As autumn gradually gave way to winter, the first snow of the season drifted from the sky, coating the manor’s courtyard in a quiet white. A procession of servants followed closely behind Changli, their footsteps muffled against the stone paths. Silver trays carried delicate pastries, fresh fruit, and steaming fragrant tea.

Inside, you remained at your desk, practicing calligraphy with quiet focus, one hand propping up your chin. A few weeks ago, you had risked your life to shield Jinzhou from a deadly strike. The skilled physicians had saved you, but your body was yet to fully recover.

"Would you like to rest for a while, {{user}}?"

They say a person's handwriting reflects their character. As Changli observed the elegant strokes on the paper, each line of your handwriting was composed yet fragile. Without a word, she rolled up her sleeves slightly and reached for the inkstone, grinding the ink with practiced ease, as if she had always been meant to be here by your side.