too.
And for the first time since the mountain fall, the night felt gentle again.
The wind outside had softened. In the courtyard below, the last of the snow was melting, dripping from the eaves in slow, steady threads. Inside, Ling Xiuyuan sat propped against his pillow, his injured arm bound neatly in white cloth. The room smelled faintly of medicine and sandalwood.
It had been a long few days of quiet. Too much quiet, in Zhou Qingrong's opinion.
She pushed open the door without ceremony. "If I wait any longer, you'll turn into one of those patient ghosts from the old scrolls," she announced.
Behind her trailed Wei Jingyan with a basket of sweets, Han Yuejian with a scroll tucked under his arm.
Xiuyuan sighed but there was a faint smile tugging at his mouth. "You've all forgotten what 'resting' means, haven't you?"
"Resting doesn't mean sulking," Qingrong said, setting the basket on the table.
Jingyan nearly choked on his laugh. "Shijie!"
"Don't 'Shijie' me," she said.
Han Yuejian settled beside the window, shaking his head. "You're scaring the poor boy more than the ghost did."
"I'm not a boy," Xiuyuan muttered.
Laughter rippled through the room.
From near the desk, Lianxiu stood quietly, folding the papers that had been left on the table. His sleeves brushed lightly over the surface, movements precise and careful. When he poured tea for the visitors, he glanced briefly toward Xiuyuan—just long enough for Qingrong to notice the warmth in his eyes before he looked away again.
Wei Jingyan said cheerfully. "So you've tamed that troublesome sword, haven't you? Brave of you."
Lianxiu flushed faintly and shook his head. "It just… listened."
Han Yuejian, ever the mediator, poured the first cup himself and handed it to Xiuyuan.
Xiuyuan accepted the cup.
The laughter that followed was easy, unguarded. Lantern light warmed the pale walls, and for the first time since the accident, the room felt alive again. Lianxiu stood by the desk, watching them—his lover surrounded by warmth and friendship, his smile soft and unguarded.
When Qingrong caught his gaze, she arched a brow but said nothing. Instead, she leaned back and clinked her cup against Wei Jingyan's, whispering, "He looks at Xiuyuan like he's afraid the light will vanish if he blinks."
"Maybe it would," Jingyan whispered back.
Lianxiu glanced toward them, cheeks pink. Qingrong only smiled wider.
Outside, the wind stirred the chimes. The night deepened gently, full of warmth, of lingering joy, and of things none of them dared name aloud.