Zhang turned toward him.
Their lips were an inch apart.
The tension simmered—Zhang's breath hot against Mihir's mouth, Mihir's fingers gripping the other man's wrist. Not a kiss. Not yet. But almost. Almost.
It wasn't intention that moved them. It was inevitability.
Their mouths collided—slow, hungry, aching. Zhang's hands slid into Mihir's hair. Mihir exhaled against his lips, heart hammering as his robe slipped off one shoulder.
The ground beneath them was cool, their bodies warm. Mihir pushed Zhang down, palm against his chest, murmuring in Sanskrit what could only be prayers or curses. They were both shaking. From restraint. From fire.
Until—
A cry.
A child's cry shattered the moment.
They froze, panting. Somewhere across the courtyard, a high-pitched wail rang out. The youngest son.
Mihir jerked back, breathing hard, robe disheveled. Zhang blinked, dazed and feverish.
Footsteps came fast. The courtyard flared with lanterns.
Zhang's stepmother stood tall, expression unreadable.
Zhang and Mihir stood quickly, smoothing their robes. But the look in the stepmother's eyes said everything.
"You shouldn't delay," he said coolly, eyes darting between them. "Lu Qinian's uncle will arrive tomorrow. It's best to not keep our relatives waiting."
He turned on his heel.
Mihir whispered, "He knows."
Zhang nodded. "Let him."
But the real storm had just begun.
By late morning, the Zhang household had become a performance stage. The scent of jasmine incense clung to every lattice beam, and servants, dressed in their cleanest robes, scurried about polishing floors that were already spotless. Red silk streamers had been fastened to the rafters—not in celebration, but in forced hospitality.
Mihir stood in the shadows of the inner hall, watching. Something was off in the air. A tension that vibrated against his skin like an invisible thread.
And then they arrived.
The Lu entourage appeared not with grandeur but with an oily grace. At the front rode Lu Xian, a man of serpent smiles and viper eyes, dressed in violet brocade with golden embroidery winding like snakes up his sleeves. His beard was trimmed short, his face powdered subtly, and his air was that of someone used to being obeyed.
But the real center of attention descended from a lacquered palanquin: Lu Qinian.
Clad in robes of pale silver and glacial blue, his hair was coiled into a high knot bound with a jade serpent pin. His lips were painted the shade of crushed roses, and his eyes were lined just enough to sharpen their tilt. He was radiant, refined… and wrong.
Mihir's breath caught in his throat. The boy was beautiful, but so were poisonous flowers.
Zhang stepped forward to greet them, dressed simply, yet his presence grounded the courtyard like iron. He bowed shallowly. "Lord Lu. You honor my house."
Lu Qinian didn't bow. He smiled. "I thought I'd come see the family I might be joining. I do hope I'm not too early."
"That depends on what you're early for," Zhang replied coolly.
The air crackled.
Behind them, Lu Xian signaled the bearers, who stepped forward with gifts: fine silk, rare medicinal herbs, and jewelry too delicate for real use. He placed a lacquered box in Zhang's hand.
"A token," Lu Xian said. "To bless what we pray will be a harmonious union."
Mihir watched the tension gather in Zhang's shoulders like a storm waiting to break.
Then came the children.
Zhang's two sons had been waiting silently by the door. As Lu Qinian turned toward them, his smile widened.
"You must be the second oldest," he said to the first boy, voice laced with charm. "So tall already. And this… the little one?" He knelt to look into the second child's eyes, the one who flinched at every touch. "We'll get along well, won't we?"
The child said nothing.
Mihir took a step forward, but Zhang's hand reached behind and caught his wrist gently.
"Not yet," Zhang whispered.
The youngest, however, was not as patient.
As Qinian rose and turned to speak to a cousin, the little boy darted forward and bit his leg through the silken robe.
A shriek. Gasps.
The boy ran.
Qinian's calm shattered for a moment—a flash of fury, his voice hissing, "What sort of wild beasts are you raising here?"
Zhang's eyes narrowed. "Children know when a snake slithers too close."
Mihir couldn't help it. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling.
Lu Xian coughed. "They are spirited. A steady hand… or a firm tutor, can solve such matters."
Zhang stiffened. Mihir felt it. Something dark passed through his face, and for a moment, Mihir feared he might draw his sword.
Then Zhang's stepmother arrived. Robed in black and crimson, poised as ever.
"How good of you to visit," he said silkily. "We've prepared lunch. Let's not waste good lotus soup over bitten ankles."
Lu Xian chuckled politely. Qinian said nothing. But his gaze met Mihir's across the courtyard—and there was no mistaking the hatred that bloomed in it.
Mihir stood taller.
He was not backing down.
Not from a boy painted like a doll. Not from a family that brought gold in one hand and chains in the other.
The match wasn't made yet. But war had been declared.
And Mihir was already choosing his side.