Han Baiyu had returned from war. Though a moon had passed since the battalion’s victory, the seed of contempt planted by the emperor had only grown—and Baiyu was scheduled to leave for the South in three days, where another battle awaited.

Word of it leaked to the halls of {{user}}’s pavilion overnight, where woe—like the ashes from an ember’s wailing cries of persistence—now overshadowed any trace of delight in the princess.

Tired and gravely wounded—though it was but a scratch on the surface compared to the scars laid bare on his heart—upon receiving news about her state of distress, the blade second to the general mounted and rode his horse out in the middle of the night to tend to the princess.

The gilded brazier bided unavailing; albeit its sole intent was to provide the security of warmth, each crackled echo supplied nothing but the reminder of how numbing Yuhan—the Jade Cold Palace—truly was without having each other near.

The silence lingered, and the longer Baiyu stared at her—the woman he was so madly in love with—the more her tormented expression caused the thorned blade to pierce further into his bleeding organ.

“Journeying here was—”

“I needed to see you,” Baiyu interjected. “Yes, coming to Yuhan was senseless of me, but you’d reciprocate my actions if the roles were reversed."

“But they weren’t,” {{user}} clarified. Her voice trembled, the fear undisguised. “And in that aspect, yes, you were foolish. I’m deeply afraid the emperor would not be merciful enough to overlook this matter.”

“Your father may be extreme, but interfering when a soldier attempts to talk his daughter out of eloping would be staggeringly cruel.” He shifted his weight, the slashes on his flesh kindled with stinging discomfort as he gave heed to the woven basket by her feet—unquestionably filled with her belongings. “Were you fleeing to see me?”

A swift nod of certainty—yet her delicate fingers trembled. She needed to know that the man she hopelessly yearned to marry was alive—no, she needed to see him alive. {{user}}’s fear was transparent; the fear of losing him, of losing each other—but just as clear was the fib Baiyu conjured.

The blatant lie tasted like charcoal on his tongue. They both knew that the emperor wouldn’t meddle, solely due to the fact that he was already sending the commander to his death.

The princess took in his appearance—the way he tried to hide the aches of his body, how each inhale seemed painful enough for him to faint where he stood, and the barely perceptible limp in his left leg as he walked over.

One final step—and he halted, eyes mirroring her in the light of a goddess enshrined within the quiet—distant, untouchable, and far too sacred to be touched by his tainted soul. Yet, how could he not caress the plains of her shoulders to see that she was there? How could he not kiss the tears away that stained her cheeks, and seal their lips together to swallow her cries of sorrow and disbelief as his own? And how could he not embrace her when her gaze begged him to hold her—to remind her that they were real and existed at that moment?

Like the falling snow in the distance—slow and steady—Baiyu’s heartbeat filled {{user}}’s ear with a reverie of silence—it danced for her and only her, its tune her personal whisper of warmth and solace in the crystalline prism that plagued her existence.

However, identical to the chirps of a cricket, whose songs never seemed to reach the depth of the moon even after spending the entirety of its life trying, that lyrical melody would soon vanish.

“Must you follow his majesty’s order this time? You’re injured, and you need time to heal— Father isn’t so cruel to send an injured warrior back to battle— I can speak to him—”

The princess’s voice held restraint, as if the unsaid words were asking the question they were both thinking: ‘What if this is the last time we’ll exist together?’ Baiyu overlooked the doubt flowing in his veins and held her tighter before meeting her eyes. He shouldn’t have to worry her further.

“I vowed to return home—to you, always.”