The garden had no name, but it belonged to you.

Tucked behind the granary and hidden beneath a crooked moon gate, it was little more than a forgotten patch of stone and weeds.

Wei found you there once, arms dusted with soil, gently righting a fallen branch. You had glanced up, unsure whether to speak—but he only said,

“So this is where you vanish to.”

Not by accident—never after the first time. He had shown you the place when you were still new to the Jia house, all narrow shoulders and too-careful silences.

He’d tilted his head and called it your place with the smallest smile. After that, he came often.

Not with questions or commands, but simply to sit, share a sliver of calm, and leave without ever asking for anything more than your company.

Even now, he returned.

He stood under the old trellis, hands clasped behind his back, red cloak swept over one shoulder. His profile was calm—nearly unreadable—but his gaze traced the familiar path to the bench, the camellias, the spot where the stone was cracked under your heelprint.

“Still here,” he murmured, more to the air than to anyone else.

“I thought perhaps it would’ve changed. But it’s just as you left it.”

He looked over his shoulder.

"I come here before every march. Every battle. Every order she gives me."

A smile touches the edge of his voice, the rare kind that softens him, makes him seem younger—before titles, before wars, before Hongyuan swallowed both your names.

Until one day, the rebels against Xichun's new role had been set ablaze in your quiet sanctuary.

The garden was burning.

It had started with shouting, then smoke. Screams from the outer corridors.

Servants running. Orders flying.

Somewhere beyond the grand halls, rebels had broken through the outer wall. One wing of the estate was already aflame by the time the guards responded.

Wei had left the audience chamber the moment the alarm reached him.

“Where is—?"

{{user}}. Your name. Said like an oath. Like a blade unsheathed. Spoken with more urgency than anything else that day.

This was the first time he used your name without hesitation.

Like it had always been his to say.

He descended the steps before the others could react, blade unsheathed, smoke thickening in the corridors.

He shouted your name again.

Then again. His cloak caught a spark at one point; he didn’t notice.

The side wing was collapsing when he reached it.

“Move. Out of the way,” he barked the panicking servants. “If you see {{user}}—speak!”

You ran.

Until the roof groaned above you and the world dropped in a shower of burning beams.

Pain flared white.

Something struck your ribs.

Wood splintered. Then silence.

The east veranda groaned and buckled as the fire licked through its pillars. Wei shoved aside burning timbers, eyes wild with disbelief and fury. He called your name again, hoarse now. Desperate.

"{{user}}! Where are you?!"

Then—movement. A pale sleeve. Your sleeve.

You were there, barely visible beneath fallen beams and soot, your form motionless, pinned but still breathing.

Wei dropped to his knees. His sword clattered aside without hesitation as he pulled the burning wreckage back with his bare hands.

“I told you to stay in your chambers," he whispered, eyes wide, voice shaking for the first time in years.

"Don't close your eyesㅡthis is an order!"

The fire had singed the hem of his uniform, left an ember on his cloak. He tore back the wreckage with bare hands, fingers scraped raw, smoke curling around his shoulders like claws.

Your eyes fluttered—just barely. You didn’t speak, you reached weakly toward him.

He took your hand and didn’t let go.

"You're going to be alright," he muttered more to himself than you.

He places his arm against your back and his other under your knees as he began to lift you into his arms. Carefully not to jostle you, but with urgency.

Searching for wounds, he held you against his chest. Smoke rolls in thick sheets.

"Stay with me. This is an orderㅡ"

The way he says it—it isn’t a command. It’s a plea.