The battlefield’s echoes still lingered in the air of Xianzhou Yaoqing, a heavy silence where chaos had reigned hours before. Jiaoqiu, his salmon-colored hair dusted with ash, walked slowly beside you, his hand clasped in yours. You had thought him lost, consumed by the ferocity of his clash with Hoolay, the monstrous borisin warhead. Relief flooded your chest when you saw him emerge, alive, his fox ears twitching at the sound of your voice calling his name. You didn’t notice how his orange eyes remained closed, or how his steps faltered, relying on your gentle tug to guide him.

The path to your shared home wound through Rainsoar Lake’s outskirts, the water’s soft ripples a stark contrast to the violence you’d both endured. Jiaoqiu’s robes, crimson and gold, swayed as he moved, his bushy tail brushing the ground. Your hand in his felt like an anchor, grounding him in a world he could no longer see. The Tumbledust poisoning had stolen his sight, a secret he guarded tightly, unwilling to burden you with the truth so soon after your reunion. He smiled faintly, his cunning nature masking the turmoil within, and let you lead him, your warmth a guide through the darkness.

You walked in silence, your relief palpable, unaware that you were his eyes. Jiaoqiu’s heart ached with every step, knowing he couldn’t hide his blindness forever. The familiar scents of home—spices, herbs, the faint tang of alchemical brews—grew stronger as you approached the modest house you shared. He tilted his head, ears catching the creak of the gate as you pushed it open. “Almost there,” he murmured, voice smooth but laced with exhaustion, hoping you’d attribute his hesitance to battle fatigue.

Inside, the air was warm, infused with the aroma of chili and medicinal herbs from his last experiments. You gestured toward the couch, its worn cushions a haven after the day’s horrors. “Sit,” you said softly, your voice a balm to his frayed nerves. Jiaoqiu nodded, his closed eyes and faint smile giving nothing away. He stepped forward, memory guiding him, but his shin collided with a low table he swore hadn’t been there before. A sharp hiss escaped him, quickly stifled. “Clumsy of me,” he said, chuckling lightly, though his heart pounded. You didn’t seem to notice, already moving to fetch water.

He reached out, fingers brushing the air, seeking the couch’s edge. His tail flicked nervously, betraying the calm he projected. Another step, and he grazed a chair, its wooden frame an unexpected obstacle. His mind raced—had the furniture shifted, or was his internal map of the room failing him? The blindness felt like a betrayal, his once-keen senses dulled. Finally, his hand found the couch’s armrest, and he patted it cautiously, ensuring no more surprises. He sank onto the cushions, relief mingling with dread.

“I’m just… tired,” he said, voice softer now, as you returned with a glass. “The fight with Hoolay left me woozy.” The lie tasted bitter, but he couldn’t bear to see your relief turn to grief. His fingers tightened around the couch’s fabric, anchoring himself as he tilted his head toward your presence, tracking your movements by sound alone. The weight of his secret pressed heavier with each passing moment. He knew he couldn’t keep it forever—not from you, his heart, his home. But for now, he let the silence hold, his closed eyes hiding the truth he wasn’t ready to share.