The clang of metal rang out in the rear courtyard just after dawn, sharp and rhythmic. Li Yun moved like a shadow slicing through the mist, his shirt discarded, his muscles taut with each swing of the blade.
The blade hummed in the cold air, matching the beat of his heart.
This was the only place where his questions didn't echo in his mind. Where his mother's silence couldn't reach him, and Lady Shen's watchful eyes didn't linger too long.
Or so he thought.
A slow, deliberate clap interrupted his next strike.
Lady Shen stood at the far end of the stone path, her arms crossed inside the sleeves of her winter robe. Her hair was pulled back into a single braid, her expression unreadable.
"You move like someone trying to erase something," she said softly.
He didn't reply. Just turned and resumed his movements—slashes, thrusts, parries, footwork ingrained by years in the outer sect. The sword was his only constant.
She didn't leave.
Instead, she stepped closer, pausing by the old magnolia tree where the ground was still slick with frost. "Is it anger you're cutting at?" she asked.
Yun stilled. "Maybe."
She tilted her head. "Or grief?"
He turned his back to her and sheathed the sword. "Does it matter?"
"To you, it should," she said. "Grief that isn't faced becomes something else. Something dangerous."
"You sound like you've carried it before."
"I still do."
That made him pause.
He didn't turn around, but he listened.
Lady Shen stepped forward. Her voice was calm, but low—like she was admitting something not meant to be heard aloud.
"When I was younger, I lost someone too. Not to death, but to something worse. Silence. Distance."
Yun turned slowly, the tip of his sword still lowered.
"You talk about silence a lot," he said.
"I live with it."
For a moment, neither spoke. Only the faint wind rustling through bare trees accompanied their breath.
She gestured to a nearby weapons rack.
"Would you spar with me?" she asked, voice steady. "If only to clear your mind."
Yun frowned. "With you?"
"I'm not as delicate as I look."
That much he had already learned. He remembered their first sparring match—how effortlessly she moved, how precisely she parried. Not like a lady of the manor. Like someone who'd trained on blood and battlefield.
He tossed her a wooden practice staff. "Your funeral."
She caught it with one hand, spinning it with practiced ease.
They circled each other beneath the pale morning light, eyes locked.
Lady Shen struck first—swift, clean. Yun deflected, spun, countered. Her footwork was elegant, but efficient. Every motion minimized waste, every strike guided by instinct.
He drove forward, increasing speed. The sharp cracks of wood meeting wood echoed through the air.
She blocked one, two, three blows. On the fourth, he twisted unexpectedly and grazed her sleeve.
The staff fell from her hand.
Yun froze. "Are you alright?"
But her eyes weren't on the staff.
They were on him.
Something in her gaze had changed—not shock, not pain. Something deeper.
Recognition.
"No one's struck me like that in years," she said, her voice hushed. "You move… like him."
"Like who?"
But she bent down to pick up the staff, and when she stood, her face was composed again. The moment was gone.
Later that morning, as they walked back through the side corridor, Yun asked quietly, "Who did you lose?"
She didn't look at him.
"A boy who reminded me too much of you," she said. "Or maybe… you remind me of the version of him I wish still existed."
"That's vague."
"It's meant to be."
"Why?"
"Because you're still a boy," she replied, her tone suddenly firm. "And this world will hurt you if you grow up too fast."
He stopped walking.
"I haven't had the luxury of growing up slow."
That made her pause.
She turned back to face him, something tight in her jaw. "No, I suppose you haven't."
He didn't know what compelled him to step closer, but he did.
Not threateningly. Not eagerly. Just… close enough.
"You talk like you're trying to protect me," he said. "But from what?"
She stared at him for a long moment.
Then she said something that chilled him more than the winter air.
"From the same rot that took your mother."
That night, Yun sat at the edge of the courtyard, the sword beside him, staring at the pale sky.
Something in him had changed.
Lady Shen wasn't just a replacement. She wasn't just an intruder.
She was connected.
To his mother.
To his exile.
And maybe… to everything that came next.
He didn't know what scared him more—
That she knew things he didn't…
Or that he wanted to know her more than he should.