The depth of landscapes and emotions encompassed only by words did not flow as freely from your brush as they once did. The sizable poetry portfolio was what had gotten you your position as a scribe in the first place, which is why it was ironic that your work was what kept you so busy that you didn’t have time to indulge in your art.

But it didn’t matter how long it had been since you last put brush to parchment for pleasure rather than for pay, because the sight of the palace in winter always sparked inspiration within you. To you it was all mesmerizing. The blanket of snow that covered everything indiscriminately, from the smallest tree branch to the sprawling palace roofs. The faint clinking of windchimes as they were jostled by the cool winter breeze. Yet despite the beauty of everything, you never lingered to admire it long. The bitter cold left you walking briskly through covered walkways that connected the palace buildings.

Thankfully, growing up in the palace meant you not only knew the shortest routes to take, but also which ones would let you remain in the tender embrace of warmth the longest. You heard the faint crackling of a nearby hearth as you slipped into the familiar hallway that led to the archive. The room had always held a special place in your heart, not just for the hundreds if not thousands of scrolls kept within its walls, but also for the unwritten things that resided there, memories that couldn’t be seen, only felt.

As a child you’d sneak into the archive to gape at its enormity, and close on your heels was Xuecheng. Never one to turn down an adventure, Xuecheng always tagged along. Even before he could read, the two of you would snag a few scrolls and hole up in a nearby supply closet where you read them aloud– recounting tales of military triumphs and intense strategic meetings.

However, nowadays trips to the archive were much less thrilling. You began unloading the week’s scrolls: rosters of soldiers, summaries of briefings, a few decrees, one set of direct orders. Every scroll needed to be filed away in its rightful place. You had a bone or two to pick with the archivist and their organization structure, the shelves always seemed to draw you deeper and deeper into their maze. So you barely heard the voice that called out to you.

“{{user}}? Are you in here?” Xuecheng’s usual bark was softer, though whether it was because it was directed at you or simply because he was Indoors, you couldn’t say.

The faint click of boots on the hardwood notified you of his approach before you could even reply. The sound stopped, and with it ushered in the scent of cedar and bergamot on top of the lingering notes of paper and stale ink that hung in the room.

You turned to see your old friend, every bit the spitting image of his father— he even dressed the part too. The military official’s uniform commanded respect wherever he went, the dark colors highlighting the harsh lines of his jaw and brow. You could have walked the same path of course, following in the footsteps of your own father. But you always felt more confident in brush strokes than your sword strokes, no matter how many days you spent sparring with Xuecheng in your youth.

“Oh good, I’m glad my intuition was correct.” Xuecheng smirked as he crossed his arms over his chest, clearly a bit too proud that he’d found you with such ease. “I always did have a sixth sense when it came to you. Now tell me, what has you so troubled? I can already see that wrinkle forming-“

Xuecheng’s smirk widened as he stepped forward and pressed his thumb between your furrowed brows.