The faint scent of snow lotus drifted through the quiet room like the first breath of winter descending on a silent mountain pass. It was cold, elegant, and beautifully restrained—exactly like Mo Xingxue herself.
To most, it would have felt purely ethereal, a calm and untouchable fragrance that bloomed quietly, much like frost tracing delicate patterns across bare winter branches.
Yet beneath that pristine chill lingered something else: the faintest thread of bitterness, so subtle it might have escaped anyone less attuned. The scent was thinner than usual, fraying at the edges, as though carefully suppressed emotions had begun seeping through invisible cracks.
Distress. Not loud. And definitely not obvious. But it was unmistakably present.
Su Wanyan's brows softened slightly as she stood near the doorway, her keen alpha senses picking up every nuance. She kept her distance, respecting the invisible boundary that Mo Xingxue's body language had drawn around her.
