Thirty-fourth day, late afternoon
The column had turned westward, entering the foothills that separated river marshes from the imperial high-road.
A volcanic seam riddled the cliffs here, feeding half a dozen thermal springs that tumbled into slate basins, steaming even in summer.
Scouts reported the path safe, the pools secluded; Shen granted half a day's rest—horses needed it, men needed it, and truthfully his own shoulders ached from carrying a night's worth of almosts.
Camp Etiquette and the Order of Bathing
Regulations were clear: pools staggered by rank, sentries posted, no mixed bathing.
First interval belonged to wounded and officers; second to cadets and rankers; last to servants and grooms.
Yue, still favouring a wrapped ankle, was waved into the first interval with the injured—a practical courtesy, not a privilege, the healer insisted.
She welcomed the chance to soak away smoke-grime and the lingering tremor of a beam that had tried to become her coffin.
The Secluded Pool
A switch-back path led to the uppermost basin, cupped in russet rock and screened by stands of cinnamon-bamboo.
Steam rose in slow-motion clouds, carrying the scent of wet stone and wild mint.
A single sentry—an older scout half-blind in one eye—stood at the fork; beyond him the path narrowed to deer-width.
Yue saluted, limped upward until even birdsong thinned.
She found the pool mirror-still, moon-grey in the fading light, fringed with icicles of mineral lace.
No footprints but her own.
She set down fresh clothes, soap-root, and the small iron swan charm she never let strangers handle.
Then she unbuckled blade, bracer, breast-binder, and slipped into water hot enough to scald doubt.
Water and War Thoughts
Heat loosened knots she hadn't noticed.
Steam blurred the edges of the world; sound softened to her own pulse and the drip-drip of condensation.
She thought of the almost-kiss, of fingers hovering mid-air, of the way Shen's voice had cracked on the word "here".
The memory should have felt sweet; instead it frightened her—not of him, but of herself, of how badly she had wanted the gap between breaths to close.
She ducked under, letting current carry the thought away, resurfaced with a gasp that sounded suspiciously like a laugh.
The Prince Seeking Solitude
Shen, finished with officer reports, dismissed his body-guards with the rare order: "Stand below the fork, let no one ascend".
He needed quiet more than cleanliness—a place where titles did not echo.
He took a lower path, misjudged a turn, and emerged higher than intended, towel over shoulder, civilian robe loosely belted.
The sentry, half-blind and certain the upper pool was empty of all but ghosts, merely nodded.
Shen stepped through bamboo—and stopped mid-stride.
The Unintended Glance
Steam parted like silk curtains.
Yue stood waist-deep, back to him, water streaming from hair that reached the hollow between shoulder-blades.
A scar crossed her left ribs—pale, thin, souvenir of a border raid years ago—catching lantern-light like a thread of silver.
One hand held the soap-root; the other lifted to wring out her hair, motion graceful and utterly unguarded.
For one heartbeat Shen forgot how to breathe.
Heat that had been water became blood, rushing in his ears louder than any battlefield drum.
He stepped back, bamboo rustled; she spun, dropping into a crouch that sent ripples across the pool.
Mutual Embarrassment
Eyes met—hers wide, his darker than twilight—then both looked anywhere else: sky, rock, steam, their own feet.
He spoke first, voice rough.
"I— the sentry said— I did not know—"
"I believe you," she cut in, cheeks flaming hotter than the spring.
She sank to chin-level, arms crossed over chest, grateful for mineral clouds.
He pivoted, presenting his back with rigid correctness, towel clenched in white knuckles.
"Forgive the intrusion.
I will withdraw."
But the path required him to skirt the pool's lip; steam thinned, stones were slick, and haste made mis-step—he slipped to one knee, robe sliding off shoulder.
A startled grunt escaped him; mortification flashed across his face like wild-fire.
The Gentle Rescue She Didn't Need
Instinct overrode modesty; she waded halfway, extended a hand to steady him.
He accepted without thinking, then realised her fingers were water-warm and slick, and jerked back—almost toppling again.
She caught his wrist this time, firm as on any drill ground.
"Highness, sit before the mountain claims us both."
Her tone was soldier-practical; the tremor in it was not.
He lowered himself onto a flat boulder, eyes fixed on distant peaks, towel now draped across lap like a shield.
Steam rose between them, merciful veil.
The Accidental Conversation
Minutes passed in silence broken only by drip and distant sentry cough.
Gradually colour receded from throats and ears.
She spoke softly.
"We have seen each other in mud, smoke, and starlight.
Water should not shame us more."
A rueful smile tugged his mouth.
"Shame, no.
But—" He exhaled.
"Regulation states—"
"Regulation did not slip on wet stone," she finished, and to her surprise he laughed—a short, shaken sound that ended in a sigh.
He risked a sideways glance; she was studying the moon's reflection, chin resting on forearms at pool-edge.
He looked away again, but slower.
Shared Practicality
She asked for her soap-root pouch; he located it without turning, tossed under-hand.
Their fingers brushed mid-air—lightning through steam—then parted.
She lathered hair, he studied bamboo nodes as if they held the secret of empire.
When she finished, she cleared her throat.
"I will face the rock while you wash.
Fairness, not favour."
He managed a nod; she pivoted, giving the same courtesy he had tried to grant.
Water rippled as he entered downstream; she heard the controlled intake of breath—heat biting skin—then the quiet splash of rinsing.
Neither spoke again until the final swirl of water stilled.
The Exit Ritual
She dressed first behind a boulder, called "Clear," and stepped out wrapped in quilted robe, hair twisted in linen.
He emerged belted and barefoot, hair dripping.
They met on the path, both studying the moss rather than each other.
He spoke formally.
"This incident remains unrecorded."
She answered with equal gravity.
"As unrecorded as the heartbeat that caused the slip."
His head snapped up; her eyes held steady—no mockery, only acknowledgment.
Colour rose again, but something like relief flickered across his features.
They descended in single file, careful distance between them, yet each footfall sounded louder than before, as if the mountain itself listened.
Below the Fork – Sentry's Curiosity
The one-eyed scout saluted, then frowned at twin pairs of wet footprints.
"Pool satisfactory, sir?"
"Satisfactory," they answered in unison, voices overlapping.
The scout's eyebrow climbed; he turned away, humming a love-ballad older than either of them.
They split at the camp perimeter—he to command tent, she to healer's fire—without goodbye, as if words might betray more than silence already had.
Separate Bedrolls – Same Moon
Later, tents up, fires low, both lay awake under different canvas, listening to the same night insects.
He stared at the roof where steam still ghosted across lantern-light; she traced the scar the moon had seen, feeling it tingle under phantom soap.
Neither regretted the water; both feared the ripples.
Somewhere between one cricket call and the next, each admitted the same truth: the almost-kiss in the tunnel had been easier to survive than the almost-touch in paradise.
But dawn drills would come, and war waited beyond the next ridge; tonight they hoarded the memory like a secret too tender to name, letting it warm them long after the spring had turned cold.