The bells rang late that morning.
Not from laziness—no, the outpost was already a hive of motion by the time the first chime echoed through the halls—but because the bell ringer had been summoned to the southern watchtower for a health inspection. A coincidence, surely. Or perhaps not.
Yunhua was awake long before the sound reached her new window.
The room she now occupied was no longer part of the common dormitories. At some point—quietly, without ceremony or approval—she'd been moved to a private chamber nestled along the officers' corridor, tucked between a records room and a disused storage alcove. A room with a real door. A real lock. A solitary bed with no creaking bunk above it. It was still small, nothing compared to the fancy and intricately decorated chambers of Lady Sairen, but it was all hers.
It was Sairen's doing, of course. A subtle elevation, a separation under the guise of necessity. And no one had questioned it. Not aloud.
Yunhua had not resisted the move. She had simply walked there, stepped inside, and unpacked her things without saying a word.
She hadn't slept, though her eyes had been closed for most of the night. Her thoughts had run in tight, painful circles—Rowan's voice, Sairen's touch, the frostroot wilting at the edge of its planter box. All things that should not coexist, and yet, in her life, now did.
She sat on the edge of her cot, robe loosely draped over her shoulders, as the sunlight crept across the floor in bars. She hadn't even bothered to braid her hair.
There was a knock at the door. One soft, two firm.
Not Sairen's rhythm.
She opened it, pulse quickening.
It was Rowan.
Not in armor. Not in a cloak. Just her—wind-chapped and raw-faced, hair in a loose ponytail, as if she'd come straight from the stables. It felt almost wrong and unnatural coming face to face like this after so long.
Yunhua didn't speak, momentarily stunned. She stepped back wordlessly and let her in.
Rowan stood in the center of the small room, eyes scanning the walls like she was searching for something to anchor her. There wasn't much she could find though as the room was barely decorated.
Almost empty.
"I thought it was just a rumour when I heard you were moved to a separate room." She finally said.
"So you came to check." It came out more as a statement than a question.
Rowan hesitated. "No... I actually don't know why I even came." She muttered, unsure.
Yunhua almost bristled at that, but then she saw the defeated look on Rowan's face.
"I guess I wanted to hurt myself again. Or maybe I'm trying to... I don't know what I'm t trying to do actually..."
Yunhua opened her mouth, then closed it again. What could she say to that? She wanted to argue, but she had no ground to stand on.
"I know you," Rowan went on, taking a step closer. "You keep people out because it's easier than being hurt again. I get that. I do. But you let her in. And it stings."
She didn't need to say the name. Yunhua flinched anyway.
"I let her in because I thought she saw me," Yunhua said quietly.
"She saw you," Rowan snapped, "like a wolf sees a rabbit."
That stung more than Yunhua had expected. "You don't know her."
"I don't need to," Rowan said, eyes flashing. "I know how she looks at people. How she looks at you. Like she's pulling you apart with her hands, and smiling while she does it."
Yunhua felt herself closing up, curling inward like a touched fern. "I'm not yours to protect."
"I know," Rowan said, suddenly weary. "But I thought... maybe you were still you. Still... mine. Even if you never were." She murmured towards the end, as if unsure if she should've said that in the first place.
But that cracked something.
Rowan turned before Yunhua could speak, her expression carved from something brittle and ancient. "Us... this is just a mess now. I don't think I can fight for someone who's already gave up on themselves."
Then she left.
---
The sky had turned the color of wet parchment by the time Yunhua found herself drifting into the inner courtyard. The plum trees were just beginning to bud—early, reckless things that didn't know better than to wait.
She stood beneath one, staring at its branches, her hand curled loosely around the hem of her tunic.
"Did you mean what you said to her?"
The voice made her jump. Not Rowan's this time.
Sairen.
She stood nearby, wrapped in a robe of slate gray, her hair down today, long and dark as a river. Her eyes were unreadable.
Yunhua said nothing.
Sairen approached slowly. "I saw her leaving your quarters. She was upset."
Yunhua looked away. "We argued."
"Of course you did," Sairen said, tone feather-light. "You always argue when you're trying not to admit what you want."
Yunhua turned back toward the plum tree, jaw clenched.
Sairen stepped closer, too close, as always. "You know what I admire about you, Yunhua? You're like these blossoms. Fragile... and foolish."
"I'm not—"
"You are," Sairen interrupted. "Still pretending that what you shared with her was anything more than a moment. A small flame. And you keep feeding it with your breath, thinking it will grow."
Yunhua's breath hitched.
"She doesn't see what I see," Sairen said. "She never has. You're clever. Cold when you need to be. You don't need the kind of warmth she offers. You were made for different soil."
Yunhua stepped back. "Don't speak of her like that."
Sairen raised a brow. "I'm not speaking of her. I'm speaking of you. You, who can't seem to choose."
Yunhua glared. "You think I haven't chosen?"
"Oh, I think you have," Sairen murmured, stepping into the light. "You just don't like the truth of your own decision."
Yunhua stared at her, breath shallow. "And what truth is that?"
Sairen smiled.
"You came to my bed because you wanted someone to see you. To tell you you were strong, desirable, needed. Not like a friend. Not like a sister. Like a woman. You wanted to be claimed."
Yunhua flushed, backing away. "You're wrong."
"I'm right," Sairen said, too softly and Yunhua could feel an almost perverted satisfaction linger in her tone. "And you know it. You've already bloomed in my hands, Yunhua. You just don't want to admit the roots run deep."
She turned and walked away, leaving Yunhua standing beneath the blooming plum tree.
The wind stirred. One pale blossom drifted down, brushing Yunhua's shoulder before falling to the ground.
---
There was a commotion in the southern barracks—a minor scuffle between two apprentices over a forged requisition. Yunhua was summoned to tend to a broken nose and a fractured wrist.
She worked in silence, cleaning blood and binding gauze, ignoring the eyes on her. The air buzzed with rumors. They whispered about Sairen's visits to the infirmary, her casual strolls through the officer's quarters. How she'd been seen speaking with Yunhua in the moonlight.
She kept her head down and her hands steady.
Afterward, she lingered by the apothecary shelves, pretending to inventory dried roots she'd counted yesterday.
Footsteps approached behind her.
She knew who it was before he spoke.
"You're unraveling."
Master Irel. His voice was quiet, but it carried a weight that made Yunhua's stomach twist.
"I'm fine," she said.
"I doubt that," he replied, sidling up beside her. "You look like a frostroot left in the sun."
She glanced at him, managing a faint scoff. "Still fond of plant metaphors, old man?"
"I'm fond of things that grow the right way," he said, peering into a jar. "Not things forced into bloom before they're ready."
Yunhua turned her gaze back to the shelf. "I'm still doing my work."
"You are," he admitted. "But that's not what I'm talking about."
He took one of the jars from her hands and set it aside. "I'm talking about you. The part of you that used to look me in the eye and argue when I said something foolish. The one who secretly laughed, once, when I spilled fire pepper tincture on my beard."
"I was seventeen," she muttered.
"You were kinder to yourself," he corrected, voice softening. "Now you're careful. Guarded. Hollow."
She didn't reply for a moment.
"Lately everyone seems interested in me and my personal business, it seems." She stated bitterly.
"I don't care about rumors," Irel said after a pause. "But I care about you."
Yunhua's throat tightened. Her hands curled loosely at her sides.
"You've changed," he said. "Subtle at first. Not anymore."
She swallowed. "People change."
"Yes," he said, looking at her fully now. "But not all change is growth."
Silence settled again.
Then, finally, Yunhua sighed and muttered, "You're still an old man saying too much."
Irel smiled. "Maybe. But I'd rather say too much than watch you drown in silence."
He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder—warm, familiar. "Be careful who you let plant things in your heart, Yunhua."
She didn't reply.
She didn't know how.
---
Later, alone again, Yunhua sat in silence.
She did not know what she was doing anymore. She did not know who she was trying to be.
She remembered the way Rowan looked at her this morning, the tremble in her voice. The vulnerability. And how, despite all of it, Yunhua hadn't reached for her.
Sairen's words echoed louder.
You came to my bed because you wanted to be claimed.
Maybe. Maybe not. But she had let it happen. Let herself be consumed by something that wasn't love, wasn't safety. Just a kind of hunger. And that hunger took more from her than she wanted it to.
She closed her eyes.
She didn't cry.
She didn't sleep.
She sat there, back straight, as the candle burned down and the shadows crept over the floor, and waited for something to change.