Yeli Han stood outside the tent for a long time.
I knew this because when he left, his shadow swept under the flap and then stopped moving. When the wind lifted the flap, I could see his boots—black, without patterns, as quiet as when he sat in the corner. He stood there like a leafless tree.
Li Yuanhao kept his head down, writing. The charcoal scratched against the board. He was writingAn (Peace). The seventh time. The eighth. The ninth. His brush didn't stop. I didn't know if he hadn't noticed, or if he noticed but chose not to speak.
"He's still outside," I said.
"Mm."
"Aren't you going to talk to him?"
"Nothing to say."
The tenth time.An. Better than the previous nine. When the final stroke landed, his wrist paused. Not from fatigue, but as if—waiting for something.
The flap was lifted.
Not thrust open like Tuoba Lie did. It was slow, like a hand parting the fabric just a crack, then a body sliding in. Silent. Like water seeping into sand.
Yeli Han stood at the tent entrance.
The light in the tent dimmed for an instant. Not an illusion. He stood there, backlit, his face in shadow. His expression was unreadable. But his eyes were visible—dark brown, so deep they looked black, resting quietly on me.
Li Yuanhao didn't look up.
"What are you doing here?" he asked. The brush tip touched the board, motionless.
Yeli Han didn't answer. He looked at me. At my face, my hands, the charcoal in my hand, the characters on the table. Just like yesterday. But the difference was—he spoke.
"You come out."
He wasn't speaking to Li Yuanhao. He was speaking to me.
The voice was low, light. Like the sound of ice cracking. Just like when he said "Changed."
My fingers froze on the charcoal. Charcoal dust clung to my fingertips; I didn't wipe it off.
"Why?"
He didn't answer. He just looked at me. That gaze—wasn't scrutiny, wasn't assessment, wasn't curiosity. It was something else. He was waiting.
I put down the charcoal.
Li Yuanhao's brush tip was still pressed against the board, the ink bleeding into a small dot. He didn't look up, but his fingers gripped the charcoal, his knuckles white.
"I'll be out in a moment."
He didn't answer.
I stood up, walked around the low table, and headed for the tent entrance. As I passed Yeli Han, he didn't move. He didn't make way, nor did he block me. He just stood there like a wall. I turned sideways and walked past him, my shoulder only a fist's width from his arm. He didn't retreat, and I didn't stop.
The flap fell behind me.
Wind rushed in, cold. The light outside was brighter than inside; my eyes blurred for a moment. Yeli Han followed me out, standing behind me. I could feel his shadow falling on my back, long and cool.
He walked to stand in front of me.
Sunlight hit his face; for the first time in the light, I saw his features clearly. Colder than in the tent. The shadow of his brow bone fell into his eye sockets, making those eyes look exceptionally deep. His lips were thin, pressed together like a line. He was much taller than me; I had to look up to see his face. The wind blew the hair tied at the back of his head, a few stray strands sweeping across his cheekbones.
He looked at me. For a long time. Long enough for a horse to whinny in the distance, long enough for my eyes to sting from the wind.
"You will harm him," he said.
The wind stopped. Not really—it was just that all sound in my ears ceased. The vastness of the grassland turned into a pressure in that moment, pressing in from all sides. His voice was light, but every word was like a stone, smashing into the ground, creating a pit.
"What?"
"You will harm him." He repeated it. His voice hadn't changed. Still so low, so light. Like stating a fact he had already determined, like saying "the sky will darken" or "the grass will turn yellow." His eyes didn't blink.
"Why do you say that?"
He didn't answer. His gaze shifted from my face, swept over my clothes—moon-white, already washed to a faded grey—swept over my hands—fingertips still stained black with charcoal—swept over the tent behind me. Li Yuanhao's tent. The flap didn't move, but I knew he was listening.
"You are Han Chinese."
"I know."
"You are a woman."
"I know."
"You are in his tent. He defied his father for you."
"I know."
His eyes moved slightly. Very subtle; if I hadn't been standing so close, I wouldn't have noticed. Like a ripple on water stirred by wind, quickly dispersing.
"Aren't you afraid?" he asked.
"Afraid of what?"
"Afraid of me."
I looked at him. Twelve years old. Taller than Li Yuanhao, colder than Li Yuanhao. Hands that held a knife that had killed seven people. His fingers hung by his side, only an inch from the hilt. When he said "You will harm him," his voice didn't tremble. He was stating a fact he believed to be true.
"Not afraid," I said.
His brow furrowed slightly. Lightly, like a blade grinding against stone.
"You're not afraid of death?"
"I am."
"Then you're not afraid of me?"
"Being afraid of you and being afraid of death are two different things."
He looked at me. That gaze—wasn't scrutiny, wasn't assessment. It was something I couldn't quite read. His lips moved, as if he wanted to say something, then swallowed it back. His fingers moved closer to the hilt—not to draw the blade, but—like a person confirming something is still there.
"You are like him," he said.
"Who?"
"Him." He glanced at the tent.
Li Yuanhao.
"He speaks, you speak. He isn't afraid of me, you aren't either." He paused. "You are the same."
This sentence wasn't a compliment. Nor was it an insult. It was—he was confirming a fact. Like someone standing on a riverbank, watching the water flow east, saying "The water flows east." There was no emotion in his voice.
"I am not him," I said.
"You are."
"I am not. He is a prince. I am his teacher."
His eyes moved again. A bit more this time. Like a stone hitting the water.
"Teacher." He repeated the word. As if testing if it rolled smoothly in his mouth. His tongue pressed against his palate, producing an unfamiliar sound. "Teacher." He said it again.
"Mm. Teacher. Teach him characters. Teach him to read. Teach him—"
"Teach him what?" He interrupted me. "Teach him how to become Han Chinese?"
Wind blew across the grassland, cold. My hair blew into my face; I didn't brush it away. His question hung in the air like a blade that hadn't fallen yet. My lips moved, wanting to say something. But for a moment, I didn't know what to say. Because I was Han Chinese. I taught him Han characters, Han books, Han principles. In Yeli Han's eyes, what was the difference between this and "becoming Han Chinese"?
I bit my lower lip. A stone pressed against my palm.
"Teach him how to become a better person," I said.
He looked at me. For a long time. Long enough for the wind to stop, long enough for someone to shout in the distance, long enough for my legs to start going numb. His eyes didn't move, but his finger—that index finger an inch from the hilt—trembled slightly.
"He will become weak," he said.
"He won't."
"He will. He defied his father for you. He wouldn't have done that before."
"That's not becoming weak."
"Then what is it?"
"It's becoming strong."
His brow furrowed. This time it wasn't light; it was a real, serious frown. Like a scar carved between his brows.
"People who become strong," he said, "don't defy everyone for one person."
"They do," I said. "Only people who become strong will defy everyone for one person. Weak people don't dare."
The wind picked up again. Blowing his clothes against his body, blowing the hair tied at the back of his head slightly. He didn't speak. But in his eyes—those dark brown eyes, quiet as a winter lake—something was moving. Like water under ice. Invisible, but you knew it was flowing.
"You don't understand," he said.
"I do."
"You don't understand here." He looked at me. "You don't understand us. You don't understand him. You don't understand—"
"I understand him," I said.
His lips moved. No sound came out. His fingers clenched—not the hilt, but the air. Clenched into a fist, then released.
"I understand what he's afraid of," I said. "He's afraid of being seen as afraid. He's afraid of being seen as not strong enough. He's afraid of being seen as—" I paused. Wind passed between us, carrying the scent of green grass and earth. "He's afraid of being seen as needing someone."
Yeli Han's fingers stopped. Suspended an inch from the hilt, motionless. His breathing changed—not faster, but slower. Like someone forcing something down.
"How do you know?" he asked. His voice was lower than before. Low enough to vibrate from his chest.
"Because he told me."
His eyes moved. Bigger than before. Not surprise—it was—I couldn't describe it. Like someone discovering that a secret they thought only they knew, someone else knows too. His eyelashes trembled.
"He told you." He repeated it.
"Mm."
"He wouldn't tell anyone."
"He told me."
He looked at me. For a long time. Long enough for the sun to emerge from behind the clouds, shining on my face, warm. His shadow fell on me, cold. There was light moving in his eyes—not moonlight, but something else. Like light reflecting off a blade.
"You will harm him," he said again.
The third time.
But this time was different. His voice wasn't as certain. Like stating something he wanted to believe but was starting to doubt. The tail of the sentence rose slightly, like an unspoken question mark.
"I won't," I said.
"How do you know?"
"Because I won't leave."
He looked at me.
"He's afraid I'll leave," I said. "He's afraid I'll leave like everyone else. If I don't leave, he won't be afraid. People who aren't afraid won't become weak."
The wind stopped. The grass on the steppe didn't move. Sunlight shone between us, casting our shadows on the sand, one long, one short. His shadow was much longer than mine, like an unsheathed knife.
Yeli Han lowered his head.
He looked at my shadow. For a long time. Long enough for me to count his eyelashes—dense, black, casting shadows on his cheekbones. His hand slowly raised, fingers touching the hilt. Not drawing. Just touching. Like confirming the knife was still there.
Then he looked up.
"You are Han Chinese."
"I know."
"You are a woman."
"I know."
"You are his teacher."
"Mm."
He looked at me. One last look. That gaze—wasn't scrutiny, wasn't assessment, wasn't a warning. It was—something I couldn't quite read. Like the winter moon. You look at it, it looks at you. But you can't touch it.
He turned around and walked away.
No "goodbye." No "be careful." No words at all. Just walked away. Boots stepping on the sand, silent. His back grew smaller and smaller, finally disappearing behind the tents. A trail of footprints remained on the sand, deep, each step like it was nailed into the ground.
I stood there, looking in that direction. The wind picked up again, blowing my skirt against my legs, cold. But my back was hot—someone had just stood there, looking at me with eyes that had killed seven people, saying "You will harm him."
I didn't retreat.
The flap was lifted from behind.
"Come in."
Li Yuanhao's voice. I turned around. He stood at the tent entrance, backlit. His expression was unreadable. He held no charcoal, no knife. His shadow stretched out from the tent, falling by my feet, overlapping with the footprints Yeli Han left.
"Did you hear everything?" I asked.
He didn't answer. Standing there like a tree not yet fully grown. Sunlight shone on his back, stretching his shadow long.
"Come in," he said again.
I walked in.
He made way, the flap falling behind me. The light in the tent dimmed; the charcoal on the low table still lay next to the characterAn. He had written half of it, the last stroke trailing out long, like an untucked tail. The ink had dried, bleeding into the board like a scar.
He walked back and sat behind the low table. He didn't look at me. Picked up the charcoal and continued writing next toAn.
"Did you hear everything?" I asked again.
"Mm."
His brush didn't stop.An. The eleventh time. This time was faster than the previous ten, and messier than any before.
"Aren't you angry?"
"Angry about what?"
"He said I would harm you."
"You won't."
His brush didn't stop. But the characterAn he wrote, the last stroke went askew. Sliding out from under the roof radical, like a person losing their footing.
"How do you know?" I asked.
He looked up at me. That gaze—wasn't sharp, wasn't probing. There was light moving in his eyes. Not moonlight, but something else. Like a candle flame stirred by wind.
"Because you won't leave," he said.
These were words I had spoken. He heard them. He was in the tent; he heard everything. From "You will harm him" to "I won't leave," every word, every pause, every interval when the wind stopped.
"What Yeli Han said—" I started.
"What he said is right," he interrupted me.
I looked at him.
"You will harm me," he said. His voice was flat. Flat like saying "The weather is nice today." "If you were someone else. If you weren't—" He paused. The charcoal spun half a circle in his fingers, not falling. "If you weren't my teacher."
He lowered his head and scribbled out the crookedAn. He did it hard, charcoal dust flying from the board, landing on the back of his hand, on his cuffs.
"But you are," he said. "So you won't."
He finished the twelfthAn. This time it wasn't crooked. Stroke by stroke, neat and tidy. The "woman" character under the roof radical looked like a person kneeling, head bowed.
The tent was quiet for a moment. Wind moved the flap, bringing in a hint of coolness. The charcoal dust on the table was blown away, falling on the board, on the characters. The sun sank a bit further west, withdrawing an inch of light through the cracks in the flap.
"Yeli Han," he said suddenly, "he wasn't like this before."
"Like what?"
"Not speaking."
He put down the charcoal. Looking at the fur pelt in the corner—where Yeli Han sat yesterday, the indentation remained. The fur was matted, leaving a dark mark, like the outline of a person.
"He had a sister," Li Yuanhao said. His voice was light. Light like stating something he wasn't entirely sure of himself. "Died very young."
He didn't say how she died. I didn't ask. The tent was quiet for a long time. Long enough for charcoal dust to fall from the board, silent. Long enough for the sunlight to withdraw another inch.
I looked at him. Eleven years old. Scars on his hands. He sat behind the low table, saying his friend had a sister who died young. His friend hadn't spoken since. His fingers rubbed against the charcoal, grinding off a small piece of dust.
He didn't say—if he had a sister. If he lost someone young. When he started not speaking.
He didn't say. But I knew.
"Tomorrow," he said, "teach me to writeAn."
"Already taught."
"Teach again. Write it better."
"Okay."
He lowered his head, picked up the charcoal. Wrote a character on the board. NotAn, butYe (Wild). One horizontal, one vertical, one horizontal fold, one horizontal, one vertical hook.
"And this," he said.
"Okay."
He wroteLi (Benefit). One slant, one horizontal, one vertical, one vertical hook.
"And this," he said.
"Okay."
He wroteHan (Cold). Dot, dot, horizontal hook, horizontal, horizontal, vertical, horizontal, horizontal, slant,捺 (na - falling stroke), dot, dot.
Three characters.Yeli Han. Crooked, like a person standing in the wind. When the final stroke landed, his wrist paused. The charcoal dotted a black spot on the board, like a teardrop.
He put down the charcoal, looking at the three characters.
"Write it better," he said.
"Okay," I said.
He looked up at me. That gaze—wasn't sharp, wasn't probing, wasn't empty. It was something I had never seen on his face before. Like a person standing at a doorway, not knowing whether to enter.
Outside the tent, the sun set. The last ray of light withdrew through the cracks in the flap, and the characters on the board darkened. But his fingers still rested on the charcoal, not withdrawing.
"Tomorrow," he said, "teach together."
"Okay."
He picked up the charcoal and wroteAn again next to the first one. Crooked, but every stroke was there. Then he wroteYeli Han again next to the three characters. Even crookeder, but he was writing.
The night outside the curtain was cool as water.
Charcoal dust drifted onto the newly written character "Han", fine as snow.
Outside the tent, the boy stood in the camp.
He didn't return to his tent. He stood in the wind, watching a figure walk away. Yeli Han walked slowly, quietly, like a shadow. His back was stretched long by the setting sun, casting a shadow on the sand like an unsheathed knife. Boots stepped on the sand, each step leaving a deep imprint.
He stopped.
Didn't look back. Half a camp away, his voice carried over. Light, but every word clear.
"What she said—"
He paused.
"Is it true?"
The boy stood still. Wind passed between him and Yeli Han, carrying the scent of green grass and earth. In the distance, people were packing up tents; the sound of hammers hitting the ground was rhythmic, like a heartbeat.
"Yes," he said.
Yeli Han stood there. Didn't move. For a long time. Long enough for the sunset to slide off his shoulders, long enough for his shadow to shift from left to right.
Then he walked away. Didn't look back. His back grew smaller, further away, finally disappearing behind the tents. The footprints on the sand remained, stretching from one end of the camp to the other, like a road no one had walked.
The boy stood there looking in that direction for a long time. Long enough for the sun to set completely, long enough for only the last ray of light to remain on the horizon. When that light withdrew, his eyes blinked once.
He turned around and walked toward the tent. Walking fast. Wind blew from behind, cold.
He touched his chest. There was a piece of paper there, and a wooden board. And—her words.
"Only people who become strong will defy everyone for one person."
He didn't know why, but this sentence made that place in his chest ache. Not wound pain, but something else. Like something growing there, prying open the bone seams.
He only knew—
Tomorrow, she would teach him to write "Yeli Han".
Three characters.
He had to write them better.
He walked faster and faster. Moonlight shone on his back, stretching his shadow long. His boots stepped on the sand, each step landing next to the footprints Yeli Han left.
He didn't look back.
End of Chapter 12