The Cold Palace was quiet that morning
too quiet for 林树敏 (Lín Shùmǐn)'s liking.
She sat at her writing table, chin on her palm, staring at the blank parchment before her.
' Think, Shumin. You've tried dinner. You've tried koi fish. You've tried… moon rocks.'
She sighed dramatically and dropped her brush.
"Cupid work is so underpaid."
舒嫣 (Shū Yān), who was sweeping the corner, didn't even look up.
"My lady, you're not paid at all."
"Exactly my point," Shumin muttered.
She leaned back, thinking hard.
She was under house arrest, her last "heroic" adventure nearly got her executed, and the half-moon stone...her supposed divine tool of love...was lost.
"Dinner? Disaster
Fish? Flop
Stone? Gone," she muttered, ticking the failures off on her fingers.
"Next I'll probably burn the palace trying to light romance."
Shu Yan groaned. "Please don't."
Shumin ignored her and reached for another sheet of paper.
She scribbled furiously.
Operation Cupid Phase Three:
1. Rekindle royal affection.
2. Avoid imprisonment.
3. No more accidental fires.
She tapped the brush to her lips.
"What do lovers even like?"
Her eyes brightened suddenly.
"Wait. The book!"
Shumin's eyes widened.
"Yes! That's it! The woolen scarf!"
Shu Yan froze. "The what?"
"The royal romance scarf of destiny!" Shumin declared proudly, slamming the brush down like a general planning war.
"My lady…" Shu Yan looked genuinely alarmed. "You can't even sew."
"This is different. This is art. This is fate!"
"His Majesty will have you executed for touching royal wool."
Shumin waved her hand dismissively.
"Not if I give it to the Queen first. She'll gift it to him.
It'll be symbolic! Warmth equals love!"
Shu Yan's soul visibly left her body.
"Warmth equals… arrest."
---
An Hour Later
Shu Yan trudged in carrying a basket of wool and knitting needles.
"I don't know what karmic sin I'm repaying," she muttered.
Shumin beamed. "My savior! You're the best!"
"My execution partner, more like."
They sat cross-legged by the low table.
"Okay," Shumin said, holding the needle like a sword.
"Step one: manifest destiny."
"Step one," Shu Yan corrected dryly, "don't stab yourself."
Shumin poked the yarn once. It didn't move. She poked again. Still nothing.
She frowned.
"How does this work?"
Shu Yan sighed.
"You loop the thread...
no..!
not that way! You're strangling it!"
"It's resisting love!"
"It's resisting you!"
Shumin sat with her hair tied messily back, biting her lower lip as she tried another stitch.
"This time… loop, turn, poke....ow...ouch!"
She winced, pricking her finger again. A small drop of blood stained the yarn.
Shu Yan sighed.
"My lady, you'll finish yourself before the scarf."
"It's fine," Shumin said, sucking her fingertip. "Great art demands sacrifice."
"Stop saying that every time you hurt yourself," Shu Yan muttered.
For the next hour, chaos reigned.
Threads tangled, knots formed, and at one point, Shumin managed to tie her own sleeve to the yarn ball.
Shu Yan rubbed her temples.
"If Heaven sent you here, it's because Hell was full."
Art requires sacrifice!"
Shumin announced proudly, showing her creation...something that vaguely resembled a scarf if scarves were shaped like confused caterpillars.
"It's hideous," Shu Yan said flatly.
"It's heartfelt!"
"It looks like it's begging for mercy."
"Which makes it relatable!"
That Evening
Shumin sat by the candlelight, staring at the uneven wool.
Despite the mess, her eyes softened.
She held the half-finished scarf gently, the soft threads warm against her fingers.
"I'll make sure you two fall in love," she whispered.
"Even if I have to knit the whole dynasty myself."
Shu Yan said quietly "Please… don't."
Shumin smiled.
"Tomorrow, Operation Woolen Romance-commence."
Shu Yan yawned quietly while folding fabric near the curtain.
Her eyelids drooped, but she fought to stay awake.
Shumin glanced at her and chuckled softly.
"Shu Yan, go sleep. Your eyes look ready to surrender."
"My lady, I can stay a bit longer...."
"No need." Shumin's tone was gentle but firm.
"You've worked since dawn. Go on. I'll finish this last row myself."
The maid hesitated, worry creasing her brow.
"Then… please be careful. Don't prick your fingers again."
"I promise nothing,"
Shumin said with a small smile.
"Now go before I knit you into this scarf."
That earned a reluctant laugh. Shu Yan bowed and left, heading toward her small quarters beside the outer corridor where the guards patrolled.
When the door closed, the room fell quiet except for the rhythmic tap of needles and the faint hiss of candle flame.
Shumin bent over the wool again, humming softly.
Sometimes the thread slipped.
sometimes she pricked her fringe instead of the yarn.
Each time she hissed under her breath, but still continued.
'Queen Gu Zhāoyáo will fix it for sure '
she thought with a grin.
'And then she'll gift it to the King… perfect plan.'
Outside, the night deepened.
Then came a sound..faint, wrong.
A creak....
The kind that didn't belong to the palace at rest.
Shumin's hand paused mid-stitch.
She looked toward the window. The candlelight trembled.
Another sound..softer this time.
She stood slowly.
Her heart began to thud, uneven, loud in the silence.
"...Shu Yan?" she whispered.
No answer.
The curtains stirred though the air was still. A shadow slipped across the window lattice.
Her mouth opened...to call, to scream
but before a sound escaped, someone moved.
A figure landed inside the room soundlessly, dark robes folding into the shadows.
She barely took a breath before a gloved hand covered her mouth.
"Don't move," a deep voice murmured beside her ear.
Her body froze.
The scent of sandalwood and rain brushed her skin.
That man....she knew it.
Her pulse leapt.
'The man from the market…'
He leaned closer, eyes glinting through the dark.
"Do you always invite danger so eagerly," he whispered,
"or are you simply too foolish to know it's waiting?"
Shumin's mind spun.
She tried to speak, but his hand still covered her mouth.
Her muffled protest came out as a tiny sound
"hmmm..! Hmmm..! Mmph!"
and when she tried to push him away, her fingers brushed against something warm and wet.
She froze again.
He flinched..just slightly
and she looked down.
In the dim candlelight, her eyes widened.
Blood.
Dark and fresh, streaked down the man's right hand where the glove had torn.
Her breath caught.
He's hurt…
He noticed her gaze and moved his hand from her lips, straightening a little.
Her pulse raced so fast she could feel it echo in her throat.
The masked man's eyes met hers
dark, sharp, and unreadable under the dim candlelight.
Then she saw it again
blood, trickling down his hand.
"Y-you're hurt!" she blurted.
"It's nothing," he replied, his tone low, clipped, and utterly unconvincing.
"Nothing?....!" She reached forward before he could react.
"That's an entire something!"
He frowned, stepping back, but she followed him stubbornly like an overly determined puppy.
"Don't move! I'm..uh...medically intuitive!"
He blinked. "Medically what?"
"Intuitive!" she repeated, already grabbing the half-knitted scarf from her table. "I diagnose by instinct."
Before he could protest, she wrapped the uneven, half-finished scarf around his hand.
The red wool tangled awkwardly,
one end much longer than the other,
but she tied it firmly with the confidence of a battlefield healer.
He stared at her, speechless.
"You...."
"Saved your life," she cut in proudly. "You're welcome."
A soft exhale left him..half disbelief, half something else.
"You're insane."
"Possibly," she agreed cheerfully.
"But statistically successful so far."
He opened his mouth again, but she tightened the knot and glared.
"Stop moving. It'll clot faster."
"You think you know medicine?" he asked dryly.
"I know enough to tie a knot."
She squinted at the messy wrap, tilted her head, and smiled.
"See? Perfect. Very avant-garde."
He looked down at his hand
the wool uneven, but the pressure steady.
"…You used a scarf."
"Multi-purpose!" she said, hands on hips. "It's fashionable and functional. And before you insult it...
it's my first handmade work, thank you very much."
He stared at her for a long moment.
Her hair was messy from staying up, her fingers trembling slightly from exhaustion, yet her eyes glowed with that same foolish, stubborn sincerity he'd seen in the market.
"Why help me?" he asked quietly.
She shrugged.
"You helped me first, remember? Market, broom, chaos....!
you were there. ..So this makes us even."
His brows furrowed behind the mask.
"You recognized me?"
" I have excellent memory," she said proudly.
He huffed faintly something that might've been amusement but died before becoming a smile.
"You are talking too much."
"And you are bleeding too much," she shot back.
"We all have our hobbies."
He went silent.
His gaze lingered on her face longer than it should have, tracing the curve of her jaw lit by candlelight, the faint smear of red on her cheek from where she'd touched his blood.
Shumin felt his eyes on her and suddenly grew self-conscious.
"What? Is it bad? Did I tie it wrong?"
He didn't answer.
The intensity of his stare made her throat dry.
"I...I'll find ointment," she muttered, scurrying toward her dressing table.
She rummaged through boxes and jars, talking fast to fill the silence.
"Honestly, you masked heroes have no survival instincts.
Running around injured, jumping into people's rooms at night..it's like you want infections!"
Her voice echoed softly.
"Wait...do you even have a name? No? Mysterious type, huh? Classic…"
She turned back around, holding a small jar. "Okay, so just apply a little..."
Her words died in her throat.
The space near the window was empty.
The breeze fluttered the curtains again, carrying a faint trace of sandalwood.
Her eyes widened.
"He...he's gone?"
She hurried to the window, looking out, but the courtyard was still, only moonlight spilling over the stones.
"...Well," she muttered softly, "he could've at least said thank you."
A drop of blood still marked the floor beneath the window.
She crouched down, staring at it
part fear, part wonder.
'That voice… those eyes…
Who are you really?'