Lan Qíshēng looked at the boy—the child they had rescued—who had seemed fine only a few days ago.
Back then, when the boy had traveled with them, he had indeed been thin, his frame almost birdlike, and his cheeks gaunt enough to make him look younger than his true age. But at least then, he had been living. His breath had been steady, his skin carried a faint blush of warmth, and his eyes—though timid—had still contained a spark. A shy smile now and then, a hesitant word when coaxed, the way his little hand clung to Sīān's sleeve whenever strangers approached—all of it had been proof of a boy still capable of hope.
Now, in Sīān's arms, that fragile hope was gone.
The boy was thinner—noticeably thinner than before. His collarbones jutted sharply beneath his shirt, the angles of his shoulders sharper, as though the fabric itself weighed too much for his body.
But it was not his body that stabbed Lan Qíshēng in the heart.
It was his eyes.
