At sunrise, a faint veil stuck to the capital. The streets were quiet, as if the city itself shrank away from the northern district.
Ling Yue traveled in a plain carriage guarded by black-armored guards. At the lead, on a tall horse, rode Yan Xi himself—his dark clothes fluttering like a shadow against the climbing sun.
No Emperor had ventured his face among the ill, but the Regent galloped into the very center of the plague quarter, as if challenging death to strike at him.
The nearer they drew, the more oppressive became the air. The reek of putrescence lingered in the narrow streets. Pleas of misery floated from shuttered houses. Families nailed strips of yellow talismans to their doors, hopelessly attempting to keep death at bay.
When the soldiers broke open a barricade, angry voices erupted.
"Back off!"
"Don't bring more plague!"
"Where is the court when we are dying?"
Yan Xi's eyes swept coldly over the mass. Instantly, the guards brought up their weapons, stifling protest.
Ling Yue alighted from the carriage. She disdained the fear in the people's eyes, their recoiling. Instead, she went forward, removing the veil from her face.
"Bring me the sickest of them," she said, her voice steady but audible above the clamor.
The crowd froze, taken aback by her equanimity. Shepherded slowly forward was a woman who half-carried her husband. His face was deathly pale, his lips blue, his breath labored. He seemed already at the door of death.
The wife's knees dropped to the ground. "Please, if you can save him—
Ling Yue knelt. Her hand clamped to the man's wrist, her brow creasing. The fever blazed like fire in his blood, but under it she felt something darker—an unnatural poison, bitter and cutting, entwined in his blood.
This was no mere illness. Poison had been seeded into the plague.
Her eyes flashed, but her face did not reveal what she knew.
From horseback, Yan Xi observed her closely, his wolfish eyes sparkling. "Well, girl? Can you do what my doctors could not?"
Ling Yue produced a small pouch from her sleeve. She tore it open, releasing crushed herbs, their aroma pungent and bitter. She mixed them swiftly with water from a soldier's flask and poured the liquid to the man's lips.
The mob held its breath.
Moments stretched. The man's body convulsed, his wife crying out in alarm—then he heaved, vomiting black bile onto the dirt. His chest rose sharply, then again, steadier than before. The fever in his skin ebbed as if a tide had receded.
Gasps erupted.
"It's working!"
"She saved him!"
"An immortal has descended!"
Yan Xi's gaze did not leave Ling Yue. A slow smile curved his lips—dangerous, intrigued, almost hungry.
"You bet with boldness," he murmured, his words low enough for her alone. "But tell me—was that true healing… or merely a stay of execution?"
Ling Yue stood her ground, meeting his eyes. "Does it make a difference, Regent? To them, he lives."
Her words cut sharper than any knife.
And for the first time, Yan Xi laughed—softly, blackly, the sound rumbling through the plague-scarred street like the growl of a wolf.