Zhao Lingxi did not come back to their shared quarters that night.
Lan Yue waited. She sat on the edge of her bed, still in her tournament robes, watching the door. The candle on the table burned down to a stub. The moonlight shifted from one wall to the other. The red thread on her wrist stayed cold, a dull, muted chill that throbbed like a bruise she could not see.
She told herself it was fine. Zhao Lingxi needed space. After what happened to Wen Hao, after what her own family had done, anyone would need time alone. It was normal. Expected.
By midnight, Lan Yue stopped pretending it was fine.
She found Zhao Lingxi in the east garden, sitting on a stone bench beneath a dead wisteria tree. The branches were bare and skeletal against the night sky. Zhao Lingxi's robes were different. Clean. White. She had changed at some point, though Lan Yue did not know where or when.
She was not alone.
