The Gate did not forgive. But sometimes… it didn’t interfere either.
After the reunion, there was a different kind of silence between them. No longer the calm of two strangers sharing space. It was the silence of two souls that knew they needed each other.
There were no embraces. No words of welcome.
Only the fire… and two breaths that, without meaning to, began to fall in sync.
Yun Yun woke later than usual that morning.
Her body still ached —from the fall, from the days of isolation, from the fissure where she had survived without certainty.
When she opened her eyes, she didn’t see Zhu Xian.
Only the fire, still burning. And a trail of footprints in the ash.
She stood quickly, alarmed. But before she could call for him —though her instinct wanted to— she heard a familiar sound: the sharp clatter of stone striking stone.
She moved closer, silently.
There he was, crouched in a corner of the refuge, lifting large fragments of rock with both hands.
His palms were bare. Bleeding. The rough bandages he had used in the previous days had torn, and his skin was splitting from the strain.
But his face… remained calm. As if the blood were irrelevant.
—What are you doing? —she asked, not stepping too close.
He didn’t look at her.
—This wall was unstable. If another bone storm hits… it could crush us while we sleep.
—You could’ve waited for me.
—You needed rest. I needed to move stones.
The logic was flawless. Irritating.
Yun Yun didn’t reply. She walked forward silently and knelt beside him.
She took his left hand without asking.
He let her.
He watched her quietly as she pulled a small vial from her sleeve. She had kept it safe since her arrival —an herbal salve from her sect, used to treat the cracked hands of young disciples during winter training. Gently, she began to spread it over his palm.
He didn’t complain. Didn’t thank her.
But his breathing shifted. Slightly.
She noticed something she hadn’t before.
His hands were the hands of a warrior… but also of someone who had carried far more than weapons.
—Why do you do all of this without saying anything? —she whispered.
—Because there’s no one else to do it.
—I don’t mean that.
He looked at her.
She held his gaze.
—You don’t expect gratitude. You don’t seek glory. You don’t take credit. Is it because you think it’s not worth it?
Zhu Xian exhaled, a brief sigh. Not of fatigue… but of quiet resignation.
—It’s not that it isn’t worth it. It’s just… sometimes the most valuable things break when you put a price on them.
Her hand froze for a moment. Trembled slightly.
How could someone speak like that… and still carry the weight of the world?
She finished wrapping his hand with a strip of her inner robe.
Then lifted his other hand.
Repeated the process. Slower this time. More deliberate.
There were no caresses. But there was care.
When she was done, he said quietly:
—Thank you.
She shook her head.
—It’s not for you. It’s for me.
—For you?
—Because… if I didn’t do this, I’d spend the whole day wondering if I survived out of luck… or because you kept protecting something, even when you weren’t sure I’d ever return.
He lowered his gaze.
—And what did you decide?
She placed her hand softly over his chest, just above the steady beat of his heart beneath the robe, stained with dirt and mist.
—I decided it wasn’t luck.
—Then what was it?
Her answer was barely a whisper.
—It was you.
That night, they shared the same space to sleep.
Not because they needed to. But because they could no longer bear the silence of being apart.
They didn’t touch.
But when the embers of the fire died…
His wounded hands and her quiet warmth said more than words ever could.