Wang Yufei had a baby girl.
And the Queen was seething. The court put on its usual polite smile, murmuring that a healthy child was still a blessing, but everyone could feel it—the shift, the tension, the disappointment wrapped in brocade. No son. No new heir. No legacy to bargain with.
Worse?
The Queen knew. Hence the slap I saw across Wang Yufei's face in the garden.
She'd apparently known about Jiang Wei for some time. At first, he was just another nameless piece in whatever long-winded scheme she'd crafted. A useful man. Disposable. Meant to play a role, then fade into the background.
But fate—naturally—laughed in her face. Because love is inconvenient like that.
He and Wang Yufei had fallen for each other. Because of course they did. Because secrets always turn into something more when people get vulnerable. Now they had a baby girl between them, no way out, and no good choices.
What was she going to do—run away with him? That would get them both killed before they made it past the outer gate.
So now Wang Yufei lives under the mercy of the Crown Prince. Wei Wuxian's mercy.
I'd convinced him to let her be. It wasn't easy. The man still couldn't look at her without visibly remembering that this entire situation is not only political but deeply irritating.
"She's no threat to us anymore," I said. "Not with a child. Not with everything else taken from her."
Wang Yufei, for all her pride and poise, looked smaller now. Tired. Like someone who understood that survival sometimes meant swallowing your past and sitting quietly in the corner while everyone else restructured your future.
As long as she doesn't do anything stupid—We'll let her live.
***
Two days later, a message arrived—neatly rolled, sealed with that same infuriating silver thread Shen Kexian insists on using, as if branding his presence into my life in wax makes it less obnoxious. I didn't need to open it. The scroll practically oozed smug.
Still, I opened it. "I'm back. Training resumes tomorrow. I trust you haven't forgotten anything important."
No greeting, no sign-off. Just pure Shen Kexian: efficient, vague, mildly condescending.
I stared at the message, sighed like I'd been sentenced to something dramatic and undeserved, and dropped onto my bed with the full weight of existential dread.
The one thing I'd been working very hard to avoid was finally here—he was going to ask about what happened during the fight. Specifically, how we amplified the power. What I felt. What changed.
Nothing too alarming, just the tiny, insignificant moment where I may have fused my feelings with someone else's long-dead emotions while pressed up against a man who still thinks I might be her. Totally fine. I could already hear him saying, "We should examine what triggered it," while I smiled politely and internally begged for lightning to strike me on the spot.
Training resumes tomorrow.
I was going to have to look him in the face and pretend I was a spiritually enlightened goddess instead of someone who might be partially possessed, emotionally compromised, and aggressively avoiding introspection.
***
Shen Kexian was already in the training room when I arrived. Dressed in his usual muted grey robe, sleeves pushed up just enough to show off a forearm that absolutely didn't need to be that smug. His hair half-tied, a strand loose over his cheekbone—which, unfortunately, still looked like it had been sculpted by a particularly vain deity.
He didn't even wait for me to say hello.
"I heard," he said smoothly, without turning, "someone was so desperate to resume training she banged the Drum of Injustice to demand my return."
I stopped in the doorway and sighed. Because of course he'd heard. And of course that would be his opening line.
"No one was banging for you specifically," I muttered.
He finally turned to look at me, that maddening half-smile playing on his lips. "Ah. So just… divine injustice due to a vague absence in spiritual instruction?"
I didn't dignify that with a response. Mostly because I had, in fact, created a palace-wide distraction to get Wang Yufei back in the palace undetected and in doing so—yes—I may have yelled about my missing mentor. "It was an emergency," I muttered, crossing my arms. "I didn't think it through. I was just trying to help Wang Yufei."
He chuckled—quiet, low—and tilted his head, eyes glinting. "I'm surprised you saved her. I got a report," he said casually, like he wasn't casually wrecking my composure. "She tried to have you killed, didn't she?"
So he knew.
"Yes," I said, a little sharper than I meant to. "She did. But I couldn't just leave her there. Or kill her child. I'm not that heartless."
He moved closer. Just one step but it was enough to make the room feel smaller. His voice dropped, quieter now, warmer. "You have a good heart, Mei Lin."
The compliment hit me weirdly. Not because it wasn't true. But because of how he said it—like he actually meant it. My stomach flipped in a way I didn't ask for. I looked away, pretending to examine the water basin like it had suddenly become fascinating.
I cleared my throat and very deliberately changed the subject.
"So," I said, gesturing vaguely toward the middle of the room like it might help redirect the energy, "what are we training today? Water ribbons? Dodging flaming projectiles? Emotional suppression exercises?"
He didn't answer right away. Instead, he turned back to the table, casually poured himself a cup of tea like we weren't on the edge of a catastrophic emotional cliff, and said far too smoothly—
"Let's address something first."
Oh no. That was not training talk. That was feelings talk. He gestured to the cushions by the basin. "Why don't we sit down?"
Absolutely not, was my internal reaction.
Instead, I smiled stiffly and obeyed like someone walking into her own trial.
Shen Kexian sat down across from me, crossed one leg over the other, and leaned forward slightly—elbows resting on his knee like this was just another casual tea chat and not an emotional minefield waiting to blow up in my face.
He didn't even ease into it. Of course he didn't.
"Mei Lin," he said, voice calm and steady, "how did we amplify the power during the last fight?"
There it was. Right on schedule. No preamble. No build-up. Just straight to the dagger. I stared at him, blank-faced on the outside, absolute chaos on the inside.
My brain instantly lit up like a festival lantern.
Option One: Tell him the truth. That when I reached for balance in the middle of battle, it wasn't me I found—it was her. Lianshui. Her memories. Her longing. Her love for him. That I used her feelings to anchor his power.
Telling him that might unravel everything. He'd want to bring her back. Deepen the connection. Find her. Which could mean losing myself. I'd already felt her reaching, pressing through my skin like light behind paper. If I gave her more space—more control—what if she didn't give it back?
Option Two: Lie. Say it was me. Say it was my emotions—my instinct to protect him. My fear. My need to keep him safe. Tell him that's what amplified the power.
Which would lead him to a completely different conclusion. That I had feelings for him. Romantic ones.
Which… I didn't. Right? I couldn't. I had Ming Yu. I loved Ming Yu. But—
Gods.
This was a trap. A spiraling, lose-lose, emotionally rigged trap and he was just sitting there waiting for me to pick which floor collapsed under me first. And then, out of nowhere, an idea popped into my head.
Not a good idea. Not even a particularly thought-out one. Just the kind of idea that floats in like, Hi, I'm chaos. You rang?
I extended my hand toward him, palm open, steady. "Why don't you find out yourself?"
Shen Kexian blinked, surprised for a breath. Then his mouth curved into a smirk. Smug. Predictable. But still devastatingly unfair to look at. He reached out and took my hand. Warmth surged through me immediately—his power, steady and familiar, threading into mine like it always did.
"Shift it," I told him, voice low.
He didn't hesitate. The warm energy pulled back, and in its place: cold. Rage. Heavy and quick, full of that quiet violence he kept locked under his skin. It rushed through me like a storm front.
And right behind it… the flicker. The familiar one. Lianshui.
It found me like it always did, but this time when I grabbed on—I was still here. Present. My fingers flexed on their own, not hers. My thoughts were still mine.
No ghostly overlay. No mysterious possession. No tingling sensation. No mental tug-of-war. Just me. Weird.
I looked at my free hand and flexed it again.
Huh. Still mine.
Shen Kexian was giving me a puzzled look now, head tilted slightly. "What are you doing?"
"I'm testing something."
His brows furrowed—right before I picked up a scroll from the table with my other hand and swung it as hard as I could directly at his head.
The scroll hit him with a solid thwack.
He staggered a half step back, hand flying to the side of his head.
"Ouch!" he hissed. "Mei Lin—why?!"
His pain crashed into me immediately through the connection—hot, sharp, and laced with insulted dignity.
Sure enough, my hand started tingling. That same eerie sensation curling up my wrist like it had its own agenda. I watched, half-horrified, as it lifted on its own and reached out—right toward the spot I'd just clocked him on.
It landed gently. Too gently. The flicker changed. The cold anger faded, and something else poured out of me instead. A strange, aching blend of worry and guilt, of protectiveness I didn't mean to show. It met his pain, wrapped around it, and dulled the sharp edges.
Shen Kexian went still under my touch. His breath slowed. His hand dropped from his head. He looked at me—eyes searching, unreadable.
So that was it. Confirmed. She—Lianshui—only reacted when he was hurt.
Only when he was in pain did the flicker stir, twist, and rise up from wherever she was buried inside me. I could've told him. The whole truth. That it wasn't just only my reaction, that it was her, surfacing like a memory laced in muscle and magic.
But I didn't. Because some part of me—some deeply selfish, completely human part—didn't want to hand him the thread that would let him pull her closer. He pulled his power back slowly, the warmth slipping out of me like breath. And as soon as it left, I could feel my hand again. Tingling fading. Control returning.
I lowered it. Tucked both hands in front of me so he wouldn't see how badly they were shaking. Then I looked up, straight into his eyes, and said, voice clear, steady, rehearsed in the exact moment I was speaking it—
"It only happens when you're hurt. That's when I react. That's what triggers the power."
Not a total lie. But definitely not the whole truth.
He tilted his head, still rubbing the spot where I whacked him with a scroll. "You worry about me after you hit me," he repeated slowly, as if trying to solve the philosophical paradox of me.
I didn't answer. His smirk returned, slower this time. More thoughtful. More dangerous.
"You're always hiding something," he said softly. "Your power. Your emotions. Your temper. It's very suspicious."
I narrowed my eyes. "It's called self-control."
"Mm," he hummed, entirely unconvinced. "No. It's called dodging."
Then, stepping closer—too close again—he added, "One of these days, Mei Lin, your true feelings are going to slip out."
"They won't," I said, backing up half a step.
He smiled, lazy and satisfied, like I'd just confirmed exactly what he suspected.
"They already do," he said, eyes glinting. "You just don't notice."
I crossed my arms. "You're imagining things."
He leaned in slightly, voice lower, silkier. "Am I?"
Yes. Probably. Maybe not. I turned away before my face could betray me.
And this—this—was why I should've hit him harder.