Beneath the vast forests of the northern peak, Song Liang crouched beside a stream, washed his face, and drank a handful of clear water. Rising, he looked into the distance below.
“There seems to be a marsh up ahead. I don’t see any homes, but there’s a small hut. Perhaps hunters from the foot of the mountain built it as temporary shelter.”
He turned toward the man sitting against a tree behind him. “Can you still walk?”
Xie Yun did not answer. He simply braced a hand against the ground and rose, moving very slowly. The strip of crimson cloth tied around his wrist lay against his black sleeve, framing the cool, pale wrist with its prominent bones and faintly visible veins.
Song Liang watched that hand for a long time without going over to help.
The mountain paths had been difficult, wild beasts had appeared intermittently, and they had constantly needed to guard against pursuing assassins. They had walked with their hands bound together for nearly four hours. Throughout that time, Xie Yun had not spoken a word, but his complexion had visibly worsened. Several times, only his grip on Song Liang’s hand had kept him from falling.
When they finally left the forest and found the stream, Xie Yun’s first act had been to untie the cloth and sit beneath a tree, as though any further delay would have sent him collapsing against Song Liang.
Only when he approached did Song Liang take his hand and guide him slowly into a crouch. He lowered that hand into the stream, letting him feel the water flow between his fingers.
Xie Yun remained silent. His fingers curled slightly in Song Liang’s palm before he said quietly, “…Thank you.”
Song Liang studied his profile for a while, then suddenly asked, “Just a thank-you?”
Xie Yun paused. “What do you want?”
“That depends on what the Prince Regent can offer me. I won’t accept anything ordinary.”
“…”
Xie Yun recognized the words as an imitation of his own when he had deliberately made things difficult for Song Liang on a street in Hanshui City. He said nothing, merely lowering his head to scoop up water and wash his face.
Song Liang sat beside him and watched. As Xie Yun bowed his head, black hair spilled around his temples and over his shoulders. Slender fingers cupped water against his pale face and lips. Droplets fell from his defined brows and deep-set eyes, slid down his high nose, and settled between his beautifully shaped lips. He resembled a white rose touched with morning dew, noble and pure.
Song Liang leaned down and kissed that drop of dew, withdrawing almost immediately. Then, looking up at Xie Yun’s face just inches away, he asked softly, “Back on the slope, did you kiss me on purpose?”
Xie Yun lowered his eyelids slightly, his gaze resting nowhere in particular. He did not answer.
So Song Liang leaned down again and kissed those damp lips, gently licking, nibbling, and tracing their shape. Only when Xie Yun’s breathing suddenly grew heavy did he retreat. Brushing a fingertip over the lips he had kissed some color into, he said, “Actually, even if you’re injured and weaker, that only makes me want you more. So you don’t need to think of yourself as a burden.”
“…”
Xie Yun’s breath caught. He abruptly turned his head and pushed against the ground to leave, only for someone to catch the hem of his robe as he stood. He faltered, almost stumbling, yet did not blame the man behind him. He simply stood there, as though waiting for something.
The culprit remained seated on the ground, tugging his robe, his voice drawn out.
“My legs are sore. Would the Prince Regent pull me up?”
“…”
Xie Yun stood silently for a moment, then turned slightly. Without looking back, he extended his hand behind him.
It was broad and slender, cool and pale, its joints clearly defined. The strip of crimson fabric tied around his wrist nestled against his black sleeve, swaying gently with the movement.
Looking at the hand offered to him, Song Liang smiled.
Half an hour later, Song Liang finally had his wish: holding the Prince Regent’s hand while partly supporting him, he stood before the little hut at the foot of the mountain. There, he saw the tightly shut wooden door—and the fresh, disorderly blade marks and bloodstains upon it.
“What is it?” Sensing his silence, Xie Yun knew something was wrong. He tilted his head and asked quietly.
“Nothing.” Song Liang’s voice remained calm and unhurried, but his hand had already moved to the blade at his waist. “There seems to be someone inside. The door shows a few signs of habitation.”
“And?”
“Then shall we make a wager?”
“…”
“If the people inside are ordinary folk, I’ll say we’re husband and wife. If they’re Qin Zhiwei’s men, I’ll publicly announce you as my empress once we return to the palace. What do you say?”
“…”
Xie Yun turned his expressionless, unseeing gaze toward him. “What do I gain?”
Song Liang replied, “You get either an ordinary husband or the supreme luxury edition—an emperor for a husband.”
Xie Yun: “…”
“Will you bet?”
Xie Yun turned his head away. Song Liang smiled. “I’ll take your silence as agreement.”
As he spoke, he stepped in front of Xie Yun, held the dagger across his body, and kicked the wooden door open with a crash.
Weathered by years of sun and rain, the door was already half rotten. His kick sent the entire panel crashing down. The person behind it had not expected such decisiveness. After a brief pause, he thrust his sword forward.
Song Liang sidestepped the thrust. His opponent followed with a horizontal slash toward his chest. Instinctively, Song Liang raised the dagger to block, only for the sword to bend slightly, its tip whipping hard against his right arm. The blow carried a measure of internal force, catching him off guard and sending him staggering sideways.
Xie Yun instinctively moved to intervene, but Song Liang patted the back of his hand.
“It’s fine. I’ve found someone who can fight. Just wait here for me. No need to help.”
Xie Yun stopped. His fingers reached out slightly, then lowered again.
Song Liang’s competitive spirit had already been stirred. Dagger in hand, he slashed straight at his opponent’s face. The man raised his sword to block. Untroubled by the failed strike, Song Liang did not even change his technique, hacking three times at the same point on the blade. His opponent retreated repeatedly, but could not prevent a crack from forming in the sword.
Song Liang scoffed softly. He was about to advance and finish the fight when a shocked voice suddenly rang out from inside the hut—
“Your Majesty!”
“…”
Song Liang froze. His opponent’s sword stopped as well. Only then did Song Liang get a clear look at the man he had been fighting. He wore a coarse indigo outfit, stood about the same height as Song Liang, and had a lean, upright figure, poised and agile. At first glance, his bearing seemed aloof and extraordinary. A closer look, however, brought disappointment in his face.
Ordinary. Utterly ordinary. None of his features was ugly, yet together they were simply not handsome. Unremarkable, neither good nor bad—a face that would vanish instantly into a crowd.
The man was watching him too, his ordinary eyes filled with astonishment, apparently shocked by the address “Your Majesty.”
Since he had stopped attacking, Song Liang left him alone and finally turned toward the other person inside. Confusion crossed his face.
“…Xu Qingye? What are you doing here?”
Wasn’t he supposed to be up on the Western Hills?
The hut was exceedingly bare, with only a battered plank bed. Xu Qingye lay on it in his blue riding clothes. At the sight of Song Liang, he excitedly sat up and knelt to salute him on the spot.
“Your subject Xu Qingye pays respects to Your Majesty! Thank goodness you’re unharmed!”
Song Liang raised a hand for him to rise. “Why are you here?”
“I…” Xu Qingye looked somewhat embarrassed. “Had a little accident.”
Seeing his awkward expression, Song Liang believed it. Surely the man had not tried to follow him into death. He nodded without asking further, then went outside to explain to Xie Yun.
“A misunderstanding. Not assassins. It’s Xu Qingye.”
Xie Yun murmured an acknowledgment and said nothing.
Thinking this proud man had probably long forgotten such a person, Song Liang reminded him, “Xu Qingye. The Duke of Wei’s heir. The one who knows General Li.”
This time, Xie Yun spoke, his tone indifferent.
“I know. Your future empress.”
Song Liang: “…”
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