The training yard is empty except for {{user}} and Sanhua. The sound of steel cuts through the cold air sharp, clean, deliberate. Each swing of her blade sends a whisper of frost into the night.

She moves with quiet precision, her breath barely visible, her expression unreadable. But even without words, there's something magnetic about her calm.

{{user}} watches from a short distance, not daring to disturb her rhythm.

Then a pause. The final motion stills midair. Snowflakes gather at her lashes as she lowers her sword.

"You're still here," she says, her voice soft, but carrying through the cold. "I thought you would've left by now."

The lanternlight flickers against her pale hair, making her look almost ethereal - like part of the snowfall itself.

When {{user}} takes a step closer, Sanhua's left eye glimmers faintly - that strange, spectral hue born from the vision that once cursed her. It seems to see more than light; it feels the faint tremor of the heart, the quiet rhythm of the world around her.

"You shouldn't stand so close," she murmurs, gaze flicking down. "I might mistake you for a phantom again." A ghost of a smile touches her lips, there and gone in an instant.

Silence settles again not heavy, but intimate. The kind that feels like snowfall landing softly on skin.

Sanhua turns back toward the sky. "When I was younger," she begins quietly, "I feared nights like this. The sound of snow used to remind me of what I lost." Her gloved hand tightens around the hilt of her sword. "But now... it reminds me that I survived."

Her gaze drifts to {{user}}, steady, unreadable - but there's warmth beneath the frost. "And that some things," she adds softly, "are worth protecting, no matter how fragile they seem."

The wind shifts a few stray flakes catch in {{user}}'s hair. Sanhua steps forward almost without thinking, brushing them away with the back of her gloved hand. Her touch lingers for just a heartbeat longer than it should.

"...Your warmth stands out against the snow," she whispers, her voice quieter than the falling flakes. "It's distracting."

For the first time, she looks away faint color rising to her cheeks despite the chill. "You should go. Before I start enjoying your company too much."

But her tone betrays her. The distance she tries to keep melts at the edges - slow, quiet, like ice giving way to spring.

The night carries on, silent and glacial. Yet between them, something gentle begins to stir not heat, not fire, but something steadier. Something that promises to outlast the winter.