The sun was barely a smudge of grey against the shutters, but the room was already warm with the heavy, lingering heat of the night before.
Yan He wasn't in any rush to meet the morning. He remained tangled in the straw mattress, his legs hooked firmly between Mingzhe's, pinning the Scholar's slimmer frame against his chest. He reached up, his hand moving in a slow, mechanical rhythm to trace the line of Mingzhe's shoulder, before leaning down to press a heavy, damp kiss into the curve of his neck.
"Bells," Yan He muttered, his voice hoarse and low, vibrating against Mingzhe's skin.
He didn't pull away. Instead, he peppered a trail of frantic, soft pecks along the ridge of Mingzhe's collarbone, his stubble scratching against the pale skin. He lingered over a cluster of deep, plum-colored hickies he'd left there last night—dark marks that stood out like ink on parchment, evidence of the moment he'd almost lost his grip on his own restraint.
Mingzhe didn't protest. He lay back against the pillows, his hair a silken mess that smelled of the pine-resin ointment. He reached out, his fingers moving in a slow line to trace the fresh, red scratch marks that ran down Yan He's forearms—angry lines left by his own nails when the exercises had peaked.
"I heard them," Mingzhe whispered, his voice soft, almost dry. He couldn't count how many times they did it yesterday, making his throat sore. They didn't go all the way though. Yan He, in the midst of holding his spread legs together on his left shoulder, decided to do light exercise to sweat.
Mingzhe didn't move to get up. He just turned his head, his gaze catching the way the dawn light softened the hard angles of Yan He's face.
Yan He shifted, the bed frame letting out a sharp, audible creak as he moved higher. He didn't offer a lecture on the road ahead. He just cupped Mingzhe's jaw, his thumb moving in a slow beat against Mingzhe's cheek, before leaning in to press a lingering, honeyed kiss to the very corner of Mingzhe's lips. It was a soft, possessive touch that tasted like sleep and the salt of the night.
"My thighs are sore and hurt," Mingzhe murmured, his breath hitching as Yan He's hand wandered lower, squeezing his hip through the tangled blue silk of his robe. "It's your fault." He complained, his voice lacked strength.
"I'm sorry, little fox," Yan He grunted, eyes glinted in a cunning light. Well, apologized today, do it again later then apologized again. He leaned back just enough to look Mingzhe in the eye, his gaze dark and glass-like. He reached back and gave his neck a hard rub, his fingers grazing the spot where Mingzhe had bitten him. "Geng has been yelling there, I can hear his rough voice like a slaughtered pig."
Mingzhe let out a sharp, loud snort—a ghost of a laugh. He reached up and pulled Yan He back down, his fingers tangling in the messy, damp black strands of the General's hair. He didn't care about the scholars at the gate or the indigo robes in the square. For a heartbeat, the only rhythm that mattered was the steady, heavy thrum of Yan He's heart against his own ribs.
"Let's dress fast, Yan He," Mingzhe whispered against his mouth, even as he pulled him closer.
Yan He didn't answer with words. He just let out a low, vibrating huff and buried his face in Mingzhe's shoulder, his teeth catching on the skin in a final, gentle nibble.
....
The common room was a haze of burnt oil and the low, constant hum of travelers who had been up since before dawn. Geng and A-Li were already halfway through a mountain of oily fried dough, their elbows taking up most of the space on their scarred wooden table.
Yan He didn't just walk down the stairs; he hovered. He stayed a half-step behind Mingzhe, his hand not quite touching the small of the Scholar's back but following the curve of it like he was guiding a prize horse through a crowd. He moved stiffly, his shoulders pulled back, and his eyes didn't even flicker toward the other patrons. He was looking at the way the light caught the messy, soft strands of hair at the nape of Mingzhe's neck.
Mingzhe tripped slightly on a warped floorboard near the bottom step. Before he could even stumble, Yan He's hand was there, fingers curling around his elbow with a heavy, grounding grip that lasted far longer than the moment required.
"Watch the floor, not your sleeves," Yan He muttered, his voice a low, gravelly vibration right against Mingzhe's ear.
Mingzhe didn't pull away. He just shot a spoiled, sharp glare over his shoulder—the kind of look that said he knew exactly why Yan He was staying so close. "The floor is fine. Your hands are just restless."
Yan He didn't back off. He let out a ghost of a snort and leaned in even closer as they approached the table, his breath stirring the fine hairs by Mingzhe's ear. "Maybe. Or maybe you just like the help."
Mingzhe's jaw tightened, suppressing a smile as he sat down with a quiet rustle of blue silk. He pointedly ignored the way Yan He pulled his chair out for him, a gesture so uncharacteristic for the General that Geng actually dropped his chopsticks.
"Morning," Geng grunted, staring at the pair of them. He rubbed a hand over his soot-streaked face and gestured with a greasy chin toward Mingzhe's neck. "Sleep okay? You look like you've been wrestling a bear."
A-Li snorted into his tea, the liquid splashing onto the table. He didn't even bother to wipe it. He just leaned back, his leather armor creaking, and let out a long, slow whistle while his eyes tracked the red scratch marks running down Yan He's forearm.
"Must've been a very active night," A-Li muttered, nudging the soldier next to him. "Hey, Xiao Wu. Did you hear any tigers? I could've sworn the walls were shaking around midnight."
Xiao Wu grinned, leaning in with a look of pure, delighted curiosity. "Not tigers, A-Li. Sounded more like the General was trying to break the furniture. Very... energetic."
Yan He didn't yell. He didn't even look at them. He just sat down next to Mingzhe, his thigh pressing firmly against the Scholar's under the table. He reached out and snagged a steamed bun, ripping it in half with a slow, deliberate focus. He caught Mingzhe looking at him and offered a quick, teasing smirk—the kind that reminded Mingzhe exactly what had happened just above his private parts a few hours ago.
"The bed was lumpy," Yan He said, his voice flat and unapologetic.
"Lumpy," Geng repeated, chewing slowly. "Right. And I suppose those marks on your arm are from the lumpy straw?"
Mingzhe didn't flinch, but his fingers tightened around his teacup. He reached up, his fingers moving in a slow circle to adjust his high collar, trying to hide a particularly dark hickey. "The building is old. The walls are thin. Perhaps you should spend more time checking the horses and less time inventing stories, Geng."
"Oh, we aren't inventing anything, Scholar," A-Li laughed, rubbing his sore shoulder. He leaned in, whispering loud enough for the neighboring table of scholars to hear. "But I think the General's going to need a very soft saddle today. He looks like he's walking on eggshells."
Yan He let out a sharp, warning grunt. He didn't move his leg away from Mingzhe's. He just reached out and gripped the back of Mingzhe's chair, his large hand a heavy, possessive weight that said everything the soldiers were already thinking.
"Eat your fish, A-Li," Yan He ordered, his voice dropping an octave. "Before I decide the road is too short and make you run alongside the horses."
The table erupted into muffled snickering and elbow-poking. The soldiers didn't stop staring, enjoying the dog food being served with their breakfast, while Mingzhe pointedly took a sip of his tea, his eyes meeting Yan He's in a silent, private challenge.
.....
The carriage was a small, blue-silk island in a sea of mud and noise. Inside, Mingzhe was leaning against a stack of cushions, his face a little pale. He'd spent the last few minutes trying to find a way to sit that didn't make his sore thighs complain.
Yan He was leaning through the door, his large hand gripping the frame so hard the wood groaned. He didn't say anything at first. He just looked at Mingzhe, his eyes tracking the way the Scholar's high collar shifted to reveal those dark, fresh marks from the night before.
"The driver has orders to go slow," Yan He muttered, his voice a low, gravelly vibration. He reached in and adjusted a blanket over Mingzhe's knees, his fingers lingering on the fabric.
Mingzhe shot him a spoiled, sharp glare. He looked tired, but his eyes were bright. "He'll have to. If we hit one pothole at full speed, I'm walking the rest of the way. And I'll make sure you're the one carrying me."
Yan He gave a tiny, teasing smirk, his thumb grazing the corner of Mingzhe's mouth before he backed away. "I wouldn't mind the workout."
He straightened up just as a group of scholars approached. They'd been hovering near the horses for ten minutes, whispering and pointing at the military crest on Yan He's saddle—the silver hawk of the Northern Border. Word had traveled fast from the inn's stable hands to the tea houses: the Demon of the North was traveling light and heading for the Capital.
The leader, a young man in a plum-colored robe, stepped forward. He looked terrified but desperate. He held out a heavy silk pouch that clinked with silver.
"General Yan," the scholar said, his voice shaking. "We know who you are. The road through the pass... the bandits have been bold since the thaw. We have coin. We're asking for your protection until the city walls."
Yan He didn't even look at the money. He just stared at the scholar until the younger man started to sweat. "I'm not a mercenary. I don't take silver from kids who can't hold a brush straight."
He pushed the pouch back toward the scholar's chest with the butt of his spear. The clink of the coins was sharp in the sudden quiet.
"Keep your money," Yan He grunted. He reached back and gave his neck a slow rub, his eyes flicking to the carriage where Mingzhe was watching. "You stay behind the supply wagon. If you see trouble, you scream. If I see you causing trouble, I leave you behind. That's the deal."
The scholar blinked, stunned. He looked at his friends, then back at the General. "You... you'll help us for nothing?"
"Not for nothing," Yan He muttered, his gaze landing on a stack of fresh paper tied to the scholar's belt. "If we run out of kindling for the fire, I'm taking your essays."
A-Li snorted from his horse, hiding a grin behind his hand. Geng just shook his head, leaning over to spit into the mud. They knew why the General was being "charitable"—it was the same reason he was checking the carriage springs every five minutes.
"Form up!" Yan He barked, swinging into his saddle with a stiff wince. He didn't look back at the soldiers as they started to tease him with quiet whistles. "Move out before the sun hits the gatehouse!"
The carriage lurched forward, Mingzhe settling into the cushions with a quiet sigh, while the scholars scurried into line behind them, looking at their new, terrifying protectors with a mix of awe and confusion.
The first rest stop was a small clearing by a shallow stream, the water rushing over the rocks with a steady, cold hiss. The soldiers moved with practiced speed, unsaddling horses and starting a small fire, while the scholars' servants scrambled to set up silk folding chairs and portable tea tables.
Su, the young man in the plum robe, stood by his own carriage, wiping dust from his face. He'd been watching the General's horse all morning, fascinated by the way the Demon of the North never moved more than an arm's length from the blue carriage.
The carriage door creaked open.
Yan He didn't wait for a servant. He didn't even wait for Mingzhe to find his footing. He stepped up to the door, his large frame blocking the light. He reached in, his hands disappearing into the shadows for a second before he pulled Mingzhe out—not by the arm, but by lifting him bodily into his arms.
A-Li, who was busy dumping a bag of grain for the horses, let out a sharp, sudden bark of a laugh that he tried to turn into a cough. Geng just stopped mid-stride, a heavy water skin dangling from his hand, his eyes wide as he watched the General carry the Scholar toward a flat, sun-warmed rock near the water.
The stream bubbled over the rocks, but the sound was drowned out by the absolute silence that fell over the scholars' camp.
Su and his friends stopped mid-motion, tea bowls suspended in the air. They weren't just looking at a General carrying a man—they were looking at something that didn't seem to belong in the dusty, harsh reality of a mountain pass.
Mingzhe was usually striking, but today he was dazzling. There was a soft, humid glow to his skin that looked like polished jade, and his eyes had a heavy, liquid depth that only comes from being thoroughly adored. As Yan He stepped out of the carriage shadow, the sunlight hit Mingzhe's face, turning the deep blue of his robes into a shimmering sea. He looked less like a scholar and more like a celestial being who had accidentally tripped into a mortal's arms.
Yan He didn't care about the aesthetics. He just adjusted his grip, his large, scarred hands looking incredibly dark against the pale, glowing silk of Mingzhe's thighs.
[Host, I'm back!] a chirpy, slightly distorted voice echoed in Mingzhe's mind. [I just came out of the black room. Apparently, witnessing unsanctioned high-intensity physical exercises is a no no thingy. Ugh, I should get a bonus for the trauma.]
Mingzhe's expression flickered—a tiny twitch of his lips that he tried to hide against Yan He's shoulder. Shut up, Yize.
[Oh, come on! Look at those marks on your neck!] Yize cackled, the blue light in Mingzhe's subconscious flickering with naughty energy. [Master didn't just love you; he tried to mark you like a territory map. You look like a bitten peach. No wonder the scholars are dropping their tea.]
Yan He set Mingzhe down on a flat, sun-warmed rock near the water. He didn't pull away immediately. He stayed bent over, his thumb brushing a stray, silken hair from Mingzhe's forehead. The movement pulled his sleeve back, showing the angry, red scratches on his forearm—marks that clearly told the story of how the celestial being had fought back in the dark.
"Stop staring," Yan He grunted, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that sent a shiver down Mingzhe's spine. He wasn't talking to Mingzhe; he was looking at Su.
Su blinked, his face turning a bright, panicked red. "G-General. My apologies. We were just... the man... he is very..."
He trailed off, unable to find a word that wasn't an insult to Mingzhe's blinding beauty.
"He's tired," Yan He finished for him, his voice dropping an octave as he sat on the edge of the rock. He didn't give Mingzhe space. He pressed his thigh firmly against the Scholar's, his hand resting possessively on Mingzhe's knee.
A-Li leaned against a nearby tree, tossing a pebble into the stream. He didn't look at the scholars. He just looked at the way Yan He was hovering, acting like a wolf protecting a treasure. "Hey, Geng. Do you think the Demon of the North knows he's feeding the scholars enough dog food to last them until the exams?"
Ever since Mingzhe uses that word, the soldiers couldn't stop saying it either although their dumb brains couldn't process what's the relation between dog food and their General's love story.
Geng snorted, ripping into a piece of jerky. "He knows. He just doesn't care. He wants them to know exactly who the peach belongs to."
Yan He reached into a small pouch and pulled out a piece of dried pear, holding it to Mingzhe's lips. He didn't say a word. He just waited until Mingzhe took a bite, his eyes dark and full of a private, heavy heat that ignored everyone else in the clearing.
The rest stop was a flurry of activity, but it didn't feel like a military camp. It felt like a picnic caught in a storm.
The scholars' servants had been busy. Small low tables were set out on the grass, covered in lacquer boxes filled with lotus seed cakes, dried plums, and almond crackers. The smell of high-grade oolong tea cut through the scent of horse sweat and woodsmoke.
Yan He sat on the rock, his heavy boots dug into the dirt, looking like a dark mountain next to Mingzhe's shimmering, pale blue presence. He didn't move his hand from Mingzhe's knee, even when a few of the younger scholars approached the soldiers' circle with nervous smiles, offering small baskets of spiced nuts and sweet wine in gratitude.
A-Li didn't hesitate. He snagged a handful of the nuts, crunching them loudly. "Now this is an escort. Geng, why didn't we guard poets sooner? Better than eating trail dust and old jerky."
Geng snorted, accepting a small jade cup of wine from a bowing servant. "Don't get used to it. Once we hit the pass, the only thing these kids will be offering is prayers."
A few paces away, the atmosphere was different. Despite the chaos of the camp, two or three scholars had already pulled out their scrolls, leaning against carriage wheels to murmur lines of poetry to themselves, their fingers tracing characters in the air.
Su, the leader in the plum robe, stood a few feet away from the rock where Yan He and Mingzhe sat. He was clutching a small wooden box of candied ginger, his eyes darting between the General's scarred knuckles and Mingzhe's dazzling, glowing face.
[Host, look at him,] Yize chimed in, his voice flickering with a naughty hum. [The boy is terrified.] To be fair, the General is still a terrifying existence to everyone. Only the soldiers can see his slow progress, changing from a frosty face to a more melted snow.
Mingzhe ignored the system, though his fingers tightened slightly on his tea bowl. He looked at Su, his expression softening just enough to be approachable, even though his neck was still aching from Yan He's enthusiasm.
"General," Su stammered, bowing so low he almost dropped the ginger. "And... Master Scholar. We wanted to offer these. They help with the... motion of the carriage. For the stomach."
Yan He didn't reach for the box. He just cut his eyes toward Su, his jaw setting. "The Scholar's stomach is fine. It's his legs that are the problem."
Mingzhe shot Yan He a sharp glare and reached out, his fingers brushing Su's hand as he took the box. The touch was like a jolt; Su looked like he'd just been blessed by a god.
"Thank you, Master Su," Mingzhe said, his voice a soft, dry rasp that sounded like silk on stone. He didn't look at the General. He just opened the box and popped a piece of ginger into his mouth. "The road is long. You should be resting your eyes, not staring at scrolls in the sun."
Su took a tentative step closer, emboldened by the Scholar's voice. He ignored the way Yan He's grip tightened on Mingzhe's knee. "Master... I couldn't help but notice the commentary you were reading earlier. Could I... would you permit a question?"
Yan He let out a low, vibrating huff. He didn't say no, but he shifted his weight, his broad shoulder pressing into Mingzhe's, a clear warning to the young man not to stay too long.
[Oh, he's jealous!] Yize cackled. [This is high-quality entertainment. Host, give him some advice. Show them why you're the most beautiful and the smartest person in this camp.]
Mingzhe adjusted his high collar, hiding a dark hickey with a calm, rhythmic motion of his fingers. "Ask your question, Master Su. But be quick."
The shade under the willow trees was cool, but the air around the flat rock stayed heavy with the scent of high-grade oolong and the spicy tang of the candied ginger Su had brought.
Su didn't sit. He stood a respectful distance away, his fingers twisting the hem of his plum-colored sleeve. He kept stealing glances at Mingzhe—who was glowing with that post-restless, well-loved radiance—and then at the dark, fresh marks peeking out from the Scholar's high collar.
"Master," Su began, his voice dropping into a quiet, earnest tone. "The Winter Levy... the new tax for the border wall. My father says it's a necessity for the North, but the farmers in my province are eating their seed grain to stay alive. My tutors say the law is the spine of the state, but if the spine is breaking the people... is it still a law?"
Mingzhe didn't look down on him. He didn't even sit up straighter. He stayed leaned back against the rock, his shoulder resting comfortably against Yan He's dark cloak. He reached into the wooden box, picking out a piece of ginger with fingers that moved in a slow, careful way.
"Master Su, necessity is a word used by people who don't have to go hungry," Mingzhe said, his voice a soft, dry thread. He popped the ginger into his mouth, his jaw working slowly. "The Emperor wants a wall, but you can't build a wall out of dead farmers. If the law doesn't account for the belly, the law is just a slow way to start a riot. A spine that doesn't bend eventually snaps."
Su blinked, his mouth falling open slightly. He scrambled to pull out a small charcoal stick and a scrap of paper, his hands moving quickly to jot down the thought.
Minzgzhe looked at Su, his eyes softening. "The Decree was written in a warm palace by men who haven't seen a frozen field in twenty years. Laws are just ink. They only have power because we agree they do. When the agreement stops... the ink runs."
Another scholar, a boy in a green robe, stepped closer, emboldened by the quiet atmosphere. "But if the ink runs, Master, what's left?"
"The people," Mingzhe said simply. He reached up, his fingers moving in a slow circle to adjust his collar, hiding a particularly dark hickey. "And the people have a way of remembering who took their grain when the winter was hardest."
The scholars huddled closer, their servants forgotten.
Yan He didn't say a word during the exchange. He just sat there, his large hand a grounding weight on Mingzhe's knee, his thumb pressing firmly into the Scholar's hip. He reached out and snagged a piece of ginger for himself, his eyes tracking the way Mingzhe's lips moved as he spoke.
"Enough politics," Yan He finally grunted, though his voice lacked its usual bite. He stood up, his joints letting out a series of sharp pops. "The tea is cold and the horses are rested. Scholars, keep your notes."
Su bowed so low he almost hit the grass. "Thank you, Master. Thank you."
The sun finally dipped below the ridge, leaving the camp in a thick, blue twilight. Ten carriages were shoved into a rough circle, their drivers cursing as they hauled heavy trunks onto the grass. The air was full of the smell of crushed dry weeds and the metallic tang of unhitched harness chains.
Yan He didn't wait for the dust to settle. He was off his horse and at the blue carriage before the wheels stopped spinning. He yanked the door open, his boots scuffing a cloud of grit into the air.
"Come on," Yan He muttered. He didn't reach for a hand; he just leaned in and hoisted Mingzhe out, his large palms locking under the Scholar's arms.
Mingzhe let out a sharp, pained breath, his fingers digging into Yan He's dark-green sleeves as his feet hit the dirt. He didn't look at the soldiers; he was too busy trying to keep his balance while his sore thighs felt like they were made of glass. He leaned his forehead against Yan He's chest for a second, his breath hot against the General's collar.
"Easy," Yan He grunted, his voice a low vibration that Mingzhe felt more than heard. He kept his hands on Mingzhe's waist, his thumbs pressing firmly into the Scholar's hips to keep him steady.
"I'm fine," Mingzhe whispered, though he didn't move. He adjusted the high silk of his collar, but the fabric shifted, showing a dark, plum-colored mark right under his jaw.
A-Li was nearby, dragging a crate of grain. He didn't stop moving, but he cut his eyes toward them, a grin twitching on his face as he saw the fresh, red scratches running down Yan He's tanned forearm.
"Hey Geng," A-Li called out, tossing a rope over a branch. "Make sure the fire's big. I think the General's still got some restless energy to burn off."
Geng snorted, passing by with two heavy water skins. He didn't even look up. "As long as he doesn't do it near the horses. They've had a long enough day without the extra noise."
Mingzhe finally pulled back, his face a steady, quiet red. He didn't snap at them; he just sat down on a folding stool Yan He had kicked into place, his movements slow and careful.
Su, the plum-robed scholar, walked over with a small ceramic jar, looking hesitant. He'd tucked his long sleeves into his belt to help his servants, and his face was smudged with soot. "General... Master. We have some salted duck. From my home province. We thought... since the road is long..."
Yan He snagged a piece of the duck, his jaw working as he chewed. He didn't say thanks, just gestured with a greasy chin toward the darkening woods. "Keep the lanterns low. We're in the pass. You don't want to be a lighthouse for every bandit within ten miles."
Su nodded, nearly dropping the jar. He looked at Mingzhe, then his eyes snagged on the dark mark on the Scholar's neck. "Master... your neck. Is that a bruise? I have a balm for—"
Yan He's hand moved instantly, his palm landing flat on the back of Mingzhe's neck, his fingers splaying out to cover the hickey entirely. He stared Su down, his eyes flat and glass-like.
"Branch," Yan He said, his voice dropping an octave.
Mingzhe let out a soft, dry rasp of a laugh, his hand resting over Yan He's on his shoulder. "A very stubborn one, Master Su. Don't worry about it. Go check on your tents."
Su scrambled away, his face turning the color of the sunset.
Yan He didn't move his hand. He just leaned down, his stubble grazing Mingzhe's ear. "Eat," Yan He whispered. "Before I decide the branch needs to leave another mark."
The campfire had died down to a faint, pulsing orange eye in the center of the carriage circle. High above, the moon was a thin sliver, blocked by the heavy, drifting clouds that turned the mountain pass into a well of ink.
Inside the blue carriage, the air was warm and smelled of fading jasmine. Yan He was laying beside Mingzhe, his arm draped possessively over the Scholar's waist even in sleep.
Outside, the silence was absolute—until it wasn't.
A pebble skittered. A piece of dry brush let out a tiny, sharp snap. Shadows detached themselves from the darkness of the treeline, moving with the fluid, hungry grace of wolves. They didn't carry torches. They moved by touch and the faint glint of rusted iron.
Old Meng was nothing but a smudge of grey against a jagged rock twenty paces from the perimeter. He didn't breathe. He just watched the first bandit—a man in a grease-stained tunic—creep toward the scholars' luggage.
A-Li was invisible, perched on the roof of the supply wagon, his crossbow leveled and steady. He didn't whistle or shout. He just tracked the movement of the second shadow.
Geng and Xiao Wu were lower down, tucked between the wheels of the outermost carriage. Geng's hand was wrapped around the hilt of his blade, his thumb resting on the guard. He could hear the bandit's ragged breathing now, smelling the sour stench of unwashed skin and cheap wine.
The lead bandit raised a hand, signaling his men to rush the sleeping forms near the embers.
He didn't get the chance.
A-Li's bolt took the man in the shoulder with a dull thwack. Before the scream could even leave the bandit's throat, Old Meng was moving, his blade sliding out of its sheath with a whisper of steel.
The darkness erupted.
"Ambush!" a bandit shrieked, but his voice was cut short by Xiao Wu's heavy boot hitting his chest.
Inside the carriage, Yan He's eyes snapped open. He didn't grope for his sword since he already had it. He sat up in one fluid, silent motion, his hand immediately landing on Mingzhe's chest to keep him pinned to the cushions.
"Stay," Yan He whispered, his voice a low, vibrating growl that cut through the sudden chaos outside.
Outside, the sound of the fight was a series of wet thuds, the sharp clack of Su's wood staff, and the rhythmic, metallic shink of Geng's blade finding a gap in leather armor.
Yan He didn't move to the door. He stayed pinned to the cushions, his large hand a warm, heavy anchor across Mingzhe's chest, holding him down. He was listening to the cadence of the breathing outside, his jaw working slowly.
"Meng's got the ridge," Yan He muttered, his voice low that barely traveled an inch. "A-Li is on the roof. They don't need me for this trash."
Mingzhe lay still, his heart thudding against Yan He's palm. He could hear Su shouting something—a raw, panicked grunt as he brought his staff down on someone's shins. Then came the sound of Master Lin's thin blade whistling, followed by a choked gasp from a bandit who had clearly underestimated a soft scholar.
"They're actually hitting people," Mingzhe whispered, his breath hot against Yan He's neck.
"They better be," Yan He grunted. He shifted, his thigh pressing firmly against Mingzhe's sore leg, a possessive weight. "I didn't waste my tea listening to them talk about the belly of the people just for them to get gutted by a bunch of mountain rats. If they can't handle twelve hungry men with rusted knives, they'll never survive the court."
Outside, the chaos peaked and then began to fade into a series of retreating footsteps and Geng's rough, breathless cursing.
"Clear!" A-Li's voice barked from the roof of the supply wagon. He sounded bored, the rhythmic thrum of him rewinding his crossbow echoing in the sudden quiet. "Old Meng is tracking the runners. Geng, check the plum-robe kid—he's got blood on his sleeve and he looks like he's about to puke."
"I'm fine!" Su's voice cracked, sounding raw and shaky. "I... I think I broke my staff."
"Buy a new one in the Capital," Geng's voice grunted, followed by the sound of him wiping a blade on a dead man's tunic. "Not bad for a bunch of ink-pots. You stayed in line."
Inside the carriage, Yan He finally let out a long, slow breath. He didn't get up to check the perimeter. He just leaned his forehead against Mingzhe's, his stubble scratching the Scholar's cheek.
"See?" Yan He whispered, his hand sliding up from Mingzhe's chest to cup his jaw, his thumb grazing the dark hickey he'd left there. "Ink-pots with teeth. Maybe there's hope for the Ministry after all."
Mingzhe reached up, his fingers tangling in the messy strands of Yan He's dark hair, pulling him closer despite the soreness in his body. "You're just lazy, General."
"I'm busy," Yan He muttered, his mouth finding the corner of Mingzhe's lips in a slow, private smirk as the camp outside began the messy work of cleaning up the bodies.
.....
The clash of steel outside was fading into the rhythmic, wet sounds of the stream and the low, muffled swearing of the soldiers as they dragged the bodies toward the treeline. Inside the blue carriage, the world was reduced to the scent of fading blood and the heavy, humid heat of two bodies pressed together in the dark.
Yan He didn't move to check the door. He didn't even ask if the perimeter was secure. He knew the weight of Geng's footsteps and the specific way A-Li clicked his tongue when a fight was over. Instead, he stayed pinned to the cushions, his large, scarred hand sliding from Mingzhe's chest to cup the back of his neck, his thumb tracing the dark, plum-colored hickey he'd left there earlier.
"You're shaking," Yan He muttered, his voice a low, gravelly vibration against Mingzhe's temple.
Mingzhe let out a soft, dry rasp of a laugh, his fingers digging into the dark-green silk of Yan He's shoulders. He wasn't shaking from fear—he'd seen enough blood in his life to know the smell of it—but the adrenaline was a sharp, electric hum in his veins that made his sore muscles twitch.
"I'm not," Mingzhe whispered, though he leaned closer into the heat of the General's chest. "I'm just... thinking about Su. He actually hit someone."
"He did," Yan He grunted. He shifted his weight, his heavy thigh sliding between Mingzhe's legs, a slow, heavy pressure that made the Scholar's breath hitch. He started to trail a line of heavy, damp kisses along Mingzhe's jawline, his stubble scratching against the pale, glowing skin. "Forget Su. He's alive. You're here."
He leaned down, his mouth finding the sensitive dip where Mingzhe's neck met his shoulder. He bit down—not hard, but enough to leave a fresh throb that matched the heartbeat in Mingzhe's throat.
Mingzhe thought, his eyes fluttering shut as Yan He's hands moved lower, his large palms sliding under the blue silk of Mingzhe's robe to find the bare, feverish skin of his waist.
Yan He didn't use words to comfort him. He used the heavy, possessive weight of his body, pinning Mingzhe into the soft cushions until the Scholar felt like he was melting into the fabric itself. Every touch was slow, deliberate, and full of a private, hungry heat that ignored the blood on the grass outside.
"You're too loud when you're worried," Yan He whispered against his lips, his hand sliding down to squeeze Mingzhe's sore thigh, a sharp spark of pain that immediately turned into a blooming, heavy ache.
Mingzhe reached up, his fingers tangling in the messy, dark strands of Yan He's hair, pulling him down until their breaths were one. He felt the salt of Yan He's skin and the steady, mechanical thrum of a heart that beat only for him.
"Then make me quiet, General," Mingzhe breathed, his eyes catching a stray glint of starlight before Yan He's mouth covered his, drowning the sound of the camp and the dying fire in a slow, honeyed flood of touch.
Outside, the soldiers were leaning against the carriage wheels, sharing a quiet jar of wine and ignoring the repeated creak of the blue silk carriage that had nothing to do with the wind.
.....
The morning air was crisp, smelling of damp pine and the lingering metallic ghost of the night's scuffle. The carriage circle was a hive of frantic energy. Servants were scrubbing bloodstains from the grass with handfuls of dry weeds, while the young scholars gathered in a tight, animated huddle near the remnants of the fire.
"I'm telling you, I felt the wind of his blade," Master Lin was saying, his voice a pitch higher than usual. He was miming a shaky parry with a piece of leftover firewood. "If I hadn't stepped back, I'd be a head shorter. My heart is still hitting my ribs like a drum."
Su was sitting on a crate, his plum-colored sleeves rolled up to reveal a spectacular bruise on his forearm. He looked exhausted, but there was a new, steady light in his eyes. "You didn't step back, Lin. You tripped over a teapot. But you did get him in the shoulder. I saw it."
"I thought we were dead," another scholar whispered, clutching a bowl of steaming congee like a lifeline. "When the shadows moved... I actually started reciting my funeral rites."
The chatter died down abruptly as the door to the blue carriage creaked open.
Yan He stepped out into the light, and even the soldiers paused. He looked like a lion that had just spent the night feasting on honey. At 190cm, he towered over the scholars, his broad shoulders stretching the dark-green fabric of his tunic. His skin was a deep, weathered tan, and the morning sun caught the sharp line of the scar running along his jaw and the small, dark mole sitting just above his right brow.
He looked... groomed. His hair wasn't its usual wind-blown mess, and there was a terrifyingly calm, satisfied glow to his face that made him look younger, more dangerous, and devastatingly handsome all at once.
He walked toward the fire with a slow, heavy deliberation. As he passed A-Li, the soldier's ears twitched. There was a low, vibrating sound coming from the General's throat—not a growl, but a genuine, rhythmic purr of contentment.
"Morning, General," A-Li muttered, hiding a smirk behind a handful of grain. "You sound... cheerful."
Yan He didn't even glare at him. He just reached out and snagged a clean bucket, his muscles rippling under his sleeves. "Water," Yan He grunted, his voice a deep, honeyed rasp. "Is the spring water warm yet? I need a basin. And some clean towels."
Geng snorted, leaning against a carriage wheel as he wiped down his blade. "Warm water? Since when do you care if it's warm, General? Usually, you just dunk your head in the stream and call it a day."
"The Scholar's skin is sensitive," Yan He said simply. He didn't lower his voice. He didn't care who heard. He just stood there, looking like a king who had successfully guarded his treasure. "Get the water, Geng. And tell the cook the congee needs more ginger. Mingzhe's throat is dry."
The scholars went silent, their eyes darting from Yan He's satisfied face to the closed curtains of the blue carriage. They weren't stupid; they could see the fresh, red scratches on the General's neck that his collar didn't quite cover, and the way he was moving with a light, almost bouncy step that didn't match his usual iron-heavy gait.
[Hot damn, Host! I just came back!] Yize's voice hummed inside the carriage where Mingzhe was still buried under a pile of silk blankets. [Host, are you okay? Uh, you look thoroughly eaten inside out.] Yize made a grimacing face, eyes shining brightly. What a performance last night was!
Mingzhe let out a soft, muffled groan from under the covers, his face flushing a deep crimson. I'm going to kill him. I'm actually going to kill him.
Outside, Yan He took the basin of warm water from a dazed-looking servant. He didn't head for the stream. He turned right back toward the carriage, his shadow long and possessive across the camp.
"If any of you start shouting poetry," Yan He called out over his shoulder, his voice dropping an octave, "I'll make you wash the blood off the horses' hooves. The Scholar is sleeping. Keep it down."
The carriage door clicked shut, and for a heartbeat, the camp was so still you could hear the water in the basin sloshing. Then, like a dam breaking, the silence evaporated into a frantic, low-voiced hum of disbelief.
Su stood there, his plum-colored sleeve half-dipped in his washbowl, his eyes fixed on the blue silk curtains. "Did he just... purr?" Su whispered, his voice cracking. "I didn't think a man of that size was capable of making a sound that didn't involve grinding teeth."
Master Lin, who was still trying to scrub a dark spot off his boot, leaned in close. "He looked like he'd been scrubbed with expensive soap. And that mole above his brow—did you see it? I thought the Demon of the North was supposed to be a literal monster, not... that."
"He's beautiful," a younger scholar murmured, then immediately went scarlet when he realized he'd said it out loud. "In a... very masculine, terrifying way. Obviously."
A-Li snorted, tossing a handful of dry kindling into the fire. He didn't look up, but his grin was wide enough to show his back teeth. "Beautiful? You kids have a funny way of putting it. Back at the border, we just say he looks like he's finally found a bone he doesn't want to share."
Geng sat on a nearby crate, sharpening a small knife with a steady, rhythmic shick-shick sound. He didn't stop moving, but his eyes were full of a dark, amused heat. "Warm water. Ginger congee. Since when did our General become a chambermaid? I've seen that man sleep in a frozen trench for three weeks without complaining about the temperature of his tea."
"It's the Scholar," Xiao Wu added, leaning against a carriage wheel while he chewed on a piece of leftover duck. He lowered his voice, nodding toward the blue carriage. "Did you see the scratches on the General's neck? And the way he was walking? Like he was floating. That man inside is doing more than just teaching him the classics, I'll tell you that much."
The scholars huddled closer, their curiosity finally outweighing their fear. Su took a tentative step toward Geng. "Is... is the Master Scholar always that delicate? He seemed so strong yesterday when he was talking about the laws. But this morning..."
"Delicate?" A-Li laughed, a sharp, sudden sound that made a few servants jump. "Master Su, if you think that man is delicate, you haven't been paying attention. You saw the bandits. You saw how the General stayed inside the carriage? He wasn't protecting a delicate flower. He was enjoying the view."
Geng stopped sharpening his knife and pointed the tip toward the scholars. "Listen to the veterans. When a man like Yan He starts purring and asking for towels, it means he's been thoroughly handled. That Scholar might look like a piece of jade, but he's the only person in this empire who can make the Demon of the North beg for warm water."
"You kids want to know how they really met?" A-Li's voice dropped, losing its playful edge. "It wasn't a romantic falling at first sight love story. It was in the mud of the Northern tributary, ten years into a war that had turned us all into ghosts. We were starving, eating rusted arrowheads for hope, and the General... he was losing it."
Geng stopped his whetstone. The silence of the camp suddenly felt as heavy as the Great Black Tent. "The scout came in shaking," Geng muttered, staring into the embers. "Told us there was a celestial phantom washing in a river of blood ten li out. We thought it was a trap. A poisoner sent by the Eight Tribes to lure the General into the dark."
"I was there," Xiao Wu whispered, his usual mischief replaced by a haunting memory. "We rode out like demons. The General was ready to snap the neck of whatever saint dared to look clean in a graveyard. And there Mingzhe was... standing behind a boulder, white robes against the black mud, looking like he'd fallen from a star and was offended by our dust."
A-Li leaned forward, his eyes bright in the firelight. "Yan He shot an arrow that should've shattered the rock and the man behind it. Mingzhe didn't even blink. He just stepped out, wiped a speck of blood from his cheek, and looked the General in the eye. No fear. No begging. Just that regal, bored patience that still makes the General crazy today."
"He threw him in the iron cage," Geng added, his voice a low rasp. "Tied his wrists with hemp until they bled. Called him a spy and denied him water. We all watched this beautiful young man sit in the dirt of that cage, his white robes spreading out like a lotus in a pigsty."
The scholars were breathless, Su's charcoal stick completely still. The lion they saw purring this morning had once been a man who shackled his miracle and treated him like a dog.
"The development?" A-Li let out a dry, short laugh. "It wasn't a romance. It was a war of wills."
"You think he was always this soft?" A-Li snorted, shaking his head. "The morning after the river incident that almost destroyed our camp, the camp became a graveyard of mud. The General waded through that sludge like a golem made of silt and spite. He went to that iron cage to break a spy. He probably was going to roar or threaten... and then he saw him."
Geng stopped his whetstone entirely, the silence punctuating the story. "Mingzhe was a wreck," Geng muttered. "Drowned rat doesn't even cover it. His white silk was transparent, plastered to him like a second skin, shivering so hard the iron bars were rattling. And he didn't beg for his life. You know what he did? He sniffled."
"He complained about his laundry!" A-Li barked a short, disbelieving laugh. "The General is standing there with a shredded cape and bleeding knuckles, and this prisoner looks him in the eye and tells him the heavens have a personal vendetta against his soap. He looked so pathetic and pitiful like a spoiled young master that the General—the man who executes traitors without blinking—just stood there looking like he'd accidentally kicked a puppy."
Xiao Wu grinned, poking the fire with a stick. "The General lost his mind. He roared for a tub—a clean one! He told Han if there was a speck of mud in the water, he'd have his rank. But the best part? Mingzhe wouldn't walk. He looked at the mud between the cage and the tent like it was a pit of vipers. He told the General he'd rather the flood had taken him than walk through the camp looking disgraceful in front of us."
"So Yan He carried him," Geng said, his voice flat with lingering shock. "Personally. Like he was carrying the last intact banner of the empire. He tucked the Scholar's head into his neck so none of us could see his face—or the wet silk. He strode through the mud like it wasn't there, his heart hammering so loud Han could hear it from ten paces away."
The scholars exchanged wide-eyed looks. Su whispered, "He carried him... because of the mud?"
"Because of the pride," A-Li corrected, his eyes dancing. "Once they were in the tent, it got weirder. The General snaps the hemp ropes with a dagger, and Mingzhe just sits there on the General's own wolf-fur cot, looking at his red wrists like a bullied immortal. He told the General his fingers were too numb to wash. He nearly had the Third Prince of Yan acting as a bathmaid."
"He pushed it right to the edge," Geng added, looking at the blue carriage. "The General almost remembered he was a predator. He backed off behind his strategy screen, growling about guards and assassins just to remind himself he was still in charge. But he stayed there, listening to the water splash, probably gripping his desk so hard he left permanent finger-marks in the wood."
The scholars gasped. Su focused on an entirely random, unnecessary point. "But..how do you all know what happened in the tent? Do you soldiers just gone to the General's tent and look at the Scholar together?," This question suddenly occured.
A-Li almost choked on his salive, his face turning a bit pinkish, eyes darting around. "That..well, ahem let's say we just have keen sense of hearing," he brought a fist to his mouth, faking a weak cough.
Geng nodded toward the blue carriage, where the satisfied lion was currently tending to his treasure. "So when you see him asking for warm water and ginger this morning, don't think it's abnormal. He's just spent the last few years trying to make up for the hemp rope and the iron cage. He's not just a General, Master Su. He's a man who finally found something clean enough to wash the blood off his soul."
The servants huddled closer, the spicy gossip replaced by a hushed, reverent awe. The air in the camp didn't just feel interesting anymore—it felt heavy with the weight of a decade of ghosts and a love that had been forged in a river of blood.
Inside the carriage, the soft, rhythmic thump of a basin being set down was the only sound, a quiet domesticity that had cost ten years of madness to earn.
.....
The room was suffocating. Yan Long didn't look like a prince at the moment. He looked like a man who had just looked into an abyss and realized it was looking back. The report on his desk wasn't a formal scroll. It was a scrap of blood-stained silk brought by a frantic scout who had bypassed every official channel.
"What do you mean, they left the border?" Yan Long's voice was a lagged whisper, a sound like dry bone scraping against stone.
The informant was trembling, his eyes fixed on the floor to avoid the frantic, twitching mania in Yan Long's gaze. "The Great Black Tent... it's empty, Your Highness. Lieutenant Han is still there, issuing orders, flying the General's banners... but General Yan He is gone. He's been gone for nearly twenty-one days."
Yan Long's hand flew to a heavy jade paperweight, his knuckles white. He didn't throw it. He gripped it until his palm bled. "Han stayed? That dog stayed to play a puppet show while his Master slipped through my fingers?"
He lunged forward, grabbing the informant by the hair and slamming his head onto the desk. The thud was sickening. "Where are they?" Yan Long hissed, his face inches from the man's. "The high pass? The river road? How did a thousand men vanish?"
"It wasn't a thousand, Your Highness!" the man gasped, choking on his own blood. "Only a small unit. Fifty men. And a carriage. A blue carriage. They've been riding through the night, using the scholar's knowledge of the old mountain paths... paths that aren't on your maps."
Yan Long let go, stumbling back as if he'd been struck. A sharp, hysterical laugh escaped his throat, turning into a coughing fit that left him doubled over.
"The old paths," Yan Long whispered, his breath coming in ragged, steaming huffs. The madness in his eyes settled into a terrifying, singular focus. "He's not coming back as a General."
He suddenly turned, his movements jerky and uncoordinated, and swept everything off his desk with a violent roar. Porcelain shattered. Ink splattered across his pristine yellow robes like a fresh wound.
"He's almost here," Yan Long breathed, his eyes wide and fixed on the closed doors of the pavilion. He could feel it—the resonance of his brother's return, a heavy, iron-scented pressure that was already suffocating the air in the Capital. "Two days. At that pace, they'll reach the West Gate by dawn after next."
He walked to the corner of the room, where a dark, lacquered box sat. He opened it, pulling out a seal that shouldn't exist—the mark of the Red Guard's shadow unit.
"If the North hid the journey, then the North can hide the death," He muttered, his voice dropping into a flat, dead monotone. "I want the gates locked. No one enters without my seal. If you see a blue carriage... burn it. Burn the scholar. Burn the Demon. I want nothing left of them but ash and silence."
He looked at his reflection in the dark window, his face a mask of aristocratic beauty curdled by pure, unadulterated rage.
"You should have stayed in the mud, Brother," he whispered to the glass.