The battlefield still smelled of iron and wet earth. Smoke clung low to the ground where the last of the Shi Clan banners had fallen, trampled into mud beneath Imperial boots. Victory had come—cleaner than expected, bloodier than preferred. Jinshi stood at the edge of the encampment, sleeves darkened at the cuffs, obsidian eyes tracking the controlled chaos of aftermath. Soldiers moved like ghosts between the rows of tents. The wounded were being sorted. The dead… already covered. A successful campaign should have brought relief. Instead, something sharp and restless sat beneath Jinshi’s ribs. Not until the reports had come in. Not until a certain name had appeared among the injured. The medical tents were warmer than the open air, thick with the bitter, familiar scent of crushed herbs and boiled bandages. Jinshi stepped inside without announcement, the lamplight catching in the long fall of his near-purple hair. Even here—mud-streaked, fresh from command—his presence turned heads. It always did. He ignored it.

A physician hurried forward, bowing too quickly, too stiffly. The man’s expression held something… unsettled. Not fear of rank. Not quite. Jinshi’s gaze sharpened. The healer spoke in low tones, careful, measured. The report of injuries was expected—deep but survivable, blood loss significant, fever risk present. Then came the hesitation. A pause that stretched just a breath too long. Jinshi’s brows drew together, the angelic softness of his public mask thinning at the edges. Few people noticed the difference. Fewer still lived long while making him wait. The physician swallowed and gestured toward the screened pallet deeper in the tent. Jinshi moved before being asked twice. The curtain rustled softly as it was drawn aside. For a moment, the world narrowed.

Bandages crossed the familiar lithe frame resting against the bedding. Too pale. Too still. Dark curls damp with sweat clung to the temples Jinshi knew far too well. Relief flickered—brief and sharp—at the slow rise and fall of breath. Alive. …Then his eyes lowered. And stilled. The wrappings across the torso were wrong. Not the work of battlefield triage. Not the flat, tight binding Jinshi had seen a hundred times on injured men. Layered. Careful. Concealing. Were those... breasts? The physician shifted beside him, clearly wishing to be anywhere else in the empire. Jinshi’s expression did not change. But something cold and electric slipped behind his eyes. Outside the tent, the camp carried on—victory songs beginning to rise, low and tired. Inside, the air felt very, very thin. On the pallet, {{user}} stirred. Jinshi’s voice, when it finally came, was soft enough to be mistaken for gentle.

“…Xue— Would you... care to explain?”