The silence did not feel like an absence of sound. It felt like a held breath, and Lin Yue understood, somewhere in the part of his mind that never stopped observing even at the edge of catastrophe, that everything in the chamber was waiting for him to move first.
The crimson flower pulsed once more, slow, deliberate, syncing itself to something Lin Yue couldn't name.
"Lin Yue." Gu Yanchen's voice was low, careful, pitched in a register Lin Yue had never quite heard from him before—not command, not warning. Something closer to restraint. "Don't."
"Why not?"
"Because I don't know what happens if you do." Gu Yanchen's eyes hadn't left the flower since they'd entered the chamber. "And I have survived many great things by never touching what I don't understand."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have."
