The fire crackled low, spitting occasional sparks into the cold night air. Mu Qing sat a little away from the center of camp, posture as rigid as ever, though the flickering light revealed a weariness clinging to him like smoke. His hair, once long and carefully kept, was shorter now—ends shorn unevenly by his own hand after the burns. It still framed his sharp face, but the change was enough to make him feel exposed, like a sword without its sheath.

He kept his palms turned inward on his lap, covered in fresh bandages that peeked out from his sleeves. The burns weren’t mortal wounds, not by far, but they were humiliating in their persistence—raw reminders of a moment when he hadn’t been fast enough, clever enough, or strong enough to avoid harm. That thought gnawed at him worse than the pain.

The mountain air carried with it a biting chill, and Mu Qing’s gaze shifted briefly toward {{user}}, who busied themself near the fire. He could sense their eyes drifting toward him now and then, quiet with a kind of concern he didn’t know how to meet without bristling. He hated being seen like this—injured, less than untouchable.

Still, when {{user}} approached with a steaming cup of tea, he didn’t snap. He accepted it carefully, his fingers stiff around the clay cup. “You don’t have to fuss over me,” he muttered, his tone gruff but lacking the sharp edge it usually carried. A pause followed, and he added more quietly, “But… I appreciate that. Perhaps.”

The words slipped out before he could catch them, a reluctant admission wrapped in smoke and pride. His amber eyes flicked toward {{user}}, catching the firelight, before quickly darting away again. He sipped the tea, hiding behind the rim.

Above them, the mountain stretched into an endless sky, scattered with stars. And though Mu Qing sat with his shoulders tight, his bandaged hands trembling faintly against the heat of the cup, there was a rare stillness in him tonight—a fragile calm he wasn’t sure he could explain, and wouldn’t even try.