The moon hung high, pale and unmoving.
Yan Rui lay awake in the Cold Courtyard, staring at the paper ceiling above him. The silence here wasn't comforting — it pressed on his skin like a second robe.
He had read every scroll. Every fate.
None ended well.
The chill outside crept in through the cracks in the wood, brushing over his bare neck. Still, he didn't pull the blanket tighter. He welcomed the cold. It reminded him that he was still real — still fighting to stay Yan Rui, not become another forgotten name.
At some point, he must've dozed off.
Because suddenly, he was standing.
Not in the room.
But by a lake.
Mist swirled across the surface, thick and silver, and the moon shimmered in long ribbons on the water. The trees here were dead — their branches sharp as spears, pointing at the sky like accusations.
He turned, searching for something — for anything real.
Then he saw her.
A woman in red stood knee-deep in the lake, her long black hair drifting like ink in the water. Her eyes were blank. Her face beautiful but bruised, like a painting left out in the rain.
Yan Rui's throat tightened.
> "Who are you?" he called softly.
She didn't speak.
She simply raised one hand — slow, trembling — and pointed downward.
Into the water.
> Beneath.
Suddenly, the lake shimmered. The reflection of the moon broke. And beneath the surface, he saw it:
Eyes.
Golden, slitted, watching him from below.
He stepped back.
The dream shattered.
---
He woke with a jolt, breath caught in his throat.
Morning light filtered faintly through the rice-paper walls. Outside, the frost had not yet melted. His robe was damp at the back. His palms were cold.
> It was a dream.
Just a dream.
But something about the woman's face lingered.
He rose, pulled on the heavier robe the servants had left, and stepped out into the courtyard. The mist still clung to the ground. Not as thick as in the dream, but close.
There was a small pond tucked into one corner of the garden, half-covered by ice. He knelt by it slowly, ignoring the sting in his knees.
The water was still.
He reached down, brushing away a layer of frozen leaves…
And his fingers touched something hard.
He pulled.
A small wooden box surfaced — aged, water-warped, and sealed with a silk ribbon nearly dissolved by time.
His heartbeat quickened.
Inside was a scroll. Smaller than the others. Hidden. Personal.
The handwriting was rough and hurried.
> If you've found this, then you are not the first to question him.
> The Lord does not take offerings. He chooses keys.
You were not brought here to serve. You were brought here to remember.
I failed. I tried to love him.
Don't make the same mistake.
> — X.J.
Yan Rui stared at the initials.
Xue Jin.
The same name from the records. The one who bit his tongue before the binding ceremony.
> He didn't fail by dying. He failed by… loving Mo Jue?
The parchment trembled in Yan Rui's hand.
Something about the dream… the woman… the voice beneath the water…
It wasn't just warning him.
It was calling him.
---
Far above, in his tower of glass and gold, Mo Jue stood with his back to the wind.
He gazed east, toward the lake. Toward the Cold Courtyard. A small smile touched his lips — not cruel, not warm.
Something between curiosity and memory.
> "It's beginning," he whispered.
---
[End of Chapter 3]