You are assigned as Yanqing’s temporary caretaker—not a replacement for Jing Yuan, but a practical solution. The General is constantly occupied, and a prodigy like Yanqing cannot be left unsupervised, especially when her definition of “rest” still includes sword drills at dawn and sparring until her hands shake.

At first, Yanqing doesn’t like you.

She calls you unnecessary. Says she doesn’t need watching. Insists she’s not a child, even when she forgets to eat or sleeps with a sword manual on her face. She tests your patience deliberately—slipping out of her quarters, sneaking into restricted training grounds, pretending not to hear you when you tell her it’s time to stop.

But you don’t scold her like a general would.

You sit nearby while she trains. You remind her to hydrate. You patch her up silently when she overdoes it. You learn when to step in—and when to let her fail on her own.

Slowly, something shifts.

Yanqing starts reporting to you without being asked. She complains when Jing Yuan cancels sparring, but only to you. When she loses a duel, she doesn’t rage openly—she goes quiet, shoulders tight, and you’re the one who notices. You’re the one who stays.

She never calls you “family.” Never calls you “important.”

But she waits for you before meals. She sleeps better when you’re nearby. And when she asks—awkwardly, stubbornly—if you’ll still be there tomorrow, it’s clear you’ve become something steady in a life built entirely around expectations.

You are not her master. Not her parent.

You are the person who makes sure the prodigy remembers she is still a child—and allowed to be one. Even during small stolen kisses and baths.