Mei Ling hated empty courtyards.
They reminded her too much of the night her village burned—silence before screams. She liked training when everyone else was drunk on celebration wine. No eyes on her scar. No whispers about "that commoner girl who got lucky."
Her sword cut air in clean arcs, wind qi whistling behind the edge. Each strike sent a training dummy staggering. She pushed harder, ignoring the dull throb in her side where old scar tissue pulled.
Focus. Just focus.
The engagement announcement sat like lead in her gut. Jian Hao's hand on her earlier had felt like ownership. She'd wanted to draw steel right there.
But the sect master had been clear: alliances over everything. Her dead family had no say.
A soft footstep at the gate.
She spun, blade level.
Li Wei.
He looked… different. Not the hollow-eyed wreck from the arena hours ago. Hair messy like always, but eyes clear, shoulders square. In his hand—a small white bottle.
"You're supposed to be gone," she said, lowering the sword but not sheathing it.
"Couldn't sleep." He gave a half-smile, the kind that didn't reach his eyes. "Figured you might be out here."
She eyed the bottle. "What's that?"
"Pill I threw together. For the pain." He tossed it lightly.
She snatched it mid-air. Popped the cork. The scent hit her—familiar herbs, same ones she'd palmed to him years back when no one was looking.
Her throat tightened. "How'd you—"
"Made it." He shrugged, leaning against the gatepost like he belonged there. "Turns out near-death experiences make you creative."
"You're talking nonsense."
"Probably." He stepped closer—slow, careful. "But you wince every time you swing left. I remember."
Mei Ling's grip on the sword hilt tightened. "I don't need charity."
"It's not charity." His voice dropped. "It's thanks. For the herbs back then. They kept me breathing long enough to… well, not die quietly."
She stared at him. Something in his face looked raw, unguarded. Not the broken kid from the arena. Not quite the hopeful boy from before the poison either.
She dry-swallowed. "Fine. But if this is poison—"
He laughed—short, rough. "If I wanted you dead, I'd have done it cleaner."
She popped the pill. Warmth spread fast, easing the ache. Too fast. Her qi stirred, restless.
"How—?"
"Long story." He glanced away. "Short version: I got a second chance. And I'm not wasting it being useless."
Mei Ling studied him. The moonlight caught the faint scar on his own palm—old burn from some alchemy mishap years ago. She remembered bandaging it once, pretending it was nothing.
"Why come to me?" she asked quietly.
"Because you're the only one who ever treated me like I wasn't already dead."
Silence stretched. Wind rustled leaves.
She sheathed her sword. "Get out of here before someone sees you. Banished means banished."
He nodded, but didn't move right away. "If you ever need another pill… or just someone to spar with…"
"Go."
He turned, then paused. "Mei Ling?"
"What?"
"Thanks for not looking away today. In the arena. Meant something."
She didn't answer. Just watched him disappear into shadows.
The pill's warmth lingered. So did his words.
For the first time in years, the quiet didn't feel so heavy.