When Tuoba Lie lifted the flap, Yeli Han was already inside the tent.
He sat in the corner, in the same spot, in the same posture as last time—leaning against the fur pelt, knife by his side, eyes closed. His fingers rested on the scabbard, stroking it rhythmically. As if he had never left.
Tuoba Lie blinked. "What are you doing here?"
Yeli Han didn't answer.
Tuoba Lie looked at him, then at me, then at Li Yuanhao. Then he grinned. "Alright, the three of you. Perfect."
He walked in with his wine jar and sat down by the low table. The jar was earthenware, cold mist rising from the mouth—he had just taken it from the cellar.
Li Yuanhao didn't look up, continuing to write. Today it wasXia (Summer). He had written this character many times; it was already good, but he kept writing. Once, twice, thrice. The charcoal scratched against the board.
Tuoba Lie pulled the cork and took a swig. His brow immediately furrowed, and he clicked his tongue.
"This wine isn't good," I said.
He blinked. "What?"
"The wine. It's too strong. You frown every time you drink it."
He looked down at the jar, then at me. "You know wine?"
"No." I said, "But back at school, I had a roommate who studied mixology. She taught me a bit. Mixing different drinks can make them taste better."
Tuoba Lie's eyes lit up. "You can mix drinks?"
"A little bit."
"Then mix one."
He handed over the jar. I caught it. The pottery was heavy, and the smell of alcohol stung my eyes.
I looked around the tent. There was a pot of water on the low table, brought by an attendant in the morning, more than half full. In the corner was a jar of honey—someone had brought it last time, Li Yuanhao didn't eat sweets, so it had been sitting there, a layer of dust on the rim.
"Honey," I said to Tuoba Lie.
He got up, fetched the honey jar, and wiped the dust off the rim with his sleeve.
I poured out half the jar of wine, added a little water, and a spoonful of honey. No ice, no lemon, no mint. The liquid in the jar turned from clear to a cloudy amber. I shook it and handed it back.
Tuoba Lie took it, glanced at me, and took a gulp.
His eyes widened. He took another gulp. Then he put down the jar and looked at me with an expression I had never seen on his face before.
"You," he said, "should stop teaching writing."
"What?"
"Mix drinks. You mix drinks. I'll bring wine every day, you mix. Let Li Yuanhao write his own characters."
Li Yuanhao looked up at him. That gaze—if looks could kill, Tuoba Lie would be dead.
Tuoba Lie raised his hands. "Joking, joking. You keep teaching writing. And mix drinks on the side."
He took another gulp and let out a satisfied sigh. "This is good. This is really good. That roommate of yours, male or female?"
"Female."
"Is she married?"
"...No."
"Where is she? I'll go find her."
"You won't find her. It's very far."
"How far?"
"Further than the furthest place you can imagine."
Tuoba Lie looked at me. He drank again. "Then teach me this. How to mix it. I'll do it myself when I get back."
"Honey and water. Try it yourself."
"Just that simple?"
"Just that simple."
He looked down at the jar and drank again. "You're quite interesting," he said. "Can write, can mix drinks, and not afraid of him—" He jerked his chin at Li Yuanhao, "or him—" He jerked his chin at the corner.
Yeli Han didn't open his eyes. But his fingers paused for a split second.
"What are you afraid of?" Tuoba Lie asked me.
I thought about it. "Being cold."
He blinked. Then he laughed. "Afraid of the cold? You came to this place, and you're afraid of the cold?"
"Mm."
"Then you're in trouble. Winter is colder."
"I know."
He looked at me, his smile fading slightly. "Then why don't you leave?"
The tent fell silent for a moment. Li Yuanhao's brush stopped. Yeli Han's fingers stopped. Even the wind stopped.
"Because someone won't let me," I said.
Li Yuanhao didn't look up. But his ears turned red. Starting from the tips, slowly reddening to the lobes. He didn't speak, didn't move, just kept his head down, looking at the half-written characterXia on the board.
Tuoba Lie looked at him. Then at me. That expression seemed to say, "So that's how it is." He didn't ask again. He drank, leaning back against the fur.
The atmosphere in the tent relaxed. Tuoba Lie drank, Li Yuanhao wrote, and I watched. Occasionally correcting a stroke order—Tuoba Lie listened from the side, occasionally interjecting. Yeli Han sat in the corner, eyes closed, fingers stroking the scabbard rhythmically.
No one spoke, but it didn't feel quiet.
I didn't know when I started getting used to it. Used to the smell in this tent—fur, charcoal dust, Tuoba Lie's alcohol fumes, that cold metallic scent on Yeli Han. Used to the height of the low table, the roughness of the boards, the sound of charcoal snapping between fingers. Used to the stray hair falling over Li Yuanhao's forehead when he wrote, used to the sound of Tuoba Lie's throat gurgling when he drank, used to Yeli Han's fingers stroking the scabbard.
Like I had gotten used to it.
Li Yuanhao finished the lastXia for the day. Put down the charcoal and looked at his writing. For a long time.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
"Nothing," he said. But he didn't flip the board over.
"You've changed," Tuoba Lie said suddenly.
Li Yuanhao looked up at him.
"You wouldn't write this many times before," Tuoba Lie said. "You used to stop after three."
"That was before."
"And now?"
Li Yuanhao didn't answer. He lowered his head, flipped the board over, and tucked it under the low table.
Tuoba Lie looked at him. For three seconds. Then he stood up, carrying the wine jar toward the tent entrance. He stopped at the flap.
"I'll bring two jars tomorrow," he said without turning around. "One for you. One for her to mix."
The flap fell. Three people remained in the tent.
Li Yuanhao sat behind the low table, motionless. Yeli Han sat in the corner, eyes closed. I sat opposite the table.
"What you just said," Li Yuanhao suddenly spoke, "that roommate of yours. The mixologist."
"Mm."
"Is she your friend?"
"Mm."
"You are here," he paused, "do you have friends?"
I thought about it. Looking at him, then at the person in the corner.
"I guess so."
He looked up at me.
"You count as one," I said. "Tuoba Lie counts as one." I glanced at the corner, "He—" I paused, "He's not quite familiar yet."
Yeli Han didn't open his eyes. But his fingers paused for a split second.
Li Yuanhao lowered his head and picked up the charcoal. He wrote a character on the board. NotXia, notLie, notAn. It wasPeng (Friend). Two moon radicals standing side by side.
"This character," he said, "what does it mean?"
"Peng. It means friend. Two people, standing together."
He looked down at the character. For a long time.
"Yeli Han," he said suddenly.
The person in the corner opened his eyes.
"Did you have friends before?"
Yeli Han looked at him. Didn't answer.
"Your sister," Li Yuanhao said, "did she count?"
The tent fell silent for a moment. Yeli Han's fingers rested on the scabbard, motionless. In his eyes—those dark brown eyes, quiet as a winter lake—something was moving. Like water under ice.
"She did," he said. One word. Very light.
Then he closed his eyes. His fingers continued to move. Once, twice, thrice. The rhythm was slightly slower than before.
Li Yuanhao lowered his head and continued writing.Peng. Wrote it once. Not good. Wrote it again. Still not good.
"This character," he said, "is hard."
"Two people standing together," I said, "is inherently difficult."
His brush paused. Then he continued writing. Third time. Fourth. Fifth. Each time was better than the last. But each time was different—sometimes the left was bigger, sometimes the right, sometimes they were the same size.
"Which one is right?" he asked.
"The one where they are the same size."
He looked down at the characters he had written. Of the fivePeng, only one had two equal sides.
"This one." He pointed it out to me.
"Mm. This one is right."
He looked at that character for a long time. Then he flipped the board over and tucked it under the table. With the previous characters.
Outside the tent, the sun was setting. Light leaked through the cracks in the flap, falling on the board, on the back of his hand. Orange-red light, making his fingers shine.
Yeli Han stood up. The movement was light, silent. He hung the knife at his waist and walked to the flap. He stopped. Didn't look back.
"You've changed," he said. He wasn't speaking to Li Yuanhao. He was speaking to me.
I blinked.
"You didn't use to smile," he said. His voice was light, like the sound of ice cracking. "Now you do."
He lifted the flap and walked out.
Two people remained in the tent. I sat opposite the table, Li Yuanhao sat behind it. The light dimmed, his face in shadow. Only those eyes remained, impossibly bright.
"He said I changed," I said.
"Mm."
"For the better or worse?"
He didn't answer. He stood up, walked around the table, and stood in front of me.
Looking down at me.
Close enough for me to see the reflection in his eyes—my reflection. Close enough to count his eyelashes. Close enough to smell his scent—leather, charcoal dust, and that cold metallic smell unique to iron.
"You're smiling," he said.
"I'm not."
"You are." He reached out. His fingers brushed the corner of my mouth. Very light, like wind sweeping past. "Here. It curved."
His fingers were very cool. Just like the first time he touched my chin. But the difference was—he didn't pull back. His fingers lingered by the corner of my mouth, for one second. Two seconds. Three seconds.
Through the crack in the flap, the last ray of sunlight fell exactly between us. Orange-red, warm. Shining on his fingers, shining on the corner of my mouth.
Then he pulled back. Turned around, walked back behind the table, and sat down.
"You should go," he said. His voice was flat. But his ears were red. From the tips all the way to the lobes. Red like that ray of sunlight just now.
I stood up. My knees were a bit numb.
"Tomorrow," I said.
He didn't answer.
I turned and walked toward the tent entrance. When I reached the flap, I heard a voice from behind.
"Jiang Jinyue."
I stopped.
"That character," he said, Peng. Two people standing together."
"Mm."
"The side you stand on," he paused, "who are you standing with?"
I didn't turn around. But the corner of my mouth curved.
"With you," I said.
Outside the flap, the wind stopped. The grass on the steppe didn't move. The last glow of the sunset emerged from behind the clouds, shining on my face, warm.
I lifted the flap and walked out. Didn't look back.
But I knew he was watching me.
Inside the tent, the boy sat behind the low table.
He looked down at the characterPeng on the board. Two "moon" radicals standing side by side. The left one he wrote, the right one he wrote. But she said, the ones that are the same size are right.
He reached out and touched the character. Charcoal dust clung to his fingertips, black.
He looked for a long time.
Then he stood up and walked to the tent entrance. Lifted the flap. She was already gone. In the distance, her back grew smaller in the sunset, her moon-white clothes turning orange-red.
He watched her walk away. For a long time.
"You've lost control."
The voice came from behind. He didn't turn around. Yeli Han stood in the corner of the tent, hadn't left. His fingers rested on the scabbard, motionless.
"You just touched her face," Yeli Han said. "You never used to touch anyone."
Wind blew in from outside the flap, cold. Li Yuanhao stood still, didn't move. His fingers still rested on the flap, charcoal dust black on his fingertips.
"You've changed," Yeli Han said. "You've lost control."
The tent was quiet for a long time. Long enough for the wind to stop, long enough for the last ray of light to withdraw through the cracks in the flap.
"I know," Li Yuanhao said.
Yeli Han looked at him. For a long time. Then he turned and left. Boots stepping on the sand, silent. The flap fell.
Only he remained in the tent. He lowered the flap, walked back behind the table, and sat down. Picked up the charcoal and wrote a character on the board. NotXia, notPeng. It wasYue (Moon).
Yue."
Wrote it once. Not good. Wrote it again. Still not good.
He put down the charcoal and flipped the board over. Tucked it under the low table. With the previous characters. Her name, her characters, every character she taught him. All there.
He held his right hand up to his eyes. The scar on the tiger's mouth had faded, charcoal dust black on his fingers. Where he had touched the corner of her mouth, the coolness remained. But the warmth of her mouth lingered on his fingertips.
He clenched his fist, then released it.
"Lost control," he said to himself.
Not a bad thing.
He didn't know why he felt that way.
He lay down, pressing his right hand against his chest. There was a piece of paper there, and a wooden board. And—the curve of her mouth, and that ray of sunlight that fell between them.
Outside the tent, a wolf howled in the distance. Long, far away, like wind sweeping across the steppe.
He closed his eyes.
He didn't know who had pulled him here.
But he knew—he didn't want to go back.
Tomorrow, she would teach him to writePeng. Two "moon" radicals of the same size, standing together.
He would stand together too.
With her.
End of Chapter 13