The snow clung stubbornly to their cloaks as they stepped out of the pavilion, the frigid wind tugging at the edges of Lily's shawl while Yen brushed off the white dust that powdered his shoulders. He said nothing, only flicked his fingers once—and the cold retreated from his body like a frightened servant. Frost melted from the tips of his gloves before he reached for her waist, guiding her forward with quiet command, his palm warm through the thick fabric of her outerwear. The guards posted at the archway bowed in unison, snow crunching beneath their boots as the couple passed.
Lily's breath fogged in front of her, and she glanced up toward the heavy sky. Pale clouds sagged low over the estate, threatening another quiet storm before dusk. Behind them, the path from the garden pavilion had been entirely carpeted in soft, untouched white—save for their footsteps, which trailed side by side, uneven only because Yen's strides were longer and she always had to catch up.
He led her through the east wing, their boots echoing against the polished stone, until they reached the double doors of his office. As they pushed in, the warmth hit her first. A quiet, dry heat radiated from the hearth, where a low fire smoldered, and the heavy scent of wood polish and parchment filled the chamber. It was not a comfortable room—not in the way a sitting room might offer comfort—but it was familiar, soaked in the quiet weight of Yen's presence. His scent clung to the upholstery, to the curtains, to the grain of the wood itself.
Yen shook the snow from his coat with an elegant flick, then peeled off his gloves and dropped them carelessly onto a nearby side table. "Move her desk," he said to no one in particular—but the command did not go unheard. One of the shadows standing silent by the wall gave the slightest nod, then glided forward, as weightless as smoke.
Within moments, Lily's smaller writing desk—normally stationed behind the screen—was lifted. The shadows did it soundlessly, without breath or word, repositioning her workspace so that it stood directly beside Yen's. Not in front of him, not behind—beside. Close enough that their elbows could nearly brush if she leaned just a little to the left.
The desk was perfectly aligned beside his, and though he did not speak, she could feel the shift in his posture. He liked the symmetry. He liked having her within reach.
Their work began in silence. Outside, snow continued to fall, slow and soft against the frost-laced windows, but within these four walls, time seemed suspended—measured only by the scratching of quills, the turning of pages, and the occasional murmur of parchment unrolling.
Lily worked diligently, her brush steady as she transcribed names, dates, and ceremonial arrangements for the festival. Every now and then, she would pause, adjust her inkstone, or reach for a fresh sheet from the lacquered tray at her side. And at regular intervals—almost rhythmically—she would pour Yen's tea.
The tea set was placed neatly on a small lacquered tray between their desks, the porcelain pot kept warm with a tiny ember-stone nestled beneath it. She poured without needing to ask, filling his cup exactly halfway, the way he preferred. She'd long since memorized the temperature he favored, the blend of leaves he liked this time of year—earthy with a sharp floral finish—and the quiet satisfaction he let slip when it was just right.
He did not thank her. But his eyes flicked toward her when she served him, and once, his fingers grazed hers as he took the cup from her hand.
That was enough.
When she wasn't pouring tea or writing, she ground his ink with slow, circular movements, her wrist turning with practiced care. The stone made a soft, wet sound as the black pooled darker and richer with each motion. Occasionally, he reached across her to dip his brush into the freshly ground ink, not bothering to warn her. Each time, she held her breath—feeling the heat of him so close, the brush of his sleeve against her arm, the dry rasp of his breath at her temple.
They worked that way for hours, only pausing when his shadows entered to deliver new documents or clear away completed ones. At first, the visitations were brief. A slip of parchment here, a bowed head there. But as the afternoon waned, the shadows grew restless.
They began teasing her.
At first, they only watched.
Then one shadow crept close enough to lean against her desk, it tilted inquisitively as if studying the curve of her letterings. Another flicked its fingers toward her ink bowl, almost dipping a clawed nail into it until she swatted at it with a roll of spare parchment.
"Don't," she said under her breath, narrowing her eyes.
The figure recoiled, then let out a sound like muffled laughter—low and rustling, as if leaves were crunching beneath heavy boots.
They kept teasing. One nudged her quill away when she wasn't looking. Another slid her seat back inch by inch until she nearly toppled backward.
She gritted her teeth, tried to ignore them.
Tried.
But when one of them dared to tug at the trailing hem of her robe while she was refilling the ink bowl, she turned swiftly and smacked it across the chest with the rolled parchment.
The shadow staggered back with a dramatic stumble, raising both hands in exaggerated surrender. The others mimicked it, clearly amused.
"Children," she muttered, smoothing her robe and flicking her braid back over her shoulder.
Behind her, Yen had paused his writing.
She froze, spine straightening.
He didn't speak. But when she risked a glance, she found him watching her—pen hovering above his page, expression unreadable.
Then, slowly, he dipped his brush back into the ink.
"They like you," he said softly, as if commenting on the weather.
"...They don't." She smoothed her parchment.
His lips curved faintly. "They don't tease those they don't recognize."
She lowered her eyes again. There it was. A compliment, buried beneath the weight of that aloof voice. Or perhaps another kind of claim.
And the hours passed. The candles melted. The breeze cooled. Outside, the first threads of dusk began weaving through the sky, tinting the world in lavender and smoke.
She wrote until her fingers cramped. He reviewed each page without ceremony. Occasionally, he crossed out an entire section with a single stroke and passed it back to her with only a glance. She corrected it without complaint. She brewed more tea. She ground more ink.
And all the while, the shadows moved like ink spilled across the edges of a dream. And Jang remained, still and eternal outside the door, catching each message passed to him by clawed hand without a word.
Her eyes were heavy now. She laid down her brush and flexed her fingers. Yen, however, was still writing. His brush moved with relentless precision, strokes elegant and cruel.
Then he paused.
He stood, straightening his robes. His silhouette, tall and sharply defined against the lantern glow, towered over the low desk between them. She followed, setting her things aside with quiet obedience.
As she rose, one of the shadows drifted near, tugged gently at her sleeve like a child would a mother's skirt. She blinked down at it, unsure whether to scold or comfort.
Yen's voice came again, cool and certain.
"Leave her."
The shadow stopped, bowed slightly, and vanished into the dark.
She thought they would leave, but he just stretched and cracked his neck before sitting back down. "Rest. I'll just finish this." He said and began writing again.
So she sat again.