Moonlight spilled like cold jade through the tall latticed windows of Xuě Jìng's chamber. It poured across the polished floor, over embroidered silk rugs, and onto the fox-king's pale hands. He sat at the edge of the window, nursing the sting on his neck and right arm. Dried blood outlined sharp crescent marks—deep, precise, deliberate. Marks only one could leave: Lóng Wēi's.
Xuě Jìng pressed a damp cloth to the wound, flinching at the cold touch. On his lap lay a single lock of black hair, slightly curled at the end—the only trace Lóng Wēi had left behind. He studied it, chest tightening, heart hammering with anger, fear, and something unnameable.
"He… he speaks like he's already a ribbon Dao," Xuě Jìng murmured, voice low, nearly swallowed by the chamber's silence.
"But I know now… Wēi—or something close to it. That dragon-marked right arm… the tiny red dragon-shaped gem over his temple… And the eyes… he hides them. Always. Never reveals them. How am I to read him?"
The cloth stung the wound; he hissed sharply. "He doesn't even understand himself… and perhaps neither do I."
The bruise darkened further as Xuě Jìng leaned against the cold windowpane. Somewhere in the mansion, faint guqin and bamboo flute melodies drifted—his father, Jìng Yēn, no doubt entertaining guests with refined etiquette. The elegance only deepened the fox-king's irritation.
Where was my father when I needed him? teeth grinding, he thought.
Lóng Wēi had destroyed everything: Xuě Jìng's carefully laid plans, the opportunity he had been waiting for, the ceremony prepared over generations. He could almost taste the ruin in the air—the loss of something he could not yet define but instinctively knew was critical.
He recalled Lóng Wēi's smooth, predatory voice: "You get red so easily… Angry little furball."
Anger flared hotter than pain. His chest tightened with humiliation, longing, and frustration. Even the names of his servants slipped from his mind—years of obedience under Jìng Yēn's rigid guidance left him weary. Countless texts and scrolls from his studies, some untouched for years, crowded his memory. And if his father discovered his failure, he would surely be scolded.
"I can't even remember the others… and father? He didn't come. Didn't check. Nothing. And these wounds—right before the ceremony… while I must appear at the academy tomorrow?"
He huffed and pressed a palm to his face. "How can I go like this? I can't even heal… I look like a failure wrapped in gold."
Xuě Jìng was not only a ribbon Dao; he also served as a teacher at the academy where he had once studied. And now, injured just before the grand ceremony of his father's kingdom, his frustration burned hotter than the pain in his flesh.
A soft knock at the door drew him from his spiral of thought. The damp cloth slipped from his fingers.
"Enter," he called, voice brittle.
The door opened quietly. Jiǔ Chén stepped in, fox ears alert, carrying a golden tray of food. Concern softened his sharp features, yet his posture remained disciplined.
"You have not eaten, ribbon Dao Xuě Jìng," Jiǔ Chén said carefully, placing the tray before him. "How fare your wounds?"
Xuě Jìng tucked the black lock into a nearby drawer. Jiǔ Chén's gaze flicked toward it, briefly, but he said nothing.
"Better… arm mostly. Neck… still tender," Xuě Jìng replied.
Jiǔ Chén nodded, setting the tray with precise care. "You must not starve. The staff… the guards… and I would all worry."
"We?" Xuě Jìng arched a brow, voice tight.
"All of us. Personally, I would," Jiǔ Chén said firmly.
The weight of devotion pressed against Xuě Jìng's chest, slicing through his anger and exhaustion. He softened, voice breaking slightly.
"Thank you… for intervening today. You disobeyed my orders… for me."
"It is my honor to serve and protect you, always," Jiǔ Chén said, bowing slightly, serene and steadfast.
Xuě Jìng studied him. Jiǔ Chén was more than a servant. Years of loyalty, patience, and quiet understanding had forged a rare trust between them.
"And your dream?" Xuě Jìng asked suddenly, quiet but firm.
Jiǔ Chén blinked, ears flicking. "My dream?"
"Yes. I have never asked anyone. Perhaps you deserve one question… at least one."
Jiǔ Chén's tail stilled, ears upright. "To serve at your side—not merely as a guard, but as your right hand."
A shadow of a smile touched Xuě Jìng's lips. "Then from tonight… you shall be."
Jiǔ Chén's gasp was soft. He bowed deeply, in the traditional Chinese manner, graceful and reverent. Xuě Jìng gently lifted a hand to stop him. "Is it… too early? Too sudden?"
"No need to bow as though I am divine. Only gods deserve worship. We mortal yao live long, yes—but we may die sooner than we imagine."
Jiǔ Chén straightened, chest rising and falling rapidly.
"I am honored, ribbon Dao Xuě Jìng… yet…"
"Yet?" Xuě Jìng blinked, curiosity sharpening.
"I… have a wish. Perhaps foolish," Jiǔ Chén whispered, lowering his head and fox ears.
"Speak it."
"May I… embrace you? Just once. To feel what it is to hold gold."
The wind paused, as though listening. Xuě Jìng hesitated, then stepped forward.
"Gold is cold," he murmured, "but an honoring embrace… will harm neither of us."
He opened his arms. Jiǔ Chén stepped forward, trembling, into the fox-king's protective circle.
The embrace was quiet, long, intimate. Jiǔ Chén's head rested on Xuě Jìng's shoulder, heart racing against his chest—warm, fragile, alive.
"You are nervous," Xuě Jìng murmured.
"A little," Jiǔ Chén admitted, eyes closed, ears twitching.
"No need," Xuě Jìng whispered. "Honesty brings no punishment here."
When they parted, Xuě Jìng's hand lingered on Jiǔ Chén's shoulder. "You've earned this. Not merely the title… but my trust."
Jiǔ Chén bowed again, lower this time—not out of duty, but out of something rarer: loyalty tempered by care.
"Thank you… ribbon Dao Xuě Jìng," he whispered. "I will never forget this night."
Jiǔ Chén hesitated at the door, a flicker of worry crossing his features. "Ribbon Dao… perhaps you should reconsider the academy tomorrow. Your wounds… and the ceremony—both are important, but perhaps…"
Xuě Jìng's eyes met his, sharp yet thoughtful. "I will consider it."
Jiǔ Chén nodded, chest rising and falling with rapid breaths. As he turned to leave, a shadow of uncertainty lingered in his gaze. Should he tell Father Yēn Jìng everything? About the wounds, about the intrusion, about Xuě Jìng? The thought tugged at him, but he swallowed it, leaving only the question unanswered in the silent corridor.
"May your night be peaceful. Sleep well. If you require anything, call me. I will come… as long as I live," he said softly, voice almost a song.
He bowed lightly and stepped out. The door closed with a whisper.
Alone, Xuě Jìng returned to the table. Fingers reached for the tray, eating slowly, deliberately. Tentative peace, fragile yet real, settled over him.
When the meal ended, he returned to the window. Moonlight pooled, a silent witness. Xuě Jìng reached for the lock of black hair, twisting it gently around his finger.
"Lóng Wēi… whatever you are," he whispered, voice steady, resolved, simmering with anger and curiosity, "I will uncover your truth."
Beyond the halls, the faint melody of guqin and bamboo flute lingered—a reminder of secrets, glories, dangers yet unseen… and of Lóng Wēi's next move.
Xuě Jìng clenched his fist. His moment had passed. His opportunity was stolen. But next time… he would not falter..