Haoran and Ye Hongyan walked hand in hand in the woods, and although they are silent, the atmosphere was not awkward at all.
Their fingers stayed linked, warm skin resting against warm skin, moving together along a winding dirt path covered in soft pine needles.
The heavy smell of smoke, blood, and burning stone that had choked the grand pavilions of the clan estate was entirely absent here.
Out among the tall cedar trunks and tangled bamboo groves, the air tasted clean and sweet, washed by the mountain frost and carrying the crisp perfume of damp earth and crushed mint.
Neither of them spoke.
For hours, both of them had been surrounded by shouting sentries, clashing steel, severed heads, and the crushing weight of ancient grievances finally torn open to the bone.
To walk beside one another without needing to issue a single command, without having to calculate a scheme or guard against an assassin's blade, was a rare and precious refuge.
