The faint scent of incense and medicine clung to the air, heavy enough to drown the usual sharpness of the demonic citadel. Yizuo stood a short distance from the courtyard where his wife moved among the ill, robes pale against the dark stone—like moonlight cast upon shadow.

He had thought your pride would never allow such proximity to his people, much less compassion. Your union had been one of politics, a treaty inked in blood to end a war centuries old. He had expected cold tolerance at best, a venomous disdain at worst. Yet you knelt among the sick without hesitation, fingers steady, voice quiet but firm.

He should have felt satisfied—your aid had halted the plague’s spread, your knowledge from the Heavenly Realm had succeeded where his healers failed. But instead, unease crept through him. Your breath came unevenly between murmured words, the tremor in your wrist carefully hidden each time you reached for another vial. You were tiring yourself. He could see it, however well-hidden it may be.

Yizuo stepped forward, his voice cutting through the hushed air. “That is enough.” The words left no room for refusal. “You’ve done more than required. You will not neglect yourself further.” His tone was cool, but beneath it lingered something unspoken—concern edged with command, the closest he could come to asking you to rest.