Yan Xuan sat by the window, fingertips resting on the edge of a blank scroll. The brazier had long since gone cold, but he hadn't moved.
The Peace Pavilion was silent.
But not peaceful.
His dreams had returned—sharper, merciless.
A sword of light.
A shattered battlefield.
A woman burning in his arms.
She always died.
And he always forgot her face.
Until now.
"Still sulking?"
The voice floated in from behind the silk divider—casual, smooth, and annoyingly amused.
Yan Xuan didn't look up. "You call this sulking?"
The door slid open.
Si Yue entered like he belonged to every room he stepped in. Tall, effortlessly graceful, dressed in robes the color of smoke and riverstone. His long, silver-grey hair fell loose down his back, catching the last of the light.
He looked like a myth given good manners.
Eyes pale blue, sharp as winter. Taller than Yan Xuan by more than a little.
A face too refined for court—too perfect for trust—but not one person in the empire had ever dared question him.
Rumors trailed him like a scent.
Born beneath an eclipse.
Blessed by a sky beast.
Touched by gods, but answerable to no one.
But unlike Yan Xuan, Si Yue had always been adored. No death cursed his name. No scar marred his face. No whispers clung to his footsteps like rot.
Still—Yan Xuan trusted him.
He always had. Since the beginning. Because he was there before anyone else.
"You've been staring at that scroll for hours," Si Yue said, pouring tea like a nobleman bored of war. "Did she break your heart already, or are you just rehearsing your brooding monologue?"
Yan Xuan didn't look up. "I'm thinking."
Si Yue's grin widened. "Dangerous habit."
He passed the tea. Yan Xuan took it without comment.
"So," Si Yue leaned against the far pillar. "The General. Impressions?"
Yan Xuan's gaze stayed on the snow. "She asked if I believed in fate."
Si Yue let out a low whistle. "Oho. Starting with the heavy questions, is she? And what did you say?"
"That I used to."
"You used to? Wow. That's almost romantic."
Yan Xuan raised an eyebrow.
"You know," Si Yue continued, "if you were trying to flirt, you could've at least said, 'I started believing again after meeting you.' Even I would've blushed at that."
Yan Xuan shot him a dry look. "I'm not you."
"No," Si Yue said smugly, "but you flirted. And don't you dare deny it. I heard it. That tone you used—soft, low, with just enough heat to raise blood pressure. You stood way too close. Your voice dipped. You called her beautiful."
"It wasn't flirtation," Yan Xuan muttered.
"Then what was it? Divine possession?"
Silence.
Si Yue's teasing expression flickered—then softened.
"You know," he said, quieter now, "you've never looked at anyone the way you looked at her. Not even close."
Yan Xuan finally met his gaze. "She was… familiar."
The smile dropped from Si Yue's mouth entirely.
"I felt it too," he admitted. "It wasn't just recognition. It was deeper. Like…"
"Like we forgot something important," Yan Xuan finished.
For a moment, neither spoke. The teasing had vanished. Left only with the quiet press of memory neither of them had.
Not yet.
Si Yue broke the silence.
"Your scar was glowing last night."
Yan Xuan turned sharply.
"You were dreaming again," Si Yue continued, his voice even. "Worse than usual. You called a name out. Loud."
Yan Xuan's hand clenched slightly around the cup. "I don't remember."
"You never do," Si Yue said. "But something's waking up in you. And that woman—you think she triggered it?"
Yan Xuan looked out the window again.
"She didn't feel like a trigger," he said. "She felt like the answer to a question I didn't know I'd asked."
That made Si Yue go still.
"I want to know who she is," Yan Xuan added, more to himself than to anyone.
Si Yue straightened, his eyes narrowing—not coldly, but with the kind of thought that came from centuries of silence.
"Then find out," he said. "But this time… don't watch her walk away."
The snow outside had begun to fall again. Clean. Relentless. The storm wasn't over.
An eunuch entered quietly and bowed low.
"His Majesty summons you, Your Highness."
Yan Xuan didn't rise at once.
He kept his gaze on the window—on the path where she'd once stood, wind tugging at her cloak, her eyes unreadable.
"She asked me if I believed in fate," he murmured again.
Si Yue gave him a look over his shoulder. "And do you?"
Yan Xuan set the teacup down, rising to his full height. His eyes gleamed under the fringe of dark hair, quiet and sharp.
"…I'm beginning to."