The river had always been there, winding through the quiet hills like a silver thread stitched into the earth's fabric. Some days it slept beneath a soft mist, some days it shimmered beneath the fierce sun. But today it moved lazily, like a beast content in its solitude.
A small group of men dressed in soldier's garb draw their horses to a halt. Their faces were hardened from days of travel; their armor dulled beneath the sun's weary gaze.
One of them leaned forward slightly and said, almost casually,
"The horses need water. There is a river nearby."
No one argued. Thirst was visible in the way the animals tossed their heads, foam clinging to their bridles. The group turned, guiding the horses toward the sound that could already be heard faintly—the low, unbroken murmur of flowing water.
High above its gentle curve, on a rise where the grass bent easily to the wind, Liang Yue sat alone. The world around her was alive with sound—the whisper of leaves, the distant cry of birds, the soft breathing of water against stone—but none of it reached her fully. Her gaze rested on the small golden hairpin cradled in her palm, yet even that gaze seemed unfocused, as if her eyes were merely resting somewhere convenient while her mind wandered elsewhere.
The hairpin was old.
Not ancient, but old in the way cherished things became old—not through years alone, but through touch. Its edges had lost their sharpness, not from polish or care, but from being held too often, too absentmindedly, too lovingly. It had been clasped, unclasped, turned over between fingers during movements of waiting, longing, and quiet thought. Gold was soft. Memory was softer still.
Liang Yue did not realize she was holding her breath.
She sat there, eighteen years old, yet far removed from the present. The girl she was now wore calm like a veil—smooth, practiced, convincing. But the girl she remembered was thirteen, restless and bright-eyed, unaware that innocence could slip away without ceremony.
Her fingers closed slightly around the hairpin.
She remembered how it had begun.
Back then, Chen had seemed impossibly tall.
At twenty-three, he carried himself with a quiet steadiness that made even ordinary movements appear deliberate. He spoke little, listened more, and when he smiled—rarely—it was never wasted. To Liang Yue, he was a mystery wrapped in patience, and she followed him with the devotion of a child who did not yet know the danger of attachment.
She followed him everywhere.
She would trail behind him on narrow paths, her steps deliberately loud, just to see if he would turn. She would walk ahead of him suddenly, then slow down for no reason at all, glancing back with a grin she pretended was accidental. Sometimes she would place herself squarely in his way and ask questions she already knew the answers to.
"Why do you always walk so fast?"
"Do you ever get tired?"
"Is the world outside this place very big?"
Once, when he had been sharpening a blade, she had sat far too close and announced, with great seriousness, that she would protect him if bandits ever came. Chen had paused, glanced at her thin arms, and laughed—softly, briefly—before telling her that he looked forward to it.
She had taken that laugh and stored it away like treasure.
Chen noticed her attention. He was not blind to it. He saw the way her eyes followed him, how her expressions shifted with his moods, how her laughter came too quickly when he spoke. But he treated it lightly, brushing it aside with indulgent smiles and gentle dismissals. To him, she was a child—spirited, sincere, and unaware of the weight of her own feelings.
Yet even then, something unsettled him.
It was not her persistence, nor her questions, nor even her laughter. It was her purity—the kind that did not ask for anything, that did not expect to be returned. The way she looked at him as though he were something steady in a world that often felt uncertain.
He never let her see his thoughts.
Until the day by the river.
The water had been cool, clear, moving lazily beneath the sun. Chen removed his outer robe and folded it neatly on the riverbank. Clad only in his light inner garment, he stepped into the water, securing the long sleeves back at his arms. His hair, freed from its knot, fell loosely down his back as the cool current washed over him, carrying away the weight of the day. He had not known Liang Yue was there at first.
She stood behind the bushes, hidden more by habit than intention. She was not embarrassed, nor curious in the way adults feared. She watched him with the same open familiarity she always had, her lips curved in that habitual, childlike smile that spoke of comfort rather than desire.
Chen's body was strong—shaped by discipline and labor—but that was not what held her gaze. She watched him the way one watched fire or rain: something simply meant to be observed.
He knew.
The moment came when the water stilled just enough for him to sense the absence of solitude. Without turning, he scooped water into his hands and flung it behind him.
Liang Yue gasped.
Cold water struck her face, soaking her hair, stealing her breath. Her smile vanished instantly, replaced by wide-eyed shock. Droplets clung to her lashes as she stared at him, stunned.
Chen turned.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then he said quietly, his voice low, stripped of its usual lightness—
"You should not look at me like that."
She blinked.
"Like what?" She asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
He hesitated. The river moved between them, indifferent to his struggle. When he spoke again, it was slower, restrained, as though each word cost him something.
"Like I am a place you belong to."
Liang Yue felt something shift inside her—something unfamiliar, heavy and warm all at once. Her cheeks burned. Her heart raced. She did not understand the feeling, only that it was new and frightening and impossible to ignore.
She ran.
The memory faded like mist under sunlight.
Liang Yue's grip loosened, and in that careless moment, the hairpin slipped from her fingers.
She watched it fall.
Gold flashed once before disappearing into the river.
For a heartbeat, she did not move. Then instinct overtook thought, and she plunged into the water.
The river closed over her head.
She dove, eyes open, searching desperately as the current tugged at her clothes. Her fingers brushed stone, sand, nothing. Panic flared briefly—but she forced it down, pushing deeper.
That was when the horses arrived.
The soldiers dismounted, guiding the animals to the river's edge. As the horses lowered their heads to drink, one man's gaze sharpened.
The water stirred unnaturally.
"There," he said.
He was the leader.
"Zhao Ren—king of the Qingzhou Kingdom—though no one here addressed him as such. He wore the armor of a common soldier, his presence quiet but commanding.
"There is someone under the water," he said calmly.
The men tensed.
No one else could see it, but Zhao Ren was certain. His fingers drifted to the hilt of his sword. As the blade slid free by a fraction, the water broke.
Liang Yue surfaced, gasping.
The sword stopped.
Zhao Ren's hand fell away.
For a moment, the world narrowed to a single point.
She stood waist-deep in the river, hair plastered to her face, breath uneven. Water streamed down her neck, her collarbone, the curve of her shoulders. Sunlight caught in the droplets, turning them into fleeting sparks.
She was beautiful.
Not in a way that demanded attention, but in a way that arrested it.
Her features were soft yet distinct, her eyes clear, unguarded. There was no artifice in her presence—no practiced grace, no calculated charm. She looked as though she had been shaped patiently, carefully, as though time itself had taken its time with her.
Zhao Ren did not realize he was staring.
Something passed over his face—surprise first, then something more dangerous. His eyes, usually sharp and controlled, softened. His jaw tightened slightly, not in anger, but restraint.
He was not a man easily shaken.
Yet in that instant, he felt it—the disquieting sense that something had slipped past his defenses unnoticed.
Liang Yue saw the soldiers and froze. Then, gathering herself, she waded silently toward the bank and stepped past them without a word.
Zhao Ren watched her go.
Han Bo noticed.
He had served his king for years. He had seen his calm in chaos, his resolve under pressure. But he had never seen this look—this momentary stillness, this quiet loss of composure.
Han Bo said nothing.
He simply bowed when Zhao Ren spoke.
"Follow her," the king said softly. "Do not let her see you."
Han Bo obeyed.
As Liang Yue disappeared into the distance, Zhao Ren remained by the river, staring at the water as though it had betrayed him.
Only later would anyone understand—
The river had not merely witnessed that day.
It had remembered.