Three years later.
Jiangnan. The air damp with rain.
I pour tea in a quiet inn, hands steady, though my heart isn't. Every clink of porcelain echoes like a memory.
A traveler enters. His robes are soaked. He hesitates in the doorway—just a breath—and then steps inside.
His eyes... I know them.
He sits. His silence is deliberate, almost reverent. Then: "Miss, have you heard the story of Lord Yuheng?"
My hands falter. I pour tea, and the spout trembles slightly. I don't look up.
He accepts the cup. His fingers brush mine—barely—and my breath catches.
His fan opens. Painted across it: a broken strand of prayer beads.
My throat closes. A scar peeks from beneath his sleeve. Jagged. Familiar.
The cup tips. Hot tea spills across his hand. I gasp. "I—"
"Merchant girls are rude, remember?" he says softly.
My eyes sting. "You shouldn't be here."
He takes my hand. Slowly. Gently. As if testing whether the world will allow it. He guides my fingers to the scar. "Less than what once burned," he says.
I stare at him. Really stare. The dampness of his lashes. The faint crease at the corner of his mouth. The way he watches me like I might vanish if he blinks.
For a heartbeat, I see it all: The rain-soaked courtyard. His sword at my door. The chains. The blood. The moment he sealed the demon inside himself. The years I waited. The nights I dreamed.
I tremble. Then, without words, I fall into him.
His arms close around me. No hesitation. No restraint.
This time, nothing will keep us apart.