The child, Baoqin, slept curled against Lianfang's side, wrapped in Wenyan's outer robe. Her tiny shoulders trembled even in sleep, as if grief could chase her even through dreams.
Dawn barely lit the marshland beyond the willow trees. A chill hung in the air, and mist curled over the grass like breath from a restless ghost.
Wenyan sat beside the small campfire, sharpening his blade slowly. Not for use—but for control. Each drag of stone over steel steadied him.
"We can't take her with us," he said, voice low.
Lianfang didn't respond. She was humming softly, almost soundlessly—an old lullaby. The kind nannies sang behind silk screens in noble households. Her fingers stroked the girl's tangled hair.
"We don't even know her full name," Wenyan added.
"She knows fear," Lianfang whispered. "That's enough."
He set the blade down. "We're being hunted, Lianfang. Every step we take drags her deeper into danger."
Lianfang finally looked at him, her face lined with exhaustion and something else—something fiercer.
"She has no one. Her father's body is probably floating in that river. What are we if we leave her here?"
Wenyan didn't answer. He didn't need to. They both knew.
They left the marshland by midday, keeping to the woods and dried irrigation paths that twisted around the hills. Wenyan carried Baoqin on his back when her legs tired, and Lianfang kept lookout, eyes scanning every ridge and thicket.
At one point, the girl stirred.
"Are you… married?" she mumbled sleepily.
Wenyan choked on a laugh. "No."
Lianfang turned, surprised.
Baoqin blinked at her. "But you act like it."
Wenyan smirked. "That's the problem."
Lianfang rolled her eyes, but her smile lingered longer than expected.
By evening, they reached an abandoned granary near a defunct orchard. The walls had caved in on one side, but it offered some cover. Wenyan checked for tracks while Lianfang made a rough bed of straw for Baoqin.
"She's too quiet," Lianfang said once they were alone.
"She's seen death," Wenyan replied. "It takes the voice out of you."
Lianfang stared out the broken window, her gaze dark. "I remember the first time I saw a man die. I was twelve. A servant was beaten for spilling wine on my father's robes. I did nothing."
"You were a child."
"I was Xiang Lianfang. That's not the same thing."
Later that night, as they sat together near the fire, Baoqin whispered a question:
"Will my father be waiting in the next town?"
Wenyan hesitated.
Lianfang answered first. "No, little one. He won't."
Baoqin was quiet for a long moment. Then she said, "I thought so."
No tears. Just that.
Wenyan looked at Lianfang. Her jaw was tight, her arms wrapped around the girl protectively.
"We'll keep her safe," she said.
"You sound certain."
"I'm tired of not being certain."
When the moon was high, Wenyan stepped out to scout the road. The night was still, broken only by the sound of frogs and the wind through bare branches.
That's when he saw the mark.
A cloth tied to a tree branch—red silk, folded once.
A signal.
Not from the empire. From the underground network of displaced nobles and former scholars. Those like him.
He returned at once.
"What is it?" Lianfang asked.
"There's someone nearby who might help."
She rose. "Then we go now."
"But—"
"We've already taken in a child. What's one more risk?"
He nodded. And for the first time since Shen Liang's grove, Wenyan let hope reach him again.
They slipped into the night—three figures beneath a silk moon, one of them small but no less burdened. And as they vanished down the narrow trail, Baoqin reached out and took both their hands.
Just for a moment.
It was enough.