The chamber smelled of crushed lotus root and sunstone incense.
Outside the window, moonlight dripped over the sloped roof tiles of the Qi manor, silvering everything it touched. Inside, Ming Yue lay peacefully now—no convulsions, no aura storms. Her skin glowed faintly, and the red stone pendant pulsed like a slow heartbeat.
Qi Longwei stepped into the room alone.
His boots were dusted in moss; his robe wrinkled from two sleepless weeks. No guards, no advisors. Just a father and the fire he failed to hold.
He sat beside her—and broke.
"Do you remember," he whispered, "when I taught you how to tie a hair knot?"
"Do you remember," he whispered, "when I taught you how to tie a hair knot?"
Silence.
"You cried for three minutes. Then laughed because I looked like a porcupine."
His voice cracked.
"I wasn't strong enough then. When they took you as a child—I froze. And now… they nearly took you again."
He touched her hand.
"You were supposed to grow slowly. Not like this. Not through pain."
"I know it had to happen. I know it was necessary. But fate doesn't care that I'm your father."
He bowed his head, and for the first time in many years—Qi Longwei wept.
Outside the door, Qian Fei watched in silence. Her own tears slipped down without interruption, one by one, like petals falling from nowhere.
…
Qi Shen Fei entered not long after. He was pale from blood draws, his eyes sleepless.
He knelt beside Ming Yue, fingers brushing hers.
"You're my twin," he said. "Not just in name. In spirit."
"I was always your shadow. You danced. I stumbled after. You sang. I hummed beside."
He swallowed.
"If you don't wake… then who am I following anymore?"
He rolled up his sleeve again.
"Take more. Take all of it."
A Phoenix alchemist tried to stop him.
He didn't flinch.
"If blood is what links us, then I give mine. Not to fate. To you."
The candle beside her flickered. The aura around her chest brightened—just slightly.
…
One by one, they came.
Wang Li, carrying a wrapped meat bun. He placed it beside the eggnog and whispered:
"I didn't burn it this time, little moon."
Zhang Jia, cradling a bundle of lavender and dried plum blossoms. She tucked them beneath Ming Yue's pillow.
"Don't let the nightmares win, young lady."
Mei Lin, eyes puffy, voice barely a whisper.
"I left you the necklace you said matched your ceremonial boots. Maybe you'll wear it again soon."
…
From somewhere in the drifting quiet, Ming Yue's soul wept.
She saw them. Heard them. Felt them.
Her insecurities—Am I loved? Am I needed? Was I forgotten? —melted beneath the weight of their presence.
She was seen.
She was cherished.
She was everything to them.
And just as her soul began to glow from the warmth—
A nightmare pulled her under.
"When blood remembers, silence is never hollow—each heartbeat is a vow, each tear a thread pulling the soul back home."