The morning sun pierced through the haze like golden threads weaving warmth into the earth. Every step Wenyan took stirred the scent of wet soil and crushed leaves, as though the forest itself had just exhaled after holding its breath all night. Their small band walked in silence, the world around them humming softly with the life of insects, birds, and the distant rustle of a squirrel darting through a tree branch.
Wenyan led the way, his hand never far from the hilt of his sword. It wasn't habit—it was fear. Not fear of ambush, but fear of what he now carried. A child who might be the final echo of an ancient power. A woman he could no longer lie to himself about loving. And memories of a father whose legacy he'd never understood until now.
Behind him walked Lianfang, alert but calm, her eyes constantly watching Baoqin, who trailed just ahead of her. The little girl walked quietly, occasionally brushing her fingers through the tall grass lining the road, or humming a melody only she seemed to know. Since Xian Lu's departure, she hadn't asked questions. She hadn't cried either. That unsettled Wenyan more than any tantrum would have.
By midday, they emerged from the thick forest into an open path marked by old boundary stones. Cracked, moss-covered, and half-buried, they were silent witnesses to a history no one living remembered. The road twisted toward the west, toward Shunbei, a fortress town known for ancient archives and quiet scholars who dealt in secrets instead of silver. Wenyan had passed through it once, long ago. If there were answers about Baoqin, the Order, or his father, Shunbei would offer them—if they knew how to ask.
"Wenyan," Lianfang called softly from behind, her voice threading through the quiet like a reed flute. "You've been quiet."
He didn't look back. "So have you."
She picked up her pace until she walked beside him. "I'm worried about Baoqin."
"Me too," he admitted. "But what can I say to her? That she's the last hope of a dying creed? That her blood is the reason men will kill?"
Lianfang frowned. "She's a child. She deserves more than fear and prophecy."
"I don't know how to give her anything else," Wenyan said, his voice tight. "I barely understand what any of this means. My father... the seal in her blood... Xian Lu's warning. It's like I've stepped into someone else's story."
Lianfang turned to study him. "You still carry guilt, don't you?"
He didn't answer immediately. The wind picked up, carrying the dry scent of pine needles and dust.
"I trained under my father," Wenyan finally said. "I wanted to believe in his strength, his vision. But I was blind to where it all led. And now the past is here, alive, asking me to answer for sins I didn't even commit."
"You were a son," Lianfang replied, her tone sharp with truth. "Not a prophet. You can't be blamed for what he kept hidden from you."
Wenyan stopped walking. His shadow stretched long before him in the afternoon light. "Then why does it still feel like my burden to carry?"
Lianfang paused too. "Because you care. Because you're afraid that if you stop blaming yourself, there'll be no one left to carry the memory."
The words settled into the air between them, weighty and raw.
He turned to her. "Why are you still with me?"
The question seemed to catch her off guard.
"You could've left," he continued, his voice softer now. "Back in Yunhe village. Or after we found Baoqin. Every step we've taken since then has only pulled us deeper into danger. And yet you're still here."
Lianfang's gaze held his, unwavering. "Because I chose to be. Because… somewhere along the way, your fight became mine."
Silence again—but not cold. Not bitter. Instead, it shimmered with something unspoken. Wenyan's lips parted, as though he meant to say something else, but his words faltered. And for the first time in many days, his hand fell from his sword hilt.
That night, they set up camp by a narrow stream where fireflies danced like drifting lanterns over the water. Baoqin, exhausted, curled up beside Lianfang, her tiny frame wrapped in the spare cloak they had brought. Lianfang hummed a lullaby under her breath—an old tune, plaintive and tender—until the girl's breathing slowed into the rhythm of sleep.
Wenyan sat across the fire, knees drawn up, his eyes fixed on the reflection of the flames in the stream. The night air was cool, fragrant with damp leaves and a hint of woodsmoke. The stars above shimmered faintly, veiled behind thin clouds that looked like stretched silk.
"I can't keep her safe alone," he said suddenly.
Lianfang glanced up, her fingers still brushing Baoqin's hair.
"I know," she said. "But you don't have to."
He nodded slowly. "It's not just her. It's you too. Every time you put yourself between her and danger, I…" He trailed off, then exhaled hard. "I couldn't bear it if something happened to you."
Lianfang rose slowly, her footsteps soft in the grass as she crossed to sit beside him. The fire cast flickering shadows over her face, but her eyes shone steady and warm.
"We're all walking through the dark, Wenyan," she said. "But that's why we need to hold onto each other."
Her hand found his, resting between them in the grass. Not urgent. Not hesitant. Just real.
Wenyan looked down at their joined hands, then back into her eyes. "I don't want to walk this road without you."
"You won't have to," she whispered.
And in that quiet space between stars and firelight, between the whisper of leaves and the steady breathing of a sleeping child, Wenyan felt something shift—not the world, but something within him. A small, fierce certainty. They might be hunted. They might be outnumbered. But they were not alone.
Not anymore