The Morning After
The northern hall was quiet when dawn arrived, but the silence was deceptive.
Leng Qingxue had returned to her quarters before the lanterns had died out. She had not slept. Her blade lay across her lap, polished until her reflection blurred into steel. No matter how many times she replayed it — her kiss, Yexin's, Yuran's — the taste of Hei Long's silence lingered louder than all of them. She had acted first, but that meant nothing. He had not crowned her victory.
In another chamber, Yexin sprawled across her cushions, hair tangled, her fan discarded beside an untouched wine cup. She laughed softly to herself, though there was no mirth in it. "Three flames, one hearth," she muttered. "Let's see how long before one of us burns the house down." Her smile lingered, but it wavered at the edges, betraying a rare crack.
