The room was dark; lantern burned nearly to ash. His chest rose and fell unevenly, breath sharp as if he had run a long distance.
He sat upright, scanning the corners of the room. Nothing. Only shadows, only silence, broken by the steady creak of wood and the faint chirp of crickets.
Then his gaze fell to the table.
The brush, the half-written page of verse, the empty cup. And beside them — lying delicately as if placed by unseen hands — a single little white lily in the valley petal.
It was pale, almost silver in the dim light. Beads of water still clung to its surface, though there was no vase, no bowl, nothing in his room that could explain its presence.
Qiyao stared at it, his throat tightening. Slowly, he reached out, his long fingers brushing its edge. Cool. Damp. Real.
Yet it was not the season for this flower. And none grew anywhere near the inn.
The jade at his side was cold as winter stone.
For a long time, he sat there, unmoving, the petal resting in his palm. His eyes narrowed, unreadable, but the heaviness in his chest was undeniable.
He set the petal down upon the page he had written earlier. Ink and petal side by side — words of hollow reeds, a voice without tongue, and now proof that what haunted his dreams could step into his waking world.
The night pressed close, heavy with silence. Yet in that silence lingered the faint echo of a flute, as though the dream had not truly ended. And then sooner the first light of dawn crept into the room, pale and unsteady, painting the wooden floorboards in faint Gray. Shen Qiyao stirred, his hair tangled across the pillow, the taste of wine still bitter on his tongue.
For a moment he thought it had all been a dream — the river, the moonlight, the faceless figure. He almost turned back to sleep. But then his gaze caught the desk.
There it lay.
The petal.
Still pale, still fresh, a bead of dew clinging stubbornly to its curved edge.
Qiyao sat up slowly, his breath heavy in the quiet room. He crossed to the table and touched it again, as if testing whether it would vanish. No — the petal was real. Damp against his skin, cool as though it had been plucked only moments ago.
His brows knit together. It wasn't the season. He knew this with certainty. No fields nor shops in Zhuyin bloomed with this tiny little flower now. None at all.
His eyes moved to the page beside it — the crooked lines of verse he had written the night before. The words looked different in morning light, almost childish in their clumsiness:
A voice without tongue,
a cry without lips.
Hollow reed,
you sing to no one—
and yet… I hear.
He let out a breath, sharp through his nose. Nonsense. He almost crumpled the paper in irritation. And yet…
His hand stilled.
The jade lay cool at his table, a steady presence. For a fleeting moment, he thought he felt it pulse again — faint, almost like a heartbeat.
He closed his eyes, pressing fingers to his temples. He was not a man prone to superstition. War and blood had taught him to trust only steel, not whispers. And yet here, in this village pressed against a restless forest, logic unravelled too easily.
He poured himself water from the clay jug, drank, and let the coolness anchor him. His gaze returned to the petal.
"What are you trying to tell me?" he muttered, though the words barely reached the air
No answer came. Only the faint stir of breeze against the shutters, carrying the scent of damp earth.
Qiyao exhaled and began dressing, binding his hair back with practiced ease. His movements were precise, controlled, yet the petal remained in the corner of his eye, its pale shape refusing to be ignored.
By the time he fastened his outer robe and slung his sword at his side, the question lingered heavier than any weight of Armor. He picked up the petal one last time, held it between finger and thumb.
It was fragile, translucent in the new sun, veins delicate as spider silk. Beautiful, but inexplicable.
He set it carefully inside the folded page of verse, sliding the sheet into his travel pouch. Not out of belief — not yet — but because leaving it behind felt impossible.
When he stepped out into the courtyard, the village was already stirring. Smoke curled from chimneys, roosters called, and vendors began laying out their baskets of greens. To any other man, the morning was ordinary.
To Shen Qiyao, it was heavy with something unseen, pressing close as his own shadow.
The morning sun rose pale, filtered through mist that clung stubbornly to the rooftops. Shen Qiyao made his way through the village, the folded page and petal tucked safely in his pouch. He had no real destination, only the restless need to move.
At the well, he found Granny Xuemei. She was leaning on her cane, a bundle of herbs strapped neatly to her back. Villagers passed her with quick nods, but none lingered to speak.
Her sharp old eyes lifted the moment she sensed his approach. "Master Shen," she greeted, voice rasped but steady.
Qiyao inclined his head faintly. "A'po."
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