The pact grew heavier with each passing night. Qinglan's visions sharpened, but so did the toll on her body. Some mornings she woke with bruises along her arms, though she had not moved in her sleep. Other days her head throbbed as though the moon itself pressed down on her skull.
Yet Shen Moxian remained steady. He brought her tea, taught her breathing exercises, and watched with quiet calculation as she practiced writing down her visions. She began to notice the subtle details in him too: how his left hand trembled slightly when he was exhausted, how his eyes softened only when he thought she wasn't looking.
For the first time, Qinglan felt less alone.
"Why help me?" she asked him one evening, as they walked past the old riverbank.
"Because your survival helps me too," he said bluntly, then after a pause added, "But also because I don't want to see you consumed by something you never chose."
His honesty startled her. Perhaps, she thought, trust could still exist in a world ruled by contracts and shadows.
But trust was fragile. And in the distance, Su Wanning's silhouette loomed, smiling too brightly, watching too closely.
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