When the pieces were finished, Lin Yue carefully carried them to the open clearing.
Bowls. Plates. Small pots. And the shallow pan Feng Lihan had shaped.
The clan members gathered slowly, drawn by curiosity. They stared in disbelief, eyes moving from the unfamiliar shapes to Lin Yue's soil-stained hands.
"How did these form?" someone asked.
"They'll break," another muttered. "Soil can't last."
Lin Yue didn't mind the doubt. He smiled gently and answered every question.
"They won't break," he said. "Not yet. They still need fire."
"Fire?" an elder echoed.
Lin Yue nodded. "They must be burned. After that, they'll become hard. Strong."
The clan exchanged uneasy looks, but curiosity won over suspicion.
Lin Yue turned his head and looked at Feng Lihan. "Can you bring some wood?" he asked softly. "We need a fire."
Feng Lihan nodded without hesitation. Within minutes, a large pile of dry wood was stacked neatly. Lin Yue placed the soil dishes carefully inside, arranging them just as he remembered from the images in his mind.
The fire was lit.
Flames rose slowly, heat shimmering in the air. Lin Yue wiped his brow, face smudged with soil, hair messy from work. Mo Shan stood beside him, not much cleaner.
"We'll check them in the evening," Lin Yue said. "If we disturb them now, they'll crack."
The clan lingered for a while, then slowly dispersed, still whispering among themselves.
Soon, only the three of them remained.
Lin Yue looked down at himself and laughed softly. "I'm completely dirty."
Mo Shan glanced at his own hands. "Me too."
Feng Lihan crossed his arms. "You both should go wash," he said. "I'll stay here and watch the fire."
Lin Yue hesitated for a second, then smiled brightly.
"Okay."
Before Mo Shan could react, Lin Yue stepped forward, rose onto his toes, and pressed a quick kiss to Feng Lihan's cheek.
"Thank you, husband," he said happily.
Then he turned and walked away, light steps, humming softly.
Mo Shan stood frozen.
He had seen affection before. Seen bonds. Seen claims made through blood and strength.
But this—this casual tenderness, this unquestioned belonging—burned far deeper.
Feng Lihan watched Lin Yue's retreating figure until he disappeared from sight.
Then he turned his head slowly.
Mo Shan was still there.
Their eyes met.
Feng Lihan's expression was calm—but deliberate. He reached out, adjusted the placement of one of the wooden logs, then spoke without looking away.
"He's trusting," Feng Lihan said. "That's why I protect him."
Mo Shan didn't answer.
Feng Lihan glanced at the fire, then back at him. "And because he is mine."
The words were not loud. They didn't need to be.
Mo Shan's jaw tightened. His hands curled slowly at his sides.
"I saw," he said quietly.
"Good," Feng Lihan replied.
The fire crackled between them, flames reflecting in sharp eyes—hawk and snake standing on opposite sides of warmth and possession.
Far away, Lin Yue laughed as cold water washed soil from his skin, unaware of the silent war being drawn in lines he never intended to cross.
And as the flames burned steadily around the fragile shapes, something else was hardening too—
Not just soil.
But boundaries.