Song Meiyu, still mid-wrestle for her second breakfast bun, let out a strangled sound between a gasp and a cough.
Shen Zhenyu turned quickly and buried his face in his sleeve. His shoulders shook once. Maybe twice.
"That was a good one," He Yuying muttered with clear approval, his words muffled by whatever victory breakfast he was currently chewing.
But Shu Mingye wasn't paying attention to them. He just stared at her hand—small, delicate, and colder than anything with a pulse had the right to be.
Linyue had almost forgotten. Her body temperature had been suboptimal for a while now, for reasons even she didn't know. But she was used to it. It wasn't ideal, sure, there were some... inconveniences. Like startling people during handshakes as if she'd just risen from a grave. But she was still breathing, slapping assassins, and walking around without dropping limbs. So really, how bad could it be?
It had, of course, raised concern among others. Mostly the loud kind of concern.
Even Master Yin Xue, the legendary medicine expert known for diagnosing problems with just a glance and a sniff (okay fine, that was an exaggeration, she needed at least two glances and more than three sniffs), had personally checked her from head to toe.
She'd squinted. She'd poked her. She'd mumbled to her herbs.
Finally, she declared, "She's perfectly healthy."
Song Meiyu was not satisfied. "No cold curse? No rare poison? No rare spiritual parasite sucking the warmth from her bones? No ghost beetle living in her spine?"
"Nope. Just… a little frosty."
She'd even brewed a special tea. A "warming tonic." Steam hissed so hard it cracked her own teacup. Linyue drank it politely.
Still cold.
In the end, she waved his hand dramatically and declared,
"It's not a problem, it's just how she is. Some people are born with fire, some with snow. She is snow. Now stop worrying and go freeze someone else's patience."
And that was that.
She stopped thinking too hard about it after that. Life ran more smoothly when you didn't chase questions with no answers. Still, deep down, she didn't quite agree. She didn't remember being born with snow. Her childhood had not included random frostbite. Her hands used to be normal. As normal as a regular child could be.
But now?
Now Shu Mingye stood in front of her, looking at her with narrowed eyes, clearly questioning the laws of human biology, and she had no energy to go through that entire story again.
"It's always been like that," she said plainly.
Then she tried to pull her hand back. It would've been a clean exit. A simple move. Let go, step away, continue being mysterious and emotionally distant.
Except her traitorous brain chose that moment to notice:
His hand was warm.
Not just warm. Unfairly, stupidly, infuriatingly warm. Like sunlight had decided to take physical form just to mock her. She ignored the possibility that she might secretly be part of snowman.
That would explain a lot.
But the real problem?
He didn't let go.
Instead, Shu Mingye did something none of them were emotionally prepared for. He looked down at her hand again, eyes thoughtful. And then without speaking, without explaining, without even changing his expression, he turned and began walking. With her hand still in his. Straight to his horse.
Shu Mingye lifted her onto the saddle with steady hands. Then, without pause, he mounted the horse behind her, one hand still holding hers, the other slipping around her waist.
Linyue stared forward.
Stiff. Silent. Completely still.
This was awkward. Very awkward. Unreasonably awkward.
Her brain tried to file the situation into something reasonable. It failed.
She was now sitting in front of the King of Shulin, his arm around her, on a horse, in front of an audience. Her body was calm. Her mind was shouting.
Behind them, her group was frozen mid-reaction.
Song Meiyu's mouth hung open, the bun forgotten in her hand.
He Yuying turned to look at Shen Zhenyu, slow and deliberate, as if trying to confirm that yes, this was really happening.
Shen Zhenyu looked as if someone had just told him taxes were now optional.
Their collective faces screamed one thing:
"WHAT JUST HAPPENED?"
"Is that allowed?"
"Are we dreaming?"
"Was that a proposal?"
"Should we clap?"
But Shu Mingye, as if none of it were strange at all, clicked his tongue.
The horse began to move.
Dust rose behind them.
The group wordlessly followed, heads still tilted, trying to figure out whether they'd accidentally walked into someone else's romance novel.
And Linyue, despite her expression remaining cool and unbothered… was mentally screaming into the void.
"HELLO??" her thoughts yelled. "NO ONE'S GOING TO SAY ANYTHING? NO QUESTIONS? NO CONCERNS? NOTHING???"
Nope.
Apparently not.
The only sound was the quiet rhythm of hooves and wind.
The imperial palace awaited.
And so did a thousand more awkward moments.
Shu Mingye was still visibly unsettled by how cold her hand had been. Not just mildly cold. Deep, unnatural cold. It had felt wrong. But when he pointed it out, she had simply brushed it off, calm and casual.
So... he moved on. It was not his problem anyway.
There were bigger things to think about.
Especially after what he saw the night before—the chaos, the flying kicks, the horrifying half-smile that may haunt dreams for weeks, and the princess slapping an assassin straight into early retirement—he came to a very firm conclusion:
He was certain. She wasn't the real princess.
Elegant? Yes. Capable? Absolutely. But not the helpless, soft-spoken Second Princess whose records he had read cover to cover.
He had already sent one of his most trusted men east. Quiet, fast, thorough. His orders were clear: dig up everything. Every scroll, every servant whisper, every hidden clue. He needed to know who this group truly was.
Because this wasn't a normal traveling group.
They walked into trouble. They caused accidents. They fought like untrained geniuses and survived disasters through sheer force of weird teamwork. It was like they never agreed on a plan, but still came out on top anyway.
He didn't know what their goal was. It could be just replacement, could be assassination, could be spies or could be anything. For now, he would keep watching. And if they tried anything dangerous… anything foolish… anything suspicious…
Then they'd find out exactly why his name was spoken in whispers and warnings.
He was merciless.
Rumors always had a seed of truth and his happened to be fertilized with blood.
Still, it was almost amusing now.
The so-called princess sat quietly in front of him on his horse. Calm. Silent. Still. Not fidgeting. Not talking. Not screaming in terror. Just… existing. With an unnerving amount of peace.
Shu Mingye had never carried anything alive on his horse before. He had never carried anyone like this before. Living things weren't usually part of the job.
Corpses? Yes.
Poisoned scrolls? Often.
A cart of stolen swords once? Long story.
But to his surprise, her presence didn't make him uncomfortable. And that was the part that bothered him.
He glanced at her side profile. Her gaze was forward, steady. Not a twitch of emotion. Too quiet. Too at ease. A little too… suspicious.
Curiosity nudged him.
He leaned in, just a little. To whisper something? To startle her? Maybe just to test the waters of proximity?
But then, he paused.
There was a scent. A lingering trace of something strangely familiar.
Sweet, delicate, and fresh.
Gardenia.
Like the smell of gardenia after the rain.
His mother's favorite flower. The one that used to bloom along every path in the palace gardens.
It hit him like a memory—clear, cool, and slightly out of place in the middle of horse rides.
Involuntarily, he leaned closer, sniffed once more. Just once.
Then again.
… And again.
Before—