Consciousness returned to Xu Qianyi not as a sudden awakening, but as a slow, painful tide. First came the light—gentle, morning sun that warmed her eyelids and painted the darkness behind them a soft, blurry gold.
Then, the scent: the familiar, comforting aroma of sanded rosewood and the nocturnal perfume of night-blooming jasmine that always filled her chambers. It was the scent of home, of safety. Finally, sensation: the impossibly soft, cool embrace of silk sheets against her skin, and beneath that, a deep, throbbing ache that had taken root in every muscle, every bone, a symphony of pain conducted by her new husband.
The memories flooded in, unbidden and brutal. The wedding cup, raised in a toast. The bitter aftertaste of the drugged wine that had followed. The cold, calculating look in Shěn Míngxuān's eyes as her limbs grew heavy.
The damp, rough stone of the dungeon, the searing questions she couldn't answer, the bite of cold in the pit, the blinding pain of Yisha's desperate healing, and the long, dark walk through the forest on legs of water.
The last, clear image was the warm, defiant crimson glow of the lanterns on Forget-Sorrows Street, a promise of sanctuary. She had made it. She remembered collapsing, and the distant, echoing sound of her mother's voice, a lifeline in the fog.
She felt a weight on her hand, a warm, anchoring pressure. Tilting her head slowly on the pillow, a movement that sent a fresh spike of pain through her neck, she saw Yisha. Her sister was slumped on a plush cushion on the floor, fast asleep.
Her head was pillowed on her arms on the mattress, her face turned towards Qianyi, and her long, slender fingers were still tightly laced with her own. Even in the peace of sleep, Yisha's face was not serene; it was etched with the lingering ghosts of worry and exhaustion, a faint line between her brows.
Qianyi's gaze, heavy-lidded, drifted further. In a high-backed chair of dark wood positioned near the door, as if standing guard, sat the broad-shouldered frame of Li Wei. The morning sun silhouetted him, casting his form in shadow and outlining the sharp lines of his shoulders and jaw.
He was asleep, his head tilted back against the chair, his arms crossed over his chest in a posture that was anything but restful. It was the vigilant rest of a warrior, ready to spring into action at the slightest sound. She remembered, vaguely, the low rumble of his voice in the haze. He had been there all along.
As if sensing her wakeful gaze, Li Wei stirred. He stretched his arms, a powerful, fluid motion, and a yawn escaped his lips, his eyes squeezed shut. In that unguarded moment, a shaft of morning light caught the waterfall of his hair, a brilliant, stark white, like the first, untrodden frost of deepest winter. When his eyes fluttered open, they connected directly with Qianyi's.
He froze. Every line of his powerful body locked in place. His arms were still high above his head, his mouth comically wide, the yawn trapped in his throat. The usual mantle of cold, unshakeable grace he wore like a second skin had utterly shattered, leaving behind only a young man caught in a moment of profound and undignified surprise.
A weak, hoarse laugh bubbled up from Qianyi's chest, which immediately devolved into a fit of dry, wracking coughs.
The sound stirred Yisha. A long, thin, glistening strand of drool stretched from the corner of her mouth to the silk of her sleeve as she slowly, groggily, raised her head. She blinked, her eyes focusing first on Qianyi, then on the frozen statue of Li Wei.
"Qiānqiān," she mumbled, a groggy smile spreading across her face. She stretched her neck, bones popping softly. Her eyes, now clearer, fixed on Li Wei's awkward pose. "I think you broke him. Can we keep him?"
The spell was broken. Li Wei quickly composed himself, lowering his arms and smoothing his expression back into its customary mask of icy coolness. "Bì zuǐ!" he snapped, though there was no real heat in it.
Yisha, now fully awake, grinned. "Make me!"
"Then I suppose you don't want any Shuāng Mì Táng Sū," he countered smoothly, rising to his full, imposing height. "I was going to make a fresh batch this morning, but I just remembered, I have so much work to get done around the pavilion." He made a show of brushing non-existent dust from his heavy, soft black outer robe.
Yisha's face morphed into a mask of theatrical devastation. She crawled across the floor on her knees, grabbing the hem of his garment with both hands. "Dàgē," she whined, her voice dripping with pitiful reverence.
"The most powerful demon in the realm, after Mother! Your grace puts the winter moon to shame, your power chills the very sun! And no one, no one, can make Frost-Honey Crisp like you! You wouldn't really abandon your poor, wounded, starving little sister to suffer such culinary deprivation, would you?"
"Brat," Li Wei and Qianyi said in perfect, exasperated unison.
A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched Li Wei's lips. "Fine," he caved, as if he hadn't been planning to do it all along. He pulled a spotless white handkerchief from his sleeve and, with a tenderness that belied his fearsome reputation, gently wiped the remaining drool from the corner of Yisha's mouth, shaking his head in mock despair. "I'll go prepare a batch. You two," he commanded, his gaze sweeping over them, "rest."
As he slipped silently from the room, a comfortable quiet settled in his wake. The morning sun poured generously through the latticed window, and in its clear, forgiving light, the legendary beauty of the two young women was on full display, a stark contrast to the bruises and grime of the night before.
Qianyi was the very picture of classic, celestial elegance. Propped against a mountain of silk pillows, she seemed carved from moonstone and polished jade. Her skin was flawlessly pale, holding a translucent, almost luminous quality, as if a soft, inner light glowed from within her bones.
Her face was a perfect oval, framed by a cascade of hair as dark and smooth as a midnight lake, flowing over her shoulders in a river of spilled ink. The purple and yellow bruises marring her cheekbone were but temporary, mortal flaws on a priceless, immortal painting. Her eyes, shaped like slender willow leaves, swept gracefully towards her temples, their sharp intelligence now clouded with pain.
Beside her, Yisha was her radiant, earthly counterpart. Where Qianyi was cool serenity, Yisha was vibrant, untamable life. She had climbed onto the bed, curling up beside her sister like a loyal hound, and the sunlight seemed to celebrate her very existence. It set the rich, warm brown of her skin aglow, as if both sun and moon had agreed to dance upon its surface.
Her face was a constellation of charming features: high cheekbones that swept up toward eyes bright with innate mischief, and a full, expressive mouth made for laughter and defiant shouts. The intricate micro-braids of her hair, now slightly mussed from sleep, cascaded around her shoulders like a crown of woven shadows.
A soft, tentative knock on the door broke the stillness, accompanied by the faint murmur of feminine voices. Just outside Qianyi's bedroom door, a small group of young women hovered, listening, waiting for the right moment to intrude upon the convalescence.
"Do I hear three peonies blooming?" Yisha joked, her voice still rough but warming with affection.
The girls outside giggled, the sound like a cascade of silver bells.
Before Qianyi could call out a welcome, the door slid open without a sound. Xuán Líng stood there, having approached with the silence of a falling feather. She was an immovable mountain of serene power, her presence instantly recalibrating the energy of the room.
The three dancers—Mei, Lan, and Ju, the deadliest assassins in the province disguised as courtesans, immediately fell silent, their playful demeanors vanishing as they bowed their heads in respect.
Her gaze, ancient and knowing, swept past them and fixed onto her two injured daughters in the bed. Her expression was, as ever, unreadable, a placid lake hiding unfathomable depths. But the weight of her attention was absolute, demanding focus.
"Good," she said, her voice a low murmur that commanded silence more effectively than a shout. "You are all here. Now," she began, her eyes, burning with a faint, hidden fire, settling on Yisha and then tracing the bruises on Qianyi's face and body, "from the beginning. Leave nothing out."
Yisha took a shaky breath, the memory darkening her bright eyes. "Their clan is declining. I heard whispers when I went to get QianQian something to eat during the banquet. Shěn Míngxuān had left her sitting at the high table alone all night." Her hands clenched in the silk sheets.
"So, I went to the kitchens, and on my way back, I saw Shěn Qíngcāng talking to some girl in a shadowed corridor—he called her Líng'ér. He said he'd let her marry Shěn Míngxuān after he got the… the thing from Qianyi. Something called a Bǎoxǐ."
Xuán Líng's placid mask fractured. "Tiānmìng Bǎoxǐ?" she asked, her voice sharpening. The concern on her face intensified into a rare, unmistakable alarm that sent a chill through the room.
"Dui. Tiānmìng Bǎoxǐ," Yisha confirmed, the words feeling heavy on her tongue. "Then Shěn Míngxuān walked up to them, and he asked… he asked if they could just kill her and transfer it to Líng'ér."
A collective, sharp intake of breath came from the Three Peonies. "Shěn Qíngcāng said not to kill her yet because he had other plans. Shěn Míngxuān asked what they would tell you about us. And Shěn Qíngcāng said you were wealthy but still just a woman and they'd just say I got jealous and tried to attack Qianqian and was accidentally killed by a guard."
Mei, the eldest and fiercest of the Three Peonies, sucked her teeth in a sound of pure, venomous disbelief. "That doesn't make any sense. The arrogance!"
"I went back to warn Qianqian," Yisha continued, her voice dropping to a haunted whisper. "But when I got to her room, they were already carrying her out, and she was barely conscious. Shěn Míngxuān told the guards to find me and kill me, and that I was already poisoned. I checked my core and, sure enough, my qi was suppressed, sluggish as frozen mud. It must have been the incense in the bridal chamber."
Mei's delicate hand clenched into a fist so tight her knuckles turned white. "I never liked him. His aura was weak, his smile was false, and he was—"
Xuán Líng did not turn her head, but she gave Mei a sharp, sidelong look that was less a glance and more a physical force. It commanded not just silence, but utter submission. Mei's words ceased instantly, her head bowing in immediate deference. "I followed them," Yisha pressed on, her own fists now clenched. "They took her to a secluded courtyard behind the main manor, but it was heavily guarded, and I couldn't get close. But when I heard her scream, I—"
Her voice broke. The memory of that sound, a lance of pure agony through the night, was too much. Yisha's watery eyes unleashed a flood of tears, her body trembling with the force of suppressed sobs.
Qianyi, her own eyes glistening, immediately placed her hand over Yisha's. A moment later, Xuán Líng moved. She stepped forward and gently, deliberately, placed her own hand on top of theirs, a silent gesture of unity, of shared fury, of absolute support.
"Continue, my child," Xuán Líng softly commanded, her voice now a soothing, deadly calm.
"Even though I couldn't summon my qi, I still took half the guards down with my bare hands," Yisha gasped through her tears, a spark of defiant pride in her eyes. "And when Shěn Míngxuān came—I could have killed him, I could have torn his throat out if I had my—"
"You did so well, ShaSha," Qianyi interrupted, her voice firm despite its weakness. She squeezed her sister's hand. "You saved us. You are the reason we are here."
At that moment, Li Wei silently re-entered the room. He carried a small, exquisite plate of the golden, honey-drizzled pastries he had promised. His expression was grim, all earlier amusement gone. "Zhǔrén," he said, his voice cutting through the emotional atmosphere like a shard of ice. "They're here. And they're making a scene at the main entrance."
"Shěn Míngxuān?" Xuán Líng asked, though it was not truly a question. The name was a curse on her lips. "Who came with him?"
"He has a small contingent of guards waiting outside the pavilion, trying to look imposing. But it's just him and his personal servant who dared to cross our threshold."
The line of Xuán Líng's mouth curved upward. It was not a grin, not a smile of joy, but the sleek, satisfied expression of a predator whose prey has just blindly wandered into its den. It was a silent signal, sent and received and understood in an instant by Li Wei. His own stoic face echoed the same, terrifying amusement, a cold light igniting in his winter-pale eyes.
The air around him grew perceptibly colder, a wave of frost beginning to crystallize on the dark wood of the doorframe beside him, tiny, intricate ferns of ice spreading in a silent, beautiful threat.
"A'Wei," Xuán Líng's voice called, quiet as the settling snow. "It's been quite a while since I've let you play. Would you like a new toy?"
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© 2025 Kiesha Richardson, writing as QiXia. All rights reserved.
Death Blooms for You is an original work of fiction by QiXia. Unauthorized reproduction, distribution, or adaptation of this story in any form is prohibited. All characters, events, and settings are created for entertainment purposes and bear no intentional resemblance to real persons or situations.