The first breath of winter arrived not with snow, but with silence.
A sudden stillness clung to the air. The wind that once carried the scent of peach blossoms now carried the taste of frost. Morning dew froze along the tips of grass blades, and smoke from the kitchen chimneys curled slowly into the pale gray sky. Birds began to vanish from the orchard trees. The earth waited—tight and breathless beneath the weight of the coming cold.
Xu Wenyan stood by the window of his study, one hand pressed lightly to the sill. The glass beneath his palm was cold. He watched as frost traced faint veins across the wooden frames, as if winter's hand had reached inside.
He had barely slept. The scroll in the archives haunted him. He had not spoken to his parents about it—not yet. But the way they moved, the way they looked at him now, confirmed everything. They knew.
He was not truly theirs.
He had been someone before this.
And that someone was waking up.
---
By the third day of frost, the Xu household—known formally as the House of Shu by their old clan name—had begun their winter preparations.
Thick woolen cloaks were brought down from high cupboards and sun-dried in the courtyards. Windows were covered with paper screens lined with cedar oil to block the wind. Dried medicinal herbs were ground and packed into jars. Servants moved quickly, arms full of quilts and jars of preserved fruits, their hands red from the cold.
But all of this was done with one person in mind: Xu Wenyan.
His winter illness had always been a shadow that returned with the cold. Each year, just as the frost began to form on the lotus pond, Wenyan would grow pale. His hands would tremble. A persistent, ice-deep chill would settle in his bones, no matter how close he sat to the fire.
Madam Xu oversaw the preparations herself. She ordered extra ginseng from the capital. She had a warming salve imported from the western provinces. And every night, she would personally check the temperature of Wenyan's rooms.
The household moved like clockwork, careful and efficient.
Because they remembered.
One winter, five years ago, he had collapsed in the snow. His breath had nearly stopped. It was three days before he could speak again.
The physician had called it bone-deep cold sickness—a strange affliction, rare and difficult to treat. But it always came with winter. And it was always worse when the wind carried snow from the north.
This year, the wind blew early.
And strong.
---
Wenyan was aware of the preparations, but he kept his distance. He wandered more often now, moving through the estate as though walking through a place that no longer fit his shape.
He walked alone.
To the eastern wall where the peach blossoms had fallen.
To the bamboo grove where his siblings used to play.
To the empty well near the servant quarters, where he used to toss coins and make wishes he no longer remembered.
He could feel the cold sinking into his skin more deeply each day. It was no longer just the chill of the air—it was something inside him. Like old echoes waking up. Like footsteps returning to a hall long sealed.
---
One afternoon, as snow began to fall in faint, weightless flakes, Wenyan found himself standing at the old shrine in the southern courtyard.
It was rarely visited anymore.
Built generations ago, the shrine had once honored the ancestral guardians of the Shu clan. But time had worn it down. The stone lion at the gate had lost one eye. The prayer stones were chipped. Only the incense stand remained clean—kept that way by some quiet hand.
Wenyan lit a stick of incense and knelt.
The smoke curled upward, vanishing into the sky like a forgotten prayer.
He closed his eyes.
And saw fire.
Not the fire of warmth—but of war.
A great city, burning.
A tower crumbling.
A woman's scream.
His own hands, soaked in blood.
He gasped and stumbled back, the incense falling from his fingers. His chest tightened. He coughed, once—twice—then dropped to his knees as a wave of cold gripped him from the inside.
His vision blurred.
Footsteps approached.
Then a familiar voice, quiet and urgent: "You shouldn't be here."
He looked up.
The masked woman stood before him, as if summoned by the smoke.
Her face was still hidden, but her eyes burned like frost on fire.
"You're waking up too fast," she said.
He stared at her.
"You," he rasped. "You were real…"
She knelt beside him and pressed a hand to his forehead. Her fingers were ice—but his skin recognized them.
Her presence calmed the burning cold, like water meeting flame.
"Who are you?" he whispered.
"Someone who failed you," she replied.
A tear fell from her eye and froze before it touched the ground.
And then, like smoke, she vanished again.
---
By evening, Wenyan was fevered.
He lay in bed, sweating and shivering, while the physician murmured to his mother in low, anxious tones.
Madam Xu clutched his hand as if afraid he'd disappear.
"It's too soon," she whispered. "He shouldn't be this sick yet…"
The physician nodded grimly. "His spirit is stirring. Whatever is inside him, it does not sleep quietly anymore."
Lord Xu stood at the foot of the bed, arms folded, silent.
Wenyan tossed in his dreams—visions flashing behind his eyes.
A temple of glass.
A sword made of starlight.
A girl laughing in the rain.
A name, whispered on the wind.
"Xuanming…"
---
Far away, in the capital's inner palace, Crown Princess Qin Yelan stood before the imperial astronomer's altar.
The stars above had shifted again.
A crimson star now hovered near the northern gate star—an omen of return. Of resurrection.
Her hands trembled slightly as she held the jade talisman in her palm.
Behind her, Lian'er spoke softly. "Your Highness… is it time?"
Yelan nodded.
"Send word to the Shu household. Tell them: the frost has returned. The flame must rise."