Lu Qinian's silk-soaked airs did not impress the youngest child in the household — Zhang's rebellious five-year-old, who had once offered Mihir a flower and then darted away like a stray cat.
That morning, the child had hidden behind the garden wall, waiting. A string was tied across the pebbled path, and a sealed jar of sticky plum paste was balanced precariously on the ledge above.
Lu Qinian, accompanied by two attendants, swept through the courtyard with practiced grace.
And in one breathless moment —
Trip.
Thud.
Splash.
Lu Qinian sprawled onto the stones, robes soiled with plum paste, his hair ornament askew. Gasps rose. The child cackled from the shadows before bolting inside.
Lu Chengsong stormed forward, mortified. "Qinian! Get up at once! You embarrass our name!"
Servants whispered. One of the guards bit his lip to keep from laughing.
Later, under a mulberry tree at the edge of the estate, Lu Qinian sat alone, robes changed, face unreadable. A single smudge of paste remained near his ear. His fingers dug into the earth. The laughter still echoed in his ears.
Mihir approached, holding a damp cloth.
"Children are wild spirits, a man won't take it to heart." he said softly.
He sat beside Lu Qinian, not touching him. The cloth was placed gently in his hand.
Qinian looked at him.
Truly looked.
And something in his gaze shifted — no longer contemptuous, but curious. Possessive. Hungry.
Mihir's calm, otherworldly grace now seemed less like simplicity and more like a secret worth owning.
That night, Lu Qinian dreamt not of Zhang — but of Mihir. And in his dreams, Mihir was not a priest.
He was a prize.