Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"On the night of the Blood Moon, red snow will cradle the fallen.

The traitor and his beloved will tear open the sky,

shattering the chains that once held chaos at bay.

The Great Sun shall descend into darkness,

and the Dragon, reborn from wrath and longing,

will burn the path destiny refuses to yield."

Chu Wanning woke with his entire body drenched in sweat, breathing hard as if he had been dragged out of icy water. His chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven bursts while he fought to steady himself. Another prophecy. And somehow even more bewildering than the ones that had plagued him for nearly two weeks.

The visions of the Beidou Immortal never failed. Everyone in the empire knew that. They unfolded in their own time, but they always unfolded. That was why the Emperor relied on him so completely, why he had become not only the empire’s Oracle but one of its most trusted advisors. His Majesty placed his life in Chu Wanning’s hands.

After several minutes of forced calm, he reached for the scroll on his nightstand. His fingers still trembled as he gathered ink and brush, urgency outweighing the remnants of sleep. He wrote quickly, capturing the cold that had crawled under his skin, the shattered landscape stretching endlessly, the air thick with dread.

And the eyes.
Those purple eyes looking straight at him, cutting through the dream as if they could see him in waking life.

He lifted the brush, intending to sketch them, but something in him recoiled. A warning he could not name. He stopped, set everything aside, and pressed his palm against the table until the unsettling feeling ebbed. Some part of him wanted to keep that detail secret, even from himself.

He approached the window. The faintest silver haze illuminated the horizon, hinting that dawn was approaching. A new day beginning, whether he was ready or not. He would have to inform the Emperor of the prophecy. And he needed to prepare for the journey to the Nation of Air. It would be a long and draining day, but duty left little room for complaint. This life, sheltered within the palace, was more than many could hope for.

“Beidou Xian-zun, your bath and clothes are ready.”

A soft voice at the door made him sigh quietly. He slipped on his shoes and followed the young maid to his private bath. The water steamed gently, perfumed with calming herbs. He didn’t enjoy the fuss, but refusing them would only result in punishment for the girls. So he endured it quietly.

“Chu Shenyu, did you hear about His Majesty’s request for your trip?” one maid asked hesitantly while rinsing his hair. Wanning opened one eye, signaling for her to continue. He already had some idea of what she meant, but hearing it spoken aloud was different.

“His Majesty said that since Chu Shenyu is so important to him and the empire, a personal bodyguard will be assigned to accompany you. Someone who will remain by your side until you return. The selection will take place in about an hour.”

Wanning’s eyes snapped open fully this time. He could not immediately place his feelings. Surprise. Annoyance. A faint, prickling unease. Yes, he knew the empire had earned enemies. Their army’s reputation had grown, their victories numerous. And rumors had spread about the hidden figure known as Chu Shenyu, whose face no one had seen.

Even so, he felt the precaution unnecessary. He was far from defenseless. His martial proficiency stood equal to his prophetic abilities. He could protect himself if he had to.

“When did His Majesty decide this?” he asked, stepping out of the bath. The maids wrapped him in towels and began dressing him in his robes, the layers settling over his skin like armor.

“Yesterday, while Chu Shenyu was away,” the maid replied. “He ordered General Nang to gather only the soldiers he deemed capable of such responsibility. Today His Majesty will choose one.”

Wanning simply nodded. He remained silent while they finished tying his hair and adjusting his collar. When everything was in place, he murmured a polite thank you and left the bathhouse.

Warm steam curling behind him before melting into the cool morning air. The shift in temperature made him draw his robes tighter around himself, though the lingering chill beneath his skin was not from the breeze. It was the kind that clung to a man after a prophecy, quiet, insistent, impossible to shake.

He crossed the short walkway back to his chamber. The palace was still half-asleep, lanterns dim, steps muted, servants moving like shadows. When he slid the door open, the familiar calm of his room greeted him: neatly stacked scrolls, a still-burning incense coil, the faint scent of cedar. Everything just as he left it.

And yet, he felt… watched.
As though the remnants of the dream had followed him inside.

He stood in the doorway for a breath before entering fully. His gaze drifted to the scroll on his desk, the ink from earlier still glistening faintly. He looked away quickly, unable to ignore the hollow tightening in his chest at the thought of returning to those images, especially the eyes.

He pressed his fingers to his temples, trying to ease the heaviness gathering behind them.

A beat later, he straightened his collar, smoothed the front of his robes, and composed his expression. Whatever unsettled him had no place in the Emperor’s hall. He could not afford to bring uncertainty before the court.

He stepped out of his room and slid the door shut behind him.

The corridor beyond was cool and quiet, lined with tall red pillars and hanging lanterns whose light glowed softly against the polished floors. With each step he took, the muffled echoes followed him, steady but hollow, like a heartbeat heard through water. Incense drifted through the hallway in thin silver strands, mingling with the faint hum of spiritual wards embedded in the palace walls.

He moved with deliberate calm, but the tension in his chest only tightened.
The prophecy pressed against the back of his mind.
And beneath that, something else, an unease he couldn’t quite name.

As he passed through the outer courtyard, two guards straightened at attention. He gave them a nod in acknowledgment, though his thoughts were elsewhere. The morning air bit at his skin, crisp and sharp, grounding him enough to breathe more evenly.

A servant approached with a bow. “Chu Shenyu, His Majesty summoned the counselors earlier. He is awaiting your arrival.”

“Very well.”

He made his way toward the main hall, the distant murmur of voices growing louder with each step. Sunlight had begun to spill across the stone floors, illuminating murals of past emperors and ancient battles. Those images usually comforted him. Today they felt like warnings.

The doors to the main hall were opened for him. He stepped inside quietly.

The hall was vast, its pillars soaring up into shadows. Sunlight filtered through tall windows, catching dust motes suspended in the still air. Incense burned in a great bronze vessel at the center, its smoke curling into sinuous shapes that clung to the rafters like spirits unable to rise.

At the far end of the hall, atop a raised platform, sat the Emperor.

The Emperor was dressed in deep navy robes embroidered with golden sunbursts. Even seated, he carried the presence of a man who ruled fifty million lives with a steady hand. But today, something in his expression wavered for the briefest moment when he saw Chu Wanning.

Concern, subtle but undeniable.

“Wanning,” the Emperor said, voice echoing softly in the hall. “You look pale.”

Wanning lowered himself into a respectful bow. “This humble servant is well enough, Your Majesty.”

“That is not what I asked.”

His head lifted. The Emperor’s eyes, sharp as a hawk’s, swept over him with the practiced attention of a man who noticed everything. Wanning knew the sight he presented: faint shadows beneath his eyes, a stiffness in his posture, a lingering tension in his breath. The Emperor could read him like an open scroll.

“You had another prophecy.”

A statement, not a guess.

“…Yes.”

The Emperor exhaled slowly, fingers brushing the armrest of his throne. “Sit. Tell me.”

Chu Wanning stepped forward and settled on the nearby cushion. The hall felt too quiet, too watchful. Every breath of incense seemed heavier than the last. Even before he spoke, he could feel the echo of the nightmare pressing against his skin like cold fingertips.

Wanning lowered his gaze, choosing his words with care. “Last night’s vision was… clearer than the others,” he began quietly. “Under the Blood Moon, snow turned red as if the heavens themselves bled. Above it, the Sun flickered, like something sought to swallow its light. And beneath the northern mountains, I saw the shadow of a Dragon twisting. The chains that bind it pulled taut, each one straining as though about to snap.”

A heavy silence followed.

“A Dragon?” the Emperor asked.

A faint chill coursed through Wanning, memory brushing his spine like a cold fingertip. He chose his words carefully.

“Coiled in darkness, trembling with fury. Its roar shook the mountains, yet its form never revealed itself fully. Only the pressure of it… the promise of destruction.”

The Emperor’s fingers tightened on the armrest of his throne. “For a Dragon to stir at all, the balance of the realms must already be fracturing.”

Wanning inclined his head. “That is my concern as well, Your Majesty.”

Silence settled again, heavier this time. In the stillness, Wanning became acutely aware of his own heartbeat, thudding too quickly beneath his ribs. The Emperor watched him with a furrowed brow, sharp despite the dim light.

“You look worn,” he said at last. “These visions have been taking more from you than usual. If I did not know your endurance, I might think they were beginning to consume you.”

“They are only dreams,” Wanning answered, though his voice felt thinner than he intended. “My role remains unchanged.”

“Dreams from the heavens are never only dreams.”

Wanning lowered his eyes, unwilling to hold the Emperor’s gaze any longer. He did not want to explain why this prophecy clung to him so tightly, or why the Dragon’s shadow felt less like a creature and more like a presence looming just behind him. He did not want to speak of the unease coiling beneath his skin, or the strange sense of being seen.

Before the Emperor could question him further, footsteps echoed from the far side of the hall. The sound was steady and disciplined, growing closer with each second.

A guard entered and bowed deeply. “Your Majesty. The candidates for Chu Shenyu’s escort have arrived.”

The Emperor exhaled, smoothing his robes as he straightened. “Very well. Bring them in.”

Wanning’s spine went rigid. He folded his hands inside his sleeves, hoping it would hide the slight tremor left over from the vision. Even now, fragments of the dream clung to him like cold mist.

The tall doors began to open, and the chosen soldiers stepped inside. Torchlight stretched across the polished floor, casting long shadows that swayed with their movements.

Once they were close enough, Wanning could study them without pretense. Each man carried himself differently.

“Chu Shenyu,” the Emperor said, clearing his throat. “You have already had a glimpse of those who may accompany you. Allow me to introduce them properly.”

Wanning forced himself to focus, blinking to steady his thoughts as the first soldier stepped forward. The man was smaller than the others, with almond-shaped eyes and a sharp, intelligent look. He bowed respectfully.

“This is Xue Ziming, son of Sect Leader Xue from Sisheng Peak,” the Emperor said. “He has trained in our army for several years and has shown great skill and loyalty.”

The next man was tall and striking, his face almost startling in its beauty. Broad shoulders and long, strong legs gave him the air of a warrior, yet his gentle eyes softened the effect. Wanning acknowledged and liked the calm strength behind such a pretty face. He gave a polite nod as the man stepped forward.

“This is Shi Mingjing, one of our finest healers,” the Emperor said. “His knowledge has saved countless soldiers in the field.”

Finally, the Emperor turned to the last man. Wanning’s gaze immediately followed, drawn to him like a magnet. The tallest of the three stood relaxed yet alert, strength coiled beneath his stance like a predator resting with its eyes half-lidded. His skin was sun-darkened, his features striking and impossible to overlook. And when he lifted his head, his dark violet eyes met Wanning’s directly.

Wanning’s heart stumbled.

Those eyes were impossible. Too vivid. Too familiar. They stared at him with an unsettling certainty, as if they already knew him. A faint prickle crawled down the back of his neck, like cold fingers tracing his spine. Something old and warm and frightening stirred in the pit of his stomach.

“And this is Mo Weiyu, one of our most promising talents,” the Emperor continued.

“It is an honor to finally meet you, Chu Shenyu.” The man -Mo Weiyu- said.

Wanning felt his breath hitch, though he forced himself to bow slightly in acknowledgment. The man’s eyes met his, calm and unflinching, yet there was something in them that made Wanning’s stomach twist. He did not understand the sensation, nor did he trust it.

The Emperor observed him quietly, noting the subtle tension in his posture. “All three are capable and trustworthy, but I believe Mo Weiyu is the most suitable for this journey. His skill and judgment are unmatched, and he will ensure your safety. Of course, the final decision is yours, Chu Shenyu, but I would advise you to choose wisely.”

Wanning nodded, trying to steady his racing thoughts. His gaze flicked once more to Mo Weiyu, whose smile never wavered. Something about this man, so simple yet so unsettling, made him aware of a pulse in his chest that he could not control.

Wanning lowered his gaze for a moment, taking a slow, deliberate breath. He could feel the weight of the Emperor’s words, the quiet authority in his suggestion. Mo Weiyu had a presence that demanded attention, a competence that could not be ignored. Despite the strange flutter in his chest, Wanning found himself nodding.

“Then I will accept your recommendation, Your Majesty,” he said softly. “Mo Weiyu shall accompany me.”

The Emperor inclined his head slightly, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Very well. I trust you will both act with wisdom and caution.”

Wanning rose from his seat, his mind already turning to the preparations. He returned to his chambers, where a small bag of clothes, a scroll, ink, and brush awaited him. He moved methodically, packing each item with careful precision, though his thoughts kept drifting to the man he would soon travel with.

When he was ready, he walked toward the front yard of the palace, where Mo Weiyu was already waiting. The man gave him one of those effortless smiles that somehow made Wanning’s chest tighten. Without a word, Mo Weiyu stepped closer and took hold of the reins, walking beside him as Wanning mounted the horse. The contact was brief but grounding, a quiet reassurance amid the nerves and the weight of the prophecy.

Both he and Mo Weiyu would be disguised as simple villagers traveling to another city, since going in a ban would draw far too much attention. Chu Shenyu’s identity was a secret outside the palace walls. It wasn’t the first time Wanning had traveled like this, but it was the first time he had a companion with him, so he tried not to overthink things and focused on making the journey as simple as possible.

Instead of following the main road, Mo Weiyu guided them along a narrow, winding path that slipped between low hills and dense groves. He walked beside Wanning, steady and alert, hand firm on the reins, his gaze scanning the shadows. The morning mist curled around them like smoke, muffling the sound of hooves and hiding them from any curious eyes near the palace gates. The scent of damp earth and pine filled the air, grounding Wanning even as the Dragon from his vision seemed to coil closer at the edges of his thoughts.

They rode in silence at first, the quiet between them thick but not uncomfortable. Wanning’s gaze kept drifting to Mo Weiyu, noticing the subtle way his hand adjusted the reins or the careful attention he paid to the path ahead. Occasionally, their eyes met, fleeting but electric, each glance sending a strange warmth crawling under Wanning’s skin. The man’s calm presence was unnerving in a way he couldn’t name, yet somehow it steadied him, anchoring him amid the lingering unease of the prophecy.

Finally, Mo Weiyu spoke, slightly surprising Wanning. “I meant what I said. It is an honor to finally meet Chu Shenyu.” He didn’t look at Wanning as he spoke, but there was a faint smile in his voice, subtle and effortless.

“There’s nothing special about meeting me,” Wanning replied softly. “I’m just a mere messenger from the gods, nothing else.”

Mo Ran chuckled lightly. “And the reason the empire succeeds in every battle? I wouldn’t underestimate myself if I were you.” His tone was calm but carried an edge that made Wanning frown slightly. He knew the Emperor and the court valued him, but hearing someone else say it aloud… it felt different.

“And what about you? My prophecies would mean nothing if men like you in the army weren’t able to turn them into victories.”

“The name’s Mo Ran. Mo Weiyu is my courtesy name. I joined the army a few months ago.” Wanning noted this silently, unsure if it was permission to call him Mo Ran already. He stayed quiet for a few moments before replying.

“My name is Chu Wanning.”

“Wanning… what a pretty name,” Mo Ran said, his voice smooth, casual, yet somehow intimate. Wanning felt his cheeks warm unexpectedly. He wasn’t sure why he felt so off around Mo Ran, but it was not unpleasant. It was… unfamiliar, a sensation he had never experienced before, something that made his stomach curl and his chest tighten in a way that both unnerved and intrigued him.

They lapsed into silence again, but it was different now. There was an undercurrent between them, subtle but tangible, a pull that neither could ignore even as the mist and the quiet of the forest wrapped around them like a protective veil.

The path gradually widened as they neared the outskirts of the city. The morning mist had lifted, replaced by the warm, golden haze of the late afternoon sun. Rolling hills stretched to either side, dotted with groves of pine and maple whose leaves caught the light, glowing faintly like embers. A gentle breeze carried the scent of earth and wood smoke, rustling the trees and sending long shadows flickering across the path.

Wanning kept his gaze low, but he couldn’t help stealing glances at Mo Ran walking beside him. Every step the man took was measured, confident, yet subtle, as though he was reading the world around them while remaining perfectly in control. The quiet attentiveness, the calm strength, even the way he held the reins—it all made Wanning’s chest tighten in a way he could neither explain nor resist. Far off on the horizon, the city walls gradually took shape, the streets winding inward like threads laid out beneath the sun.

After another half hour, they reached a small inn perched on the city’s edge. Its walls were simple but solid, smoke curling lazily from the chimney, carrying the faint scent of cooking into the air. Wanning dismounted first, stretching slightly, massaging the stiffness in his back and thighs. Mo Ran guided the horse toward the entrance, speaking briefly with the innkeeper to secure rooms. Wanning’s eyes drifted over the quiet street, catching the warm glow of lanterns beginning to flicker to life, and the gentle bustle of villagers finishing their day.

When Mo Ran returned, he was smiling, a hint of amusement in the curve of his lips. “There’s only one room left,” he said casually. “We can keep looking elsewhere if you’d like.”

Wanning froze. Sharing a single room with someone he had met only that morning made his stomach twist. He opened his mouth, looking for a way to refuse, but the truth was undeniable. Both of them were exhausted. Mo Ran had walked the entire way, alert and steady, while Wanning had ridden, yet his legs ached and his back throbbed. Perhaps resting was the better option.

Swallowing the nervousness coiling in his chest, he nodded. “We’ll take it,” he said softly, trying to keep his voice steady.

Mo Ran’s smile widened slightly, perceptive yet unobtrusive. He gestured for Wanning to follow, leading the way inside. The wooden floorboards creaked faintly beneath their feet as they crossed the inn’s small hall, and Wanning felt the quiet shift, as if the air itself was heavier, more intimate.

“Just… let me take a bath first. Give me the time it takes one incense stick to burn, and I’ll be ready,” Wanning said, releasing the reins and letting Mo Ran handle the payment. The innkeeper nodded, and soon warm water was drawn. Wanning stepped into it, methodical, efficient, yet his mind was anything but calm. He scrubbed and rinsed, his thoughts wandering to the man waiting outside, to the journey that had felt longer than it was, and to the strange pull he felt every time he looked at Mo Ran.

When he emerged, wrapped in clean robes, he perched on the edge of the bed, brushing damp hair from his forehead, trying to steady his pulse. He hadn’t been waiting long when Mo Ran appeared, holding both their bags. The man set them carefully on the small table in front of the bed and paused at the doorway, hesitation flickering in his gaze.

“Did you… enjoy the bath?” Mo Ran asked quietly, a hint of self-consciousness threading through the calm tone.

Wanning blinked, caught off guard. “I… yes. I didn’t want to take too long. I… knew you were waiting outside,” he admitted, cheeks warming as he realized how awkward it sounded. He imagined Mo Ran thinking him foolish, or worse, imagining that the other had been staring through the crack of the door.

Mo Ran’s lips curved into a faint, amused smile, though his eyes remained soft. “I was considering sleeping outside. There’s a small yard, and the grass is comfortable enough. I don’t need the fanciest bed. Battlefields never allowed it anyway,” he said quietly, almost as if testing Wanning’s reaction.

Wanning’s chest tightened further. “Mo Ran… you don’t need to sleep outside. This is not a battlefield, and the bed isn’t large, but… we could… share it,” he murmured, the words leaving his lips before he could second-guess them.

The room seemed to shrink around them. Lantern light painted shadows along the walls, flickering across the floorboards and their clothing. Mo Ran lingered at the door, gaze soft, his presence a quiet gravity that made Wanning acutely aware of his heartbeat, of the warmth settling in his chest.

After a moment, Mo Ran set the bags down and stepped closer, careful not to close the distance too much. Wanning’s pulse raced, his awareness stretched taut. The distant hum of voices in the inn, the creak of wood, the faint clinking of dishes—all seemed to fade, leaving only the two of them, suspended in that delicate, unspoken tension.

Even in silence, it felt like the air between them carried a weight, a quiet charge neither dared to break, the slow burn of something neither man fully understood but both undeniably felt.

“Does Chu Shenyu want to sleep with me…? I—uh, I didn’t mean it that way. I was just trying to joke,” Mo Ran said, the words tumbling out awkwardly, soft but carrying a nervous edge. His laugh was tentative, almost shy, and it made Wanning’s chest tighten in a way he didn’t understand.

Heat rushed through Chu Wanning’s body, climbing from his ears to his chest, leaving him unable to form a proper reply. He murmured a barely audible, “I don’t…” and shifted across the bed, pressing himself close to the wall. It was a small, deliberate movement, a silent invitation for Mo Ran to occupy the other side and leave him space. He dared not glance at the man; even the thought of Mo Ran seeing how flustered he was made his stomach twist.

Mo Ran moved deliberately, removing his shirt and laying it neatly atop the bag. Wanning’s eyes betrayed him for just a fraction of a second, catching the smooth line of Mo Ran’s shoulders, the definition of his chest, the lean strength of his torso. He turned immediately toward the wall, cheeks burning hotter than ever, wishing he could vanish entirely. A strange awareness coursed through him, unbidden and unnerving, leaving him flushed and oddly tense in ways he couldn’t name or control.

The bed shifted as Mo Ran settled on the other side, and Wanning stiffened. Every nerve felt heightened—the soft brush of the sheets, the faint warmth radiating from the man next to him, the subtle sound of his breath. He pressed himself closer to the wall, pretending to be asleep, though his mind spun with thoughts he didn’t want to confront. He could feel Mo Ran’s presence like a quiet weight, grounding yet electric, the kind of awareness that made ordinary stillness feel charged.

Time seemed to stretch, measured only by the subtle sounds of the room—the faint rustle of cloth as Mo Ran adjusted himself, the distant murmur of voices from the inn, the occasional creak of the floorboards. Every tiny movement seemed amplified, each glance at the wall or toward the door a struggle to contain the warmth bubbling under his skin. His heart beat faster, unsteady, and he realized with a jolt that the proximity of Mo Ran—someone he had met only hours ago—was affecting him far more than it should.

Neither spoke, yet the silence was not empty. It was filled with a quiet, electric awareness, a tension that wrapped around them like a thin thread stretched taut. There was intimacy in it, fragile and dangerous, made all the more potent because neither of them fully acknowledged it. Wanning’s body remained pressed to the wall, but he was acutely aware of every inch of space Mo Ran claimed beside him, the slow rise and fall of his chest, the occasional shift of weight.

“Good night… Wanning,” Mo Ran whispered finally, his voice soft but low enough to carry a warmth that made Wanning’s ears burn even hotter.

Chu Wanning didn’t answer. He tried to steady his breathing, to anchor himself in the mundane act of closing his eyes, but sleep refused him. His body remained taut, every sense attuned to the subtle presence beside him, the warmth, the quiet, the tension that hummed through the shared space. 

Finally, Chu Wanning’s breathing slowly evened out as he pressed himself against the wall, his body finally succumbing to exhaustion. The warmth of the bed, the lingering presence of Mo Ran beside him, and the day’s fatigue wove together, pulling him into a restless sleep. Even as his eyelids fluttered shut, his mind refused to settle completely, the weight of the prophecy pressing against the edges of his thoughts.

In the dark folds of his dreams, the world shifted. Shadows twisted, and a strange heat filled the air, searing and heavy, like molten metal flowing across the earth. The sky burned with a red light, and he felt the roar of something immense and terrible reverberate in his chest. Then he saw it: the Dragon, coiled and powerful, eyes gleaming with fury, scales shimmering with the glow of molten rivers. It moved with both grace and devastation, a force of nature too immense to be contained.

Beside it stood a figure he could not fully see, but somehow he knew—the Messenger. Its presence radiated purpose and inevitability, a silent command to the chaos around them. Fire erupted where they passed, rivers of molten red carving a path across a landscape that had once been green and fertile. Smoke and ash stung his nose, and the stench of blood and scorched earth filled the air.

A voice, deep and distant, whispered through the inferno, echoing in the hollows of his mind:

“The Dragon and the Messenger will lead the river of fire, burning the entire world around them. Blood and flesh will be one, and a ruler shall be born.”

Wanning woke with a sharp breath, the remnants of fire and prophecy still clinging to his mind. For a heartbeat he didn’t know where he was. Then he became aware of warmth. A firm arm banded around his waist. A broad chest pressed against his back. A steady breath brushed the nape of his neck, slow and deep with sleep.

Mo Ran.

The realization struck him like a spark. His body went rigid. He made a small, startled sound, but the weight behind him only shifted, tightening unconsciously as Mo Ran pulled him closer in his sleep. Heat swept up Wanning’s face, spreading all the way down to his chest. His pulse jumped, impossible to control.

He tried to push the arm away, but Mo Ran only murmured something incoherent and drew him in again, his body warm and solid along Wanning’s spine. The closeness was overwhelming, every point of contact sending a confusing rush of sensation through him. His breath came uneven, almost a pant, his skin prickling with a heat he didn’t know how to name.

Wanning stiffened further when he felt something against his thigh, a firm pressure that made his heart stutter in shock before he tore himself free in a sudden movement. He practically stumbled out of the bed, retreating until his back found the door. His cheeks burned so fiercely he could feel the heat radiating from them, his whole body trembling with embarrassment and the lingering pull of the dream he had just escaped.

Mo Ran jolted awake at the abrupt loss of warmth. He sat up instantly, hair mussed, eyes sharp with instinct even through the haze of sleep. Bare-chested, tense, he looked ready to fight.

“Wanning? What happened? Is someone here?” His voice was rough with sleep, low and concerned as his gaze searched the shadows.

He looked around until his eyes landed on Chu Wanning who was standing against the door, looking both embarrassed and agitated. At the sight of a sleepy yet completely ready-to-attack, half-naked Mo Ran, his pussy throbbed in an almost painful way. Wanning wanted to die.

“No one’s here. You just… you were holding me, and I… I had a dream, and I need to write it down. But you weren’t letting me go, and I felt… you were holding me way too tight, and I needed to get out of bed, okay? Nothing happened. At all.” Wanning rushed through his explanation, words tumbling out in a rush, his face burning hotter with every syllable.

He moved awkwardly toward the small table in the middle of the room, deliberately turning his back to Mo Ran as he reached for his bag. His fingers fumbled over the scroll, the ink, and the brush, hands trembling slightly from a mixture of embarrassment, residual warmth, and the lingering intensity of the dream. He pressed his thighs together unconsciously, the effort only making the tension coil tighter through his body.

Mo Ran stayed silently in bed,one arm resting casually across his knees now that he knew there was no danger. His presence was quiet but deliberate, filling the small room in a way that made Wanning acutely aware of every subtle movement—the tilt of his head, the calm steadiness of his gaze, the faint warmth that seemed to radiate from him. Even in his stillness, there was a sense of controlled energy, the kind that made Wanning’s chest tighten and his thoughts scatter.

Wanning’s heart thumped unevenly, each beat loud in the silence. He could feel the pull of Mo Ran’s nearness, a strange mix of comfort and unease that he had never known before. Every glance toward him made the air between them feel heavier, charged with a tension that was equal parts confusing and enthralling.

He dipped the brush into the ink and tried to focus on the scroll, but Mo Ran’s quiet presence made it nearly impossible. Even with his back turned, Wanning could sense him, a steady, grounding force that was somehow unnervingly intimate. His strokes were careful and hurried at once, the words of the prophecy flowing onto the scroll as his mind wrestled with the strange warmth crawling through him.

It was the first time in his thirty-four years that Wanning had felt this way. Embarrassment mingled with a heat that crept beneath his skin, leaving him restless and aware of every subtle motion Mo Ran made. He felt exposed, unsure, yet unable to look away, unable to move. Mo Ran wasn’t just a companion assigned to ensure his safety—he was something else entirely, something that stirred both curiosity and an almost unbearable tension within him.

When he finally set the brush down, Wanning’s gaze drifted past Mo Ran, toward the window. The night still stretched dark and silent beyond the panes, the moonlight barely brushing the landscape with silver. His chest tightened as he realized the truth—he could not, would not, climb back into the same bed while Mo Ran sat there so close. The very thought sent a shiver through him, a mix of frustration, heat, and a strange, almost forbidden curiosity that made his palms clammy.

He shifted slightly, pressing the heels of his hands into the edge of the table, trying to ground himself. Every instinct told him to stay put, to respect the unspoken boundaries, but his body was restless, aching with an unfamiliar energy he had never felt before. Sleep would not come here, not while Mo Ran’s presence lingered so insistently, not while the warmth and quiet power of him was so close that it seemed to press against Wanning’s very skin.

The room felt smaller suddenly, the air thick, almost tangible with the tension that neither of them had named. He wanted to look at Mo Ran, to measure how real this closeness was, but the thought alone made his heart race faster. Instead, he turned back to the window, tracing the faint moonlight on the sill, and tried to steady his breathing, though every exhale carried a shiver of frustration, desire, and unease that refused to be quieted.

“Is that one of your prophecies?” Mo Ran’s voice cut through the quiet, making Wanning startle slightly. He turned toward him, feeling the heat in his chest rise again, and nodded.

Mo Ran swung his legs off the bed and moved to the other side of the table, sitting down so he faced Wanning. His gaze was calm, curious, but there was a subtle intensity in it that made Wanning acutely aware of the tightness in his own chest and the restless stirring of desire he could barely acknowledge.

“How do they work? Do you only get strange dreams and write them down, or…?” Mo Ran’s voice was easy, but there was a spark of genuine interest in his tone. Wanning found himself grateful for the distraction—any topic that could pull his mind away from the heat pooling in his body, away from the tension that seemed to coil between them, was welcome.

“Not really. Sometimes I get them while meditating at the temple, or when the Emperor asks if I can tell him anything aside from what I already said. That’s not common. Most of the prophecies come without warning,” Wanning explained. His voice wavered slightly, betraying the anxiety he felt just from having Mo Ran so close, yet the other man didn’t comment on it. He simply listened, attentive but nonintrusive, and Wanning felt a small relief in that.

“Do you know any other oracles? You’re the only one I’ve ever heard of,” Mo Ran asked.

“I grew up in a monastery where there were three others, just like me. When I arrived at the Emperor’s court… I didn’t hear about them again,” Wanning replied, tracing a line on the wooden table with the tip of his brush, trying to anchor himself in something tangible.

“How did you… you know, realize your dreams weren’t just dreams? Could you lose your powers or something?” Mo Ran’s last question made Wanning flush, his gaze dropping to the floor. The weight of the inquiry, combined with the closeness of Mo Ran’s presence, made it impossible to maintain composure. He hesitated, as if gathering courage to answer, aware of the quiet intensity of Mo Ran’s stare.

Mo Ran waited patiently, brow slightly raised, silent but expectant. The quiet between them was thick and deliberate, filled with unspoken tension, with Wanning acutely aware of the distance and heat that separated them. It made his pulse hammer in his ears, a restless, taut rhythm that seemed almost unbearable, yet also impossible to ignore.

“The monks at the monastery already knew I was an oracle, so they told me as soon as I had the first dream,” Wanning said slowly, deliberately stretching each moment as if it could stave off the weight of Mo Ran’s last question. He closed his eyes for a heartbeat, as though surrendering to some quiet exhaustion, then continued in a softer, more hesitant voice. “I can stop receiving the prophecies if I let myself be drowned by human pleasures… if I… get intimate… with someone.” Each word fell cautiously, tremulous, but Mo Ran caught them all. For the first time since he had woken, Wanning allowed himself a faint flush of embarrassment, the warmth creeping into his cheeks and ears.

“Oh… I see,” Mo Ran said quietly, his tone neutral, calm, almost unreadable. Silence stretched between them, thick and charged, each holding their breath, unwilling—or unsure—of how to bridge the space with words.

After a long moment, Mo Ran shifted, moving with quiet deliberation to sit on the floor at the foot of the bed. The subtle presence of him there was grounding yet maddening at the same time, the proximity close enough that Wanning could feel the warmth radiating from him, but distant enough that desire tangled with restraint.

“I guess you want to sleep a bit more,” Mo Ran murmured. “There are still a few hours before sunrise. Go back to sleep. I’ll stay here.”

Wanning didn’t respond, only nodding slightly. He moved carefully, almost mechanically, sliding back into the bed, aware of the faint scrape of fabric as he settled under the covers. The weight of Mo Ran sitting so near on the floor was palpable, a quiet presence that made every heartbeat thrum harder, yet somehow comforting in its own strange way.

Even as they both tried to let their bodies rest, neither could find sleep. The room was still, save for the faint rustle of sheets and the steady rhythm of Mo Ran’s breathing. Wanning lay with his eyes closed, aware of the man at the foot of the bed, each breath and subtle movement sending heat and tension crawling beneath his skin. His thoughts were tangled, half with the prophecy, half with the man who was so close, and every attempt to drift away into sleep only sharpened his awareness of Mo Ran’s presence.

The night stretched on, long and unyielding, filled with the silent, electric tension of two bodies aware of each other, caught between propriety, exhaustion, and something far more dangerous and compelling.

Chapter Text

When Chu Wanning woke again, soft daylight was already sliding into the room. It felt strange. He never slept past dawn, not even as a child at the monastery. His mornings always began before the sun, disciplined and quiet.

But today his body felt heavier than it should. Warm. Sensitive. His mind still foggy from the dream that had dragged him awake hours earlier. Or maybe it wasn’t the dream that unsettled him. Maybe it was the memory of Mo Ran’s arm locked around his waist, the quiet heat of his breath against the back of his neck, the way Wanning had nearly lost control of himself.

He exhaled a shaky breath.

He could not think like that.
Not when they had only met yesterday.
Not when Mo Ran was younger and simply assigned to escort him.
Not when his duty was the only thing that mattered right now.

He forced his attention away and reached for his travel bag, searching through it until he found the scroll he had written last night. The scroll from the morning before was still there too, the one he had created the same morning he first met Mo Ran, when the emperor put them together in this journey.

Two prophecies so close together.
Both heavy.
Both pointing toward something dark and violent.

He unrolled the newest one. The ink had dried completely now, the drawings sharp on the page. He traced the lines with his eyes, the fire, the destruction, and the ruler born from ruin.

His stomach tightened.

There was a pattern forming. He couldn’t name it yet, but every instinct told him it existed. And every time he thought about it, Mo Ran’s face flickered uninvited through his mind.

Footsteps echoed lightly down the hallway outside. Wanning froze, scrolls still in his hands.

A moment later the door opened.

“Chu Shenyu.” Mo Ran stepped inside, slightly breathless, carrying food in both hands. His hair was damp with sweat, strands clinging to his forehead, and he smiled when he saw Wanning was awake. There was something too warm in the expression, something too familiar for someone he had met only yesterday.

The smell of breakfast filled the room. Wanning’s stomach made a humiliating sound, forcing a blush to rise to his ears. Mo Ran chuckled softly, almost fondly, before carrying the dishes to the table.

Wanning set the scrolls aside and joined him, trying not to look flustered. Mo Ran had brought an assortment of different dishes. Sweet buns, steamed vegetables, soft rice porridge, a few pastries. Wanning hesitated when he realized many of them were foods he preferred.

Mo Ran broke the silence. “I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I picked a bit of everything again.” He tapped one of the bowls with a touch of pride. “There are spicy ones too, do you want them?”

Chu Wanning managed a small smile. “I don’t like spicy food. But thank you.”

Mo Ran nodded and watched him eat. He always watched, as if taking note of every reaction, every small expression that slipped through Wanning’s carefully controlled mask.

After a few bites, Mo Ran leaned forward slightly. “So… the scrolls you were looking at earlier. One of them is from last night, right?”

Wanning’s chopsticks paused for a fraction of a second. “…Yes.”

Mo Ran did not look away, and the intensity of his gaze made Wanning’s pulse quicken for all the wrong reasons.

“What did you see?” Mo Ran asked quietly. “I want to know. The prophecy you had last night… tell me about it.”

Not curiosity for curiosity’s sake.
Not about dreams in general.
Not about how prophecies worked, again.

No.
This was targeted.
Focused.

Too interested.

Wanning straightened slowly, suddenly aware of how close Mo Ran was sitting. “Why do you want to know that?” His voice came out softer than he intended, guarded.

Mo Ran didn’t flinch. If anything, his expression sharpened.

“Because it woke you. Because you wrote it immediately. Because it clearly affected you.” He held Wanning’s eyes, unblinking. “And because the emperor sent you on this journey with me, and I want to know more about you.”

Wanning’s breath caught.

There was no hostility in Mo Ran’s tone. Only a calm, almost too calm, curiosity. But that calmness made it worse. It made Wanning feel analyzed. Studied. Like something dangerous was being pieced together right in front of him.

He looked down at the bowl in his hands, pretending to focus on his food rather than the sudden heat rising in his chest.

“I cannot tell you much,” he said slowly. “Not until I understand it myself.”

Mo Ran accepted that answer without argument, but his eyes lingered too long on Wanning’s face, as if trying to read the prophecy directly from his expression.

The room felt warmer again. Heavy. Thick with tension that neither of them wanted to name.

They finished eating in silence, but it wasn’t a peaceful silence. It was careful, cautious, edged with suspicion and something softer beneath it that made Wanning’s heartbeat feel unsteady.

By the time the last plate was empty, neither of them had relaxed even a little. The air between them felt charged, as if the morning itself was waiting for one of them to breathe incorrectly.

And Chu Wanning could not shake the feeling that Mo Ran wanted to know far more than he was saying.

Mo Ran insisted on cleaning everything without asking for his help, so he waited until the man was done, quiet and stubborn, and left the room. Only then did Chu Wanning stand up, stretching his arms a little as he searched through his luggage until he found a simple white robe. They weren’t supposed to stand out, so he had chosen clothes similar to the ones he wore back when he lived at the monastery. Plain fabric, modest colors, nothing that screamed “oracle” or “imperial.”

He held the robe in his hands for a moment, letting his fingers trace the familiar texture. He wondered briefly what kind of clothes Mo Ran would wear for the journey. Something simple, surely. Something practical. But the man was unfairly attractive in anything, leather armor, loose nightclothes, simple linen. He would look good wearing a sack, probably.

Chu Wanning stopped himself. Again. He was getting annoyingly good at catching his own thoughts just before they spiraled somewhere they shouldn’t.

“I need this trip to end as soon as possible” he muttered internally.

Maybe once they returned to the palace, things would fall back into their old patterns. Maybe he wouldn’t see Mo Ran anymore, not regularly anyway. And that was fine. He was used to people drifting out of his life after a few months or years. That kind of disappearance didn’t affect him anymore. Or so he told himself.

He finished organizing his belongings just as someone knocked on the door again. Like before, Mo Ran stood behind it, smiling softly. Wanning noticed his dimples again. They were… charming. He should stop noticing them.

“Chu Shenyu, I spoke with the innkeeper,” Mo Ran said, his tone calm and steady. “He’ll bring hot water to fill the bathtub so you can bathe. I’ll go to the public bath behind the inn so I don’t bother you.”

Chu Wanning almost told him that he wasn’t bothering him at all, not even a little. But saying that aloud would sound strange. Suspicious, maybe. So he simply nodded, every movement controlled, and watched Mo Ran leave the room in silence.

The door closed. Mo Ran’s footsteps faded down the wooden hallway. And then voices. Wanning could faintly hear Mo Ran speaking to the innkeeper downstairs, his tone polite but firm. Clarifying something about the bath, asking about the temperature of the water, whether the innkeeper needed help carrying the buckets. Of course he offered to help. Of course he did.

After a few imnutes, the innkeeper came to their room carrying steaming buckets. He worked quickly and efficiently, filling the tub without spilling a single drop.

Once he left, Chu Wanning waited a moment, listening, ensuring he was truly alone. Then he undressed slowly and stepped into the bath. The hot water enveloped him instantly, loosening the tightness in his limbs. He allowed himself to sink under the surface and then emerge again, eyes half-lidded, breath steadying.

He tried, tried very hard, not to think about Mo Ran. Not about last night. Not about the awkwardness or the heat in his face when the man smiled at him. He also didn’t want to think about the prophecies or the strange tension curling around his spine. He wanted to forget everything, at least while he soaked.

He wanted, for a few minutes, to be just Chu Wanning.

Not Chu Shenyu.

Not the oracle.

Not a symbol of the empire.

Just… himself.

But time was limited. Mo Ran would return soon so they could get dressed and continue their trip. They still had two long weeks ahead of them, and they couldn’t afford to waste any unnecessary time.

When he felt sufficiently relaxed, he began to wash, lingering on his thighs, remembering the wetness and the heat from last night. He blushed hard, embarrassed of his behavior. He was nearly done when the door opened.

Mo Ran stepped inside wearing nothing but a towel around his waist.

For a moment, Chu Wanning’s mind simply… stopped.

Did the Gods truly find joy in tormenting him? Because this felt personal.

“Chu Shenyu, I’m sorry!” Mo Ran blurted out, eyes widening, posture freezing. “I thought you’d be done and maybe waiting for me outside. I’ll go, I’ll wait outside…”

Chu Wanning bit his lower lip. He could let Mo Ran wait outside. He could ignore him entirely. But something in his chest felt strangely tight at the idea of pushing him away.

“It’s okay,” he said after a long breath. “Get ready. I won’t look at you while you dress, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“That’s not exactly, I just don’t want you to think I came here on purpose to watch you bathe or something.”

“I don’t think that, Mo Ran. Just… get ready.”

He turned his back to him immediately, forcing his attention on finishing his bath. Mo Ran moved quietly behind him, footsteps soft on the wooden floor. And yet, even without looking, Wanning could feel him. His presence was warm, steady, almost overwhelming.

When he finished, Chu Wanning wrapped himself quickly in the towels left by the innkeeper, trying to cover as much skin as possible. He could practically feel Mo Ran somewhere behind him, which made the simple process of drying himself feel like an ordeal.

He crossed the room to pick up his robes, putting as much distance between them as possible. He kept his back turned while dressing, but inevitably, curiosity, or fate, or sheer stupidity, made him glance over his shoulder. Yet when he reached for his robes, he glanced back. 

Just for a second.

A mistake.

Mo Ran’s back was turned as he dressed, the towel slipping off his hips. Across his shoulder blades and down his spine were scars. Not accidental burns. Not small ones. Deep ones. Darker than his skin. Shaped strangely.

They looked like something carved by fire itself.

Chu Wanning turned away so fast he nearly stumbled. He struggled with the robe, his hands suddenly clumsy. His thoughts raced too fast to catch. The dream from the night before echoed in his mind. The dragon. The flames. Flesh turning red. A body shaped by fire.

It could be nothing.

Coincidence.

A trick of his imagination.

He wanted desperately to believe that.

But a scraping fear curled in his stomach, cold and certain, whispering that maybe the gods weren’t torturing him for amusement.

Maybe they were warning him.

Maybe Mo Ran…

Could it be…?

The thought made his pulse skip, a strange heaviness settling in his chest. And for the first time since he recognized Mo Ran’s presence in his life, Chu Wanning wasn’t sure whether he wanted the answer or feared it.

“Chu Shenyu, are you done?” Mo Ran’s voice made him jump a little, but he forced himself to breathe and act as normally as possible.

“Yes. Let me just grab my things and we can go,” he replied. In only a few minutes, both of them were ready to leave.

When they finally stepped out of the inn, the sun was already high enough to cast warm, slanting light across the road. The air no longer held the chill of dawn. Instead, it carried the mild heat of a day that was sliding steadily toward afternoon. Shadows stretched long and slow beside the inn’s worn wooden beams, and the quiet outside felt heavier than the night they had left behind.

Mo Ran led the horse out from the small stable, his movements steady and practiced, the reins wrapped loosely around his hand. Dust clung to his boots as he approached, sunlight catching on the edges of his damp hair, still partially air-dried from the bath.

“Careful,” he murmured as he stopped beside Chu Wanning. He offered a steady arm without hesitation, the gesture natural, almost automatic by now.

Chu Wanning hesitated only for an instant before accepting the help. Mo Ran’s hand held his waist firmly, guiding him upward with surprising gentleness. The brief contact made Wanning tense, but he kept his expression composed as he settled into the saddle.

Once he was steady, Mo Ran released him and stepped back, eyes lifting just enough to confirm he was comfortable.

“Ready?” he asked quietly.

“Yes. Let’s go,” Chu Wanning replied, trying to keep his tone neutral.

Mo Ran nodded, took hold of the reins, and began walking, leading the horse forward. They left the inn behind in silence, the faint bustle of midday activity fading as they moved down the road. Warm light fell over them, warmer than Wanning would have liked, as if the air itself wanted to magnify the lingering tension between them.

Neither of them addressed it.

They simply continued.

They were close to the city’s border, so it didn’t take long before they crossed it. The streets were nearly empty, which didn’t surprise Chu Wanning; this part of the region was known for unrest, for small conflicts that broke out between the neighboring communities. For now, everything seemed still, but neither of them relaxed. Caution was a necessity here.

As they passed the last cluster of worn-down houses, a few children appeared near the crumbling walls: thin, barefoot, silently watching them. Their wide, wary eyes followed Mo Ran and the horse as if they weren’t sure whether to approach or run away. It was a brief, haunting sight, one that lingered in the air even after the children disappeared behind the broken structures.

Once the final stone buildings were behind them, the world fell into a heavier silence. The road narrowed into a dirt path, weaving through fields that should have been green but were instead brittle and patchy. Houses stood abandoned or close to it, roofs sagging, doors hanging crookedly. The deeper they went, the more obvious it became that this land had been neglected for far too long.

Mo Ran walked beside the horse, one hand resting near the hilt of his weapon, eyes scanning every shadow. Chu Wanning faced forward, but he could feel the emptiness pressing in on them. Here and there, adults peered from behind half-collapsed fences or doorframes, their faces sunken, eyes sharp with suspicion. The silence felt as if it had weight.

No one spoke. Not even Mo Ran.

With every step, the tension thickened; between them, around them, in the land itself. Fields lay abandoned, soot stained the remains of homes that had burned, and scattered belongings were crushed into the dirt. It all felt like a warning carved into the earth.

Chu Wanning shifted slightly in the saddle, the movement making Mo Ran glance up.

“Are you comfortable?” Mo Ran asked quietly, careful not to disturb the quiet any more than necessary.

“As much as possible in a place like this,” Chu Wanning answered, his tone equally low.

Mo Ran nodded and continued forward, his attention sweeping the roadside once more.

They kept going, step by step, past the hollow remnants of communities that once thrived here.

Until something up ahead shifted just enough to make Mo Ran raise a hand, signaling Chu Wanning to stop.

Ahead of them, half-hidden behind a broken stone wall, a group of five men stepped out, blocking the path. Their clothes were ragged, their faces sunken, but their eyes burned with the sharp hunger of people cornered by survival.

“Well, look at that,” one of them said with a crooked grin. “Travelers with a horse and decent robes. Must be carrying something worth sharing.”

Mo Ran didn’t answer. His posture was steady, deceptively calm, but Chu Wanning saw the way his jaw tightened, his weight shifting almost imperceptibly; reading the ground, reading the threat.

“We only need a small toll,” another man added, tapping a crude knife against his palm. “Pay, and you keep going.”

“No,” Mo Ran said simply.

The men exchanged looks, and the grin disappeared from their leader’s face.

“That so?”

Mo Ran didn’t bother repeating himself.

The first blade came toward him before Chu Wanning could speak. Mo Ran moved faster than the breath Wanning drew into his lungs: he seized the attacker’s wrist and twisted with brutal efficiency, the crack echoing sharply. The man screamed, but Mo Ran slammed his forehead into the man’s nose, dropping him instantly.

Two others lunged at Chu Wanning.
But they were met with another skilled fighter. 

Chu Wanning swung down from the horse in one fluid motion, landing lightly on the dirt. The first attacker lunged for his ribs, but Wanning twisted sharply, dodging the strike. He grabbed the man’s wrist mid-swing and used the momentum to throw him off balance, sending him sprawling into the ground.

The second man tried to circle around him, but Wanning was already moving. He sidestepped, grabbed the attacker’s arm, and used a quick pivot to flip him onto his back. The man cried out as the dirt smacked against him.

Wanning didn’t hesitate. He ducked under a wild punch from the third, rolling low and sweeping the man’s legs out from under him with a swift kick. 

He wasn’t dead—but he wouldn’t be rushing anyone again today.

Before Wanning could follow up, a fourth man rushed him with a raised club—but Mo Ran intercepted like a starving wolf.

What happened next froze the breath in Chu Wanning’s lungs.

Mo Ran punched the man squarely in the throat. The force collapsed him to his knees, gagging. Mo Ran straddled him, grabbed his hair, and slammed his head against a rock once, twice, three times, until the skull split and the struggling stopped.

Mo Ran looked up, face splattered red, eyes dark and wild.

Another man screamed and ran at him with a raised blade. Mo Ran didn’t flinch. He caught the man’s wrist mid-strike and drove his own blade straight into the man’s ribs, pushing until the hilt met bone. The man wheezed and collapsed as Mo Ran yanked the blade free.

The remaining three bandits froze.

All of them stared at Mo Ran with terror so raw it made them look like frightened animals.

Mo Ran took one slow step toward them, drenched in blood, expression unreadable, posture too relaxed for a man who’d just taken two lives with his bare hands.

“Leave,” he said.

They didn’t hesitate. They grabbed their injured companion and fled, stumbling over themselves in their desperate scramble to get away.

Silence returned as quickly as the violence had come.

Chu Wanning realized then that his own breath was unstead, not from exertion, but from the sight in front of him. He had fought well, efficiently, the way he’d been trained. But Mo Ran’s fighting…
It was something else.
Something untamed.
Something that made Wanning’s heart slam painfully against his ribs.

Mo Ran finally turned toward him. His chest rose and fell with the remnants of adrenaline, and for a moment, neither spoke.

He wasn’t out of breath.
He wasn’t shaken.
There was a sharpness in his gaze that hadn’t been there before, almost gleeful beneath the calm.

“Are you hurt?” Mo Ran asked quietly, voice too even for someone drenched in blood.

Chu Wanning straightened, looking at the blood all over Mo Ran.
“No,” he said, though a tremor hid in the back of his throat. “I’m fine.”

Mo Ran nodded once, his shoulders loosened with relief. He wiped blood from his hands, though it only smeared more. "Good. I didn’t want you to see that."

He dragged the back of his hand across his cheek, streaking blood even further, then stepped closer to the horse.

The metallic scent of blood lingered between them.

And for the first time, Chu Wanning found himself deeply unsure of who Mo Ran really was.

Mo Ran stood still for a few seconds, chest rising and falling, his clothes soaked in blood. The fight was over. One man lay dead on the cracked dirt road, his body twisted unnaturally, his skull crushed against the ground. The other on a poll of his own blood.

The silence that followed was not peaceful. It was the kind of silence that comes after violence, heavy and cold.

Chu Wanning lowered his gaze, his hands trembling more than he wanted to admit. He forced himself to look at the fallen men because he needed to confirm the threat was gone. But the moment his eyes met the corpses, bile curled up his throat.

The man’s head was caved in at one side, bone and blood mixing into something that didn’t even look human anymore. Both men’s eyes were glassy and empty, staring up at nothing.

Wanning felt his stomach twist.

He had fought before. He knew what it meant to defend himself. But this was different. This was brutality. This was raw force. This was someone whose strength went far beyond reason or restraint.

And that someone was Mo Ran.

Wanning looked at him, really looked at him. At the tense, almost feral set of his shoulders. At the wild flicker in his eyes that had not completely faded.

For the first time since they met, fear coiled sharp and tight inside his chest.

Mo Ran stepped closer, hesitated, then reached toward him to help him mount the horse. Wanning stiffened, an instinctive reaction he could not hide. Mo Ran noticed. His hand froze mid-air before he slowly lowered it, expression tightening with something unreadable.

"Let me assist you," Mo Ran said anyway, softer this time.

After a moment, Wanning nodded. Mo Ran’s touch was careful when he helped him onto the horse, but Chu Wanning’s heart still hammered painfully.

They set off again, and the abandoned outskirts swallowed them in a heavy, suffocating quiet.

Broken houses leaned dangerously, their frames warped by age and neglect. Torn fabric and shattered wood littered the ground. A few dogs barked from behind collapsed fences, their ribs visible through thin fur. Somewhere, hidden behind a ruined wall, a child coughed.

Shadows watched them from cracked doorways.

No one approached.

No one dared.

And the whole time, Chu Wanning’s panic simmered beneath his ribs like a pot ready to boil. He watched Mo Ran’s back as he walked ahead, leading the horse. The blood on his clothes had darkened into ugly stains. His eyes scanned every alley, every broken window, every whisper of movement.

He was being protective.

Too protective.

When a door creaked in the distance, Mo Ran immediately stepped closer to the horse, blocking Wanning with his own body, eyes sharp and ready to kill again. It was only an old door swinging with the wind, but Mo Ran stayed close anyway.

Hours passed in tense silence as the sun sank lower, coating the ruins in shades of red and gold. By the time the light faded to purple, the ache in Wanning’s body had worsened and Mo Ran’s expression had grown more severe.

"We need shelter," Wanning finally said.

"I know," Mo Ran replied, scanning the empty horizon. "But everything is destroyed. There are no safe inns, no occupied villages. Nothing."

As the sky darkened, his voice grew even more tense.

Wanning looked around at the empty, broken landscape. Night had almost fallen. They were exhausted. Hungry. On edge.

"We cannot sleep on the road," Wanning said.

Mo Ran’s jaw tightened. His eyes flicked to the shadows again. "I’ll find us something. Even if it’s barely standing."

He stepped closer to the horse again, staying close enough that Wanning could feel the heat of him even through the rising fear inside his own chest.

They walked deeper into the ruins as darkness settled completely.

After nearly half an hour, Mo Ran stopped abruptly. "There."

He pointed to a structure half-swallowed by vines and leaning slightly to the left. It had once been a house, maybe, though half the roof had caved inward. Still, compared to the other buildings, it looked solid enough to shelter them.

"This is the best we’ll find," Mo Ran said.

Wanning slid off the horse slowly, his legs aching. Mo Ran tied the horse to a broken post outside and approached the door first.

"Stay behind me."

Wanning didn’t argue.

Mo Ran pushed the door with his foot. The hinges groaned, the sound echoing through the empty structure.

Inside, the air was stale and cold. Dust floated in the dim light that filtered through gaps in the walls. The smell of old smoke clung to everything, mixed with something damp, almost moldy.

There were broken bowls on the floor, a cracked table pushed against a wall, and in the corner, the remains of a hearth that had long since lost its warmth.

It felt abandoned. Truly abandoned.

And yet, something about it felt wrong.

Too quiet. Too still. Like the house itself was holding its breath.

Mo Ran stepped inside first, his posture rigid. "I’ll check the rooms."

Chu Wanning stayed near the entrance, his heartbeat still uneven from the earlier fight. He watched Mo Ran’s silhouette move deeper into the house, disappearing briefly behind a broken door.

A moment later, Mo Ran returned.

"Empty," he said. "No one has lived here in years. We can stay."

Wanning nodded, though unease crawled under his skin. The house was safe, but the atmosphere was unsettling, oppressive in a way he couldn’t describe. Perhaps the house was not haunted by spirits, but by memory. By the people who had once lived here and fled in a hurry.

The door creaked behind them as Mo Ran closed it.

Night had arrived.

And the ruins outside went silent.

Mo Ran rummaged through the dark corners of the abandoned house, opening warped cabinets and peeling drawers until he found a few small lanterns, their glass cloudy but intact. He tested each one, shaking them gently. Two still had a bit of oil left.

He brought them to the center of the room, knelt, and worked with quiet focus, striking flint, coaxing a flame to life. The lanterns flickered weakly at first, then steadied, casting soft pools of amber light across the walls. Dust motes floated in the glow, drifting like ash.

Chu Wanning watched him from where he sat, hands wrapped around his robes for warmth. The light carved sharp planes across Mo Ran’s face, his jaw, his cheekbones, the faint drying streaks of blood he had missed. The contrast made him look even more dangerous, even more unreal.

And yet Wanning’s chest tightened with something unwanted, something humiliating. Uneasiness wrapped around him like a cold hand. Because he wasn’t just frightened. He was painfully, shamefully aware of Mo Ran in every way.

“You didn’t have to kill them,” Chu Wanning finally said, breaking the silence. His voice was low, tight. “They were defeated already. There was no need to go that far.”

Mo Ran looked up slowly. The lantern light flickered across his eyes, turning them darker, deeper.
“They came at you,” he said. “If I hadn’t, they would have tried again. I would do anything to protect you.”

“That doesn’t justify…”

“I don’t need justification.” Mo Ran stood, the motion smooth and frighteningly controlled. “Protecting you is reason enough.”

The cold in the room sharpened. Chu Wanning’s breath felt like frost in his lungs.

After a moment, he forced himself to ask, “Where did you learn to fight like that?”

Mo Ran hesitated only a fraction of a second, too short for anyone else to notice, but not too short for Chu Wanning.

“Training. Here and there. I picked things up on the road.”
It was a flimsy half-truth, thin as paper and just as transparent.

Chu Wanning stared at him, unconvinced. Mo Ran didn’t meet his eyes.

“…I’ll try to clean the blood off,” Mo Ran said finally, brushing a hand over his stained clothes. “Wait here.”

He stepped outside, leaving the door open just enough for a sliver of cold night air to slide in.

The house was freezing. It had no warmth, no life, just hollow walls and the faint sour smell of abandonment. The lanterns trembled slightly with every draft. Chu Wanning’s fingers went numb.

Minutes passed. The temperature dropped further.

Footsteps approached, steady, familiar. Mo Ran came back in, skin pale from the cold. His clothes were still stained, but the blood had been washed from his hands, his neck, his face. Droplets clung to his eyelashes like tiny crystals.

“There’s a river nearby,” he said. “I cleaned what I could.”

And then he noticed it.
The way Chu Wanning was looking at him.

Not just fear.
Not just unease.
But something warm, raw, and deeply human tangled with it, desire he was trying and failing to suppress.

Mo Ran froze. His breath caught, his posture changed, his eyes darkened.

And Chu Wanning, realizing too late what his expression must have revealed, looked away sharply, but not before Mo Ran saw everything.

The lanterns flickered weakly, barely touching the corners of the abandoned house. The temperature kept dropping, settling into the old wood and cracked walls until it felt like the cold had teeth. Chu Wanning wrapped his arms around himself, trying to hide the way he shivered, but Mo Ran noticed immediately.

Without asking, Mo Ran moved closer.
“You won’t sleep like this,” he said quietly. “It’s freezing.”

“I am fine,” Chu Wanning murmured, even though it was obviously a lie.

Mo Ran gave him a flat look that said he was not fooled by anything he did. He reached for the damp edge of his robe, brushing it lightly.
“You’re shaking.”

Chu Wanning looked away.
“It will pass.”

“It won’t. Not in a place like this.” Mo Ran exhaled softly and lowered his voice. “Please. Share warmth with me. It’s only practical.”

The idea alone made Chu Wanning’s face warm with embarrassment.
“No.”

“Chu Shenyu,” Mo Ran insisted, gentler this time. “You’re cold.”

“It is inappropriate.”

“It is necessary.”

And something in Mo Ran’s tone made Wanning falter. Not pushy. Not demanding. Just deeply concerned.

Reluctantly, painfully aware of the proximity, Wanning finally nodded.

Mo Ran shifted closer, shrugging off the top half of his clothes. He kept his movements slow, careful, almost nervous, as if worried Wanning might misunderstand.
“I don’t want you to stare at blood the whole night,” he murmured. “It’s fading, but I know it bothers you.”

Chu Wanning swallowed. He had not expected that level of consideration.

When Mo Ran wrapped an arm around him, drawing him close enough for their bodies to share heat, Chu Wanning stiffened on instinct. Mo Ran was solid, warm, alive in a way that made the earlier violence feel both farther away and much too close. Wanning could feel his heartbeat through his chest, steady and strong. He could feel his breath brushing the top of his head. He could feel everything, and that scared him more than the fight, more than the broken skull in the dirt.

He forced himself to speak, to focus on something else.
“You didn’t have to do that today.”

Mo Ran went still.
“Do what.”

“Kill them,” Wanning whispered. “It wasn’t necessary.”

Something sharp flickered in Mo Ran’s expression, not anger, but hurt. He looked away before answering.
“I don’t see why we are talking about this again.”

“They were already down,” Wanning pressed, even if part of him wished he could stop talking. “They were injured. You could have stopped.”

Mo Ran’s jaw tightened. For a moment, he said nothing. Then his voice changed, lower, quieter.
“You weren’t there, growing up in the kind of place I did.”

Wanning lifted his head a little, startled by the heaviness in his tone.

Mo Ran hesitated, as if weighing how much he wanted to reveal.
“My father was a soldier. He hated the army, but he stayed because he wanted us to live far from war someday. He dreamed about leaving, buying land, having a farm with my mother and me.”

His voice cracked slightly at the memory.
“But a foreign kingdom invaded. He was sent to fight and never came back.”

Chu Wanning’s breath caught.

Mo Ran kept speaking, staring at the lantern light as if afraid to look directly at Wanning.
“I was fifteen. I joined the army the same year. I didn’t know anything else. Fighting was the only thing I was taught to do. Protecting people was the only thing they told me mattered.”

He looked at him then, eyes raw and unguarded.
“So when I saw you in danger, I reacted. I didn’t think about anything else.”

Chu Wanning’s earlier anger dissolved into something softer. Guilt tugged at him, sharp and unexpected. He lowered his gaze.
“I didn’t know.”

“You don’t have to forgive me,” Mo Ran said quietly. “I just need you to understand.”

Wanning exhaled, long and slow. The fear was still there, but tangled now with empathy, with an ache he did not want to explore.
“I do understand,” he admitted. “At least… more than I did.”

Mo Ran nodded once, relieved but still tense, as if unsure whether to believe him.

They sat pressed together, sharing warmth in the cold of the house, unable to pull away but unable to fully settle either. The lanterns flickered again, throwing their shadows across the walls.

Between the fear, the closeness, and the quiet confessions, Chu Wanning’s heart refused to slow down.

And Mo Ran felt it against his chest.

The silence settled again, thicker than the cold itself. The lantern’s flame shrank, flickering weakly as though it, too, was struggling to survive the chill seeping through the broken windows. Without blankets, without a proper door, the abandoned house felt less like shelter and more like a place where warmth came only from breath and skin.

Chu Wanning shifted to find a better position, Mo Ran’s arm tightened by reflex, drawing him closer in a protective motion neither of them were prepared for. The pull caused Wanning to lean forward, and suddenly he was pressed against Mo Ran’s chest, his breath catching in shock.

They both went utterly still.

Chu Wanning felt heat flood his ears, mortification blooming hot across his face. Mo Ran froze as if Wanning were something unbearably delicate. His breath stopped for a moment, held tight in his chest.

Then, gently, carefully, Mo Ran adjusted him. One hand guided Wanning’s shoulder, the other steadied his back, until he was resting securely against him. His head ended up over Mo Ran’s heart, where he could feel each slow, heavy beat. Their legs brushed lightly. Their breaths mingled in faint clouds.

It felt dangerous. Not physically, but in a way that made Wanning’s own heartbeat stumble and his throat tighten.

Mo Ran held him as though he were something important. Something breakable. Something worth holding.

Chu Wanning had never been held like that.

He did not know how to breathe around the strange, disorienting ache it caused in him.

For a long while, neither spoke. The lantern dimmed further, shadows stretched across the rotting walls, and the temperature dropped again. Wanning shivered, but less than before. Mo Ran’s warmth seeped through his thin clothes, steady and insistent.

Finally, Chu Wanning whispered, “Mo Ran… the scars on your back. How did you get them?”

The reaction was immediate. Mo Ran’s body tensed beneath him, every muscle pulling tight. Not violently. Just suddenly, deeply alert, as if Wanning had touched something sharp without knowing.

“They were an accident,” he said too quickly.

Wanning stayed silent, listening.

Mo Ran drew in a slow breath and tried again, shaping the lie more carefully this time. “Before the army, my father left me with family friends. They raised animals in the countryside. One night the barn caught fire. I went in to get the horses out. A beam fell on me, pinned me down. The fire burned through the wood and onto my back before they pulled me free.”

His voice softened, almost apologetic. “I was lucky. It could have been worse. Just a foolish mistake.”

The story was detailed. Convincing enough for most.

But no fear touched his voice when he spoke about flames. No tremor. No hesitation. Nothing of someone who had nearly burned alive. It read like a script recited many times before.

Chu Wanning heard the false note instantly.

He also heard the quiet desperation beneath it, the plea to let it be.

So he let the lie settle unchallenged, even as it coiled like cold smoke in the air between them.

Mo Ran relaxed only a fraction. Enough to breathe again, but not enough to truly ease the tension in his shoulders. It felt like his arm around Wanning was the only thing keeping him steady.

Outside, a wind howled through leafless trees. The lantern sputtered low, a faint orange halo barely strong enough to paint their silhouettes across the wall. The darkness deepened around them.

Neither pulled away.

If anything, Mo Ran’s arm curled a little tighter around him, as if afraid that the Oracle might slip from his grasp and vanish into the cold.

And for the first time that night, Chu Wanning wasn’t sure if that thought frightened him…
or warmed him.

The silence stretched on, warm and fragile. Chu Wanning’s breath slowly evened out, his body caught between exhaustion and the unfamiliar comfort pressed around him. At first, he fought the urge to relax, keeping his muscles tense, refusing to fully surrender to the closeness.

But Mo Ran was steady. Warm. Immovable in the way a wall is immovable, something that could be leaned on without fear of collapse. Each rise and fall of his chest beneath Wanning’s cheek lulled him further. His arm tightened whenever Wanning shivered, drawing him against his body in small, careful increments that didn’t ask permission.

Little by little, Chu Wanning’s weight softened.

His breath slowed.

His fingers, which had been curled into the fabric at Mo Ran’s side, loosened.

And before he realized it, his consciousness slipped.

He fell asleep in Mo Ran’s arms.

At first, his breathing was peaceful. But it didn’t last.

His brow creased. His lips tightened. A faint tremor ran through him.

Then the nightmare took hold.

In his dream, Chu Wanning stood alone above the empire, right on top of the palace stairs. He looked down and saw everything swallowed by flames. Black rivers with ash. The people screamed. Blood ran through the streets like rainwater after a storm.

He reached for something… anything… but his hands found nothing.

Fire surged toward him. Wind burned his skin like it hated him. The sky cracked open.

And beneath his feet the empire collapsed, falling away into a chasm of light and smoke and shadow.

It wasn’t a prophecy. He could tell. There was no divine pulse. No celestial pull. No clarity.

Just terror. Just chaos. Just fear.

Still, it felt real enough to choke him.

The fire reached him.

He screamed.

And he woke the same way.

His body jerked violently, breath tearing out of him. A raw, broken sound escaped his throat as he shot upright, or tried to. Mo Ran’s arms caught him instantly, pulling him back before he could fling himself across the cold floor.

“Chu Shenyu! Shh, it’s alright. You’re alright.” Mo Ran’s voice came rough with panic. “It’s just a dream. You’re safe. I’m right here.”

Wanning struggled at first, gasping, the nightmare clinging to him like smoke. His hands pushed uselessly at Mo Ran’s chest before curling into fists.

Mo Ran held him tighter.

An arm wrapped firmly around his back. A hand cradled the back of his head, guiding it against his shoulder. Wanning could feel the strength in that hold, but nothing about it was forceful. If anything, Mo Ran held him like something precious that might shatter.

“Breathe,” Mo Ran whispered. “Just breathe.”

Wanning trembled in Mo Ran’s arms, still half-caught in the nightmare. His breath came in sharp, uneven bursts as the echoes of fire clung to him. His voice was barely a whisper, but Mo Ran heard every fractured word.

“Blood… everywhere… the sky was burning… the palace… falling…”

Mo Ran tightened his hold around him, trying to anchor him to something solid. Wanning’s forehead rested against his collarbone, his body hot with fear. He wasn’t truly awake, his mind drifting between dream and reality.

Mo Ran murmured, “You’re safe. I’m here. Nothing is happening.”

But Wanning didn’t seem to hear him. His lips moved again.

“No… no, the sky…  it was… red… and screaming… so many voices…” His fingers curled into Mo Ran’s chest, clutching him as if trying to stop himself from drowning. “The palace, it… it was falling. I saw it fall. I saw the gods, the ground was gone, the fire was everywhere…”

Mo Ran’s eyes sharpened at every word, listening carefully while still holding him.
This time, not only with comfort.
But with attention. Calculation.

“Wanning,” he said softly, “that wasn’t real.”

But Wanning kept trembling, his voice cracking apart as he spilled incoherent fragments.

“The sun disappears… something rises… angry… old… I can’t see it clearly… it burns the path… burns everything…”

He whimpers, curling against Mo Ran like he’s freezing.

“I don’t want to see it again… don’t make me see it…”

Mo Ran strokes his hair with a slow, controlled tenderness, eyes never leaving Wanning’s face.

“Enough,” he murmurs. “You’re safe. It was a dream.”

But Wanning’s head shakes, barely a twitch.

“No… no… the fire… the river… the… the…”
His voice trails into incoherent whispers. “Too much… too bright… too red…”

And then, just as he’s about to say something sharper, clearer, something with shape…

His strength gives out.

He fell asleep against Mo Ran’s chest, fragile and warm and trusting.

Mo Ran didn’t move for a very long time.

He simply watched him.
Expression unreadable.
Eyes dark.
Breathing slow.

Wanning had no idea what he had given him.

No idea how close Mo Ran now was to the truth he needed.
To the revenge he had crawled toward for years.
To the destruction he wanted the empire to taste just as he once did.

He looked down at Wanning’s sleeping face, calmer now that the nightmare had loosened its grip.

Mo Ran lifted a hand and brushed a tear from Wanning’s cheek with the gentlest touch he had ever used on another person.

“Almost there” he thought.

The lantern flickered.
The house creaked.
The cold pressed in around them.

And Mo Ran stayed awake, holding him, planning.

Because Chu Wanning wasn’t just an oracle.

He was the key.

Chapter Text

Mo Ran had not slept. Not even for a moment.

The abandoned house was still dark, the lantern’s faint flame trembling in a small pool of dying light. Dawn hadn’t reached inside yet; it only brushed the cracks in the wood, thin silver lines creeping through the gaps.

Cold seeped into everything: Into the walls,into the floorboards, and even into the air.

But not into Mo Ran’s arms.

Because Chu Wanning was there.

Pressed against him, lying between his arms as if he belonged there, his breath warming the hollow beneath Mo Ran’s collarbone. His weight rested trustingly against Mo Ran’s chest. Mo Ran’s arm was still wrapped around his waist, the other braced lightly between his shoulder blades, steadying him each time he shifted or murmured in sleep.

Mo Ran told himself he kept holding him because it was cold. Because Wanning had been shaking.Because letting go might wake him.

But he knew better.

He didn’t want to let go.

He had spent the entire night awake, listening to every sound outside the house: the groan of wind pushing against rotten boards, the rustle of something moving in the underbrush, a distant animal cry. Every noise made him tighten his hold on Wanning just slightly, a protective instinct he swore he didn’t have.

Except he did.

He had held Chu Wanning through every tremor of the nightmare, through every broken whisper of fire and blood and falling skies. He had stroked a hand through his hair when his breath hitched. He had kept him anchored when his body jerked as if he were drowning.

Now Wanning lay still, completely peaceful and unaware.

Maybe too unaware.

Mo Ran looked down at him in the dimness. The soft rise and fall of his chest. The warmth of him. The calm that had finally settled into his features.

It made something in Mo Ran twist.

He shouldn’t be doing this; getting used to the weight of him, the feel of him, the softness that came only when Wanning stopped being the Oracle and simply became a person.

He wanted revenge. That was the truth hammered into every bone in his body.

Revenge for his people.
For his father.
For the lineage wiped out by the empire Wanning served.

And yet here he was, holding the Oracle like something he wasn’t willing to lose.

Mo Ran’s jaw tightened. He stared at Wanning’s face for a long time, letting the conflict coil inside him until it hurt. Wanning shifted slightly in his sleep, turning more toward him. His fingers curled faintly against Mo Ran’s bare skin, seeking warmth or comfort or safety—Mo Ran wasn’t sure.

But the touch burned through him.

He swallowed hard, heat gathering low and dangerous, nothing to do with desire and everything to do with instinct. The kind of instinct he wasn’t supposed to have anymore.

He reached up and brushed a lock of hair from Wanning’s forehead before he could stop himself. The gesture was too tender. Too familiar.

He hated himself for it; but even with that, he didn’t stop.

Time dragged, minutes stretching into long, silent breaths. The cold continued to creep through the cracks of the old house, but Mo Ran barely felt it. His focus was entirely on the man in his arms, on the faint twitch of his eyelids, on the slow deepening of his breath as waking slowly pulled at him.

Chu Wanning stirred.

Mo Ran’s pulse jolted.

Wanning’s fingers twitched first. Then his shoulders shifted. A faint sound caught in his throat, a slow inhale as consciousness chased away the remnants of sleep.

Mo Ran didn’t move. Not even to loosen his arm around him.

And then Wanning’s eyes opened: drowsy, unshielded, maybe too close. Their faces inches apart, the two of them basically breathing each other’s air.

The dying lantern flickered, casting warm, unsteady light across both of them.

Mo Ran held perfectly still, unable to look away.

Chu Wanning blinked once, then twice.

Realization settled.
Heat. Confusion.
Something raw and unguarded flashing in his gaze.

For several heartbeats he simply looked at Mo Ran, breathing quietly against his chest. He didn’t move, didn’t tense, didn’t remember to be careful.
He just looked. And Mo Ran felt all of it: the soft and hesitant fondness blooming unbidden like warmth under frost; then the desire, just a small flick, but unmistakable there. So quick Wanning might have convinced himself it hadn’t happened at all.

But Mo Ran saw it.

It hit him like a blow he hadn’t prepared for.
He had told himself he was imagining it before.
But this…This was real enough to make his breath stutter.

Wanning blinked, and the moment wavered. Confusion seeped into his gaze, as if he wasn’t sure what he was seeing in Mo Ran’s face, or what Mo Ran was seeing in his.

Neither of them spoke.

The silence thickened, heavy and fragile, filled with the warmth of shared breath and the memory of how Wanning had clutched at him during the night. Mo Ran’s heart beat too fast, too close to the surface, expression slipping between wanting to pull him closer and forcing distance between them.

He wondered, just for an instant, if Wanning could feel the tremor running through him.

Wanning swallowed, the movement small, his throat brushing Mo Ran’s collarbone. His lips parted, a quiet breath leaving him. He looked like he wanted to say something, but the words didn’t come.

Mo Ran felt the tension coil tighter.

He shouldn’t be noticing this. He shouldn’t be wanting anything from him. He shouldn’t be letting this man, this Oracle, sink into his thoughts in ways that threatened his resolve.

But Wanning’s gaze stayed on him, warm and lost and painfully human.

Mo Ran felt himself sinking anyway.

Finally, Wanning wet his lips, voice quiet, still rough with sleep.

“Good… morning.”

The words barely broke the silence.

Mo Ran’s breath caught, just for a second. Wanning was still against him, still held by his arms, still close enough that Mo Ran could feel the heat of his skin through thin clothes.

He forced himself to answer, tone steady but softer than he intended.

“Good morning.”

And that was what finally broke the spell.

Wanning’s eyes widened slightly, as though the simple exchange suddenly reminded him of the reality of the position they were in. Heat swept across his face, blooming too fast for him to hide. He tensed and shifted, clearly mortified, clearly overwhelmed, clearly trying to regain the composure he’d misplaced somewhere between Mo Ran’s heartbeat and his own.

Mo Ran loosened his arm slowly, giving him room to move without making it feel like rejection.

Wanning gently eased out of his hold, movements hesitant, almost careful, as if afraid any sudden motion might snap whatever thin, delicate thing had settled between them overnight. He pushed himself upright, breath shallow, eyes darting away.

Mo Ran sat up as well, slower, hiding the brief ache of cold that rushed in the moment Wanning left his arms.

They didn’t speak. At least not yet. But something new hung in the space between them: something undeniable, something both dangerous and tender, something neither of them was ready to name.

Mo Ran lifted the shirt he had abandoned last night. The cloth was stiff in places where the blood had dried, dark stains marring the fabric. He didn’t put it on—he didn’t even try. He simply gathered it in one hand, fingers tightening around the ruined garment before looking back at Wanning.

“You were moving a lot last night,” Mo Ran said carefully, testing the waters. “Did you… dream?”

Wanning’s breath hitched.
His eyes lowered.
His posture shifted, subtle but unmistakable.

“Yes,” he admitted. “I… think I did.”

Mo Ran kept his voice even. “What kind?”

Wanning frowned, rubbing his temple lightly, as if trying to dislodge something that wouldn’t come loose.

“I don’t remember most of it,” he said quietly. “Just flashes. I can’t make sense of any of it.”

Mo Ran studied him closely, watching for even the smallest sign of recollection of the dream he had, of how scared he had been when he told Mo Ran about it. But there was nothing.

“And if I said anything,” Wanning added, voice tightening with embarrassment, “I don’t remember that either.”

Perfect.

Mo Ran exhaled slowly, letting the tension bleed from his shoulders.

“You didn’t say anything strange,” he lied with smooth ease. “Just restless.”

Wanning nodded, relieved but still flustered.

Mo Ran looked down at the blood-stained shirt in his hand, then deliberately shifted the topic.

“There’s a river close by,” he said, tone returning to its usual calm, controlled warmth. “I’m going to wash this.” He lifted the ruined cloth slightly. “If you want to clean up before we leave, you should come too.”

Wanning hesitated only a second.

“Yes,” he said softly. “Thank you.”

Mo Ran stepped toward the doorway, ducking slightly beneath the splintered frame. The morning light caught the lines of his bare shoulders and back, tracing every old scar, every burn mark. He didn’t look back, but he knew Wanning was watching.

“Come,” he said, steady and quiet. “I’ll show you the way.”

They stepped out into the pale morning light without speaking. The ruins lay quiet and brittle around them, the cold sinking into every crack and shadow. Chu Wanning followed a few steps behind Mo Ran, each step careful, controlled, though his mind was anything but that.

Mo Ran didn’t look back, but he felt him.
The steady footfalls.
The faint rustle of robes.
The lingering warmth of those moments in the abandoned house.
A warmth Mo Ran should not be thinking about.

He led them through a thin cluster of trees until the river revealed itself, dark and cold beneath drifting morning mist. Its steady flow broke the silence at last.

Mo Ran walked directly into the shallows, kneeling as he sunk his blood-stained shirt into the biting water. Red unfurled in soft swirls, carried away downstream.

Behind him, Chu Wanning hesitated at the riverbank.

Not long. Just long enough that Mo Ran noticed.

Wanning’s gaze flicked toward him, toward the broad line of his bare back, the muscles shifting beneath skin as Mo Ran worked the blood from the fabric. Realizing that Mo Ran’s shirt was still in his hands, still filthy, Wanning’s expression tightened with something like restraint.

Then, quietly, he stepped a little further from Mo Ran and turned his back.

His fingers moved to the ties of his robes.

He paused again.

Just a breath.
Just enough for his ears to tint red with embarrassment.

Mo Ran’s hand stilled on his shirt at the sound of it.

Wanning inhaled slowly, as if bracing himself, then untied the first knot. His robe loosened. He exhaled. The second knot. His shoulders tensed. The third. His breath hitched, almost imperceptibly.

He was not shy, even though he was inexperienced and had never been naked in front of anyone who wasn’t a maiden or a monk back when he was a kid; but being this exposed, with Mo Ran standing only a few paces away felt different.

It felt wrong. Or perhaps too right.

Fabric slid down his arms, soft and controlled, but his hands were faintly unsteady as he folded the robe and set it aside. Every movement was careful, deliberate, as if he feared making a sound that would draw Mo Ran’s eyes.

He stepped into the water quickly, almost gratefully, letting the cold swallow him before his own embarrassment could.

Mo Ran did not turn around.
But he heard everything.

The slide of fabric.
The shallow intake of breath when the cold water reached Wanning’s skin.
The faint, uncharacteristic awkwardness in every motion.

Mo Ran clenched his jaw and focused on the shirt beneath his hands, scrubbing it harder than necessary.

He shouldn’t be aware of every breath Wanning took.
He shouldn’t care this much.
He shouldn’t want...

Behind him, water rippled as Wanning moved deeper in, trying to gather himself.

“Is the water… too cold?” he asked, a carefully measured tone that couldn’t quite hide the fluster beneath it.

Chu Wanning didn’t turn.

“It’s fine,” he answered. His voice came out too low. “I can handle it”

Mo Ran dipped the shirt again, keeping his gaze fixed on the river. His shoulders tightened, fighting instincts he didn’t trust.

Behind him, Wanning moved again, the sound of water on skin sending something sharp through Mo Ran’s chest.

He didn’t have to look to know he would want what he saw.

And wanting Chu Wanning was the worst complication he could have.

After a few more minutes, Chu Wanning finished his bath. The cold helped him to steady his breath and to stop thinking about the lingering heat beneath his skin from waking up in Mo Ran’s arms.

He submerged once more, letting the river wash over him, then stepped out into the morning air. A shiver ran through him as droplets trailed down the curve of his spine. He reached for his robes hurriedly, fingers slightly clumsy, painfully aware of the man only a few steps away.

Mo Ran still didn’t look.

By the time Wanning finished tying the last knot, Mo Ran had wrung out the shirt as well as he could. Instead of hanging it to dry, he shrugged it back on, the fabric cold and heavy against his skin. It clung to him, damp and uncomfortable, but it would dry faster this way.

More importantly, it meant they could leave, and he needed to leave this river before he lost whatever control he had left.

Chu Wanning noticed him tugging the wet shirt into place. “You’re wearing it?”

“It’ll dry as we go,” Mo Ran said simply. “We shouldn’t delay.”

Wanning nodded, smoothing a stray lock of damp hair behind his ear. “Let’s return to the house.”

They walked back together in silence, the space between them filled with everything unspoken: Mo Ran’s awareness of every step Wanning took, Wanning’s lingering confusion at how raw everything felt in Mo Ran’s presence.

At the house, they gathered their belongings without a word. Dust settled behind them as if the abandoned home was relieved to see them go.

Outside, the horse waited patiently.

Wanning approached it, placing a steady hand on its neck. He hesitated, just for a fraction of a second, before mounting. A moment Mo Ran felt like a tug at his ribs.

Mo Ran took the reins, standing beside the horse, the wet shirt clinging to him, drying slowly under the rising afternoon sun.

“We should get moving,” he said, voice rougher than he intended.

“Yes,” Wanning replied quietly.

They set off down the road, side by side: one on horseback, one walking; both pretending the morning had been ordinary.Neither believing it for a moment.

Mo Ran walked beside the horse, keeping his eyes forward, refusing to let himself look at Chu Wanning again. Not after the river. Not after the way Wanning’s breath had hitched, the way his hands had trembled when he tied his robe, the way Mo Ran’s own heartbeat had refused to settle.

The rhythm of the horse’s steps was steady, almost soothing.

Almost.

“Are you cold?” Chu Wanning asked suddenly.

Mo Ran blinked. “What?”

“Your shirt,” Wanning said, eyes fixed ahead. “It’s still wet.”

“I’ve endured worse.”

“That doesn’t mean you have to.”

Mo Ran stopped walking for a heartbeat.

Something small and warm flickered in his chest, and he crushed it before it could grow.

“We need to reach shelter before nightfall,” he said. “Don’t worry about me.”

But Chu Wanning looked down at him with quiet, soft eyes, and for a moment Mo Ran wondered if the Oracle was seeing more than he meant to show.

Mo Ran looked away again and murmured, “Just… let’s go.”

They continued down the dirt road. For hours.

The sun dragged itself across the sky, slowly bleeding into orange, then red, then purple. The shadows grew long and thin. Their footsteps and the horse’s hooves left soft impressions in the dusty ground. Neither spoke. The tension between them was quiet but unmistakable, a weight that followed them like a second shadow.

Eventually, as dusk thickened, the outline of a settlement appeared.

A small town, with barely more than a cluster of buildings gathered around an old well. Lanterns glowed faintly behind shuttered windows. A few villagers looked up as they passed, eyes cautious and guarded.

Mo Ran scanned the street, jaw tightening.
“No inns,” he muttered.

Chu Wanning looked around as well. Every building was small, private, lived-in. No signs. No empty rooms. Just a quiet community that didn’t take in strangers at night.

“We could ask…” Wanning began.

Mo Ran shook his head. “No. They won’t take us in. And even if they would… it’s better if we don’t stay.”

Something in his tone made Wanning fall silent.

They continued through the town. No one approached them. No one offered shelter. They were watched, measured, and quietly avoided.

By the time they reached the last house on the far end of the road, true night had fallen.

Wanning let out a breath. “Then we keep going?”

“We’ll find something,” Mo Ran said. “Even if it takes until dawn.”

The horse snorted softly, as if weary, but Mo Ran placed a hand on its neck and whispered something low, something steadying. It calmed immediately.

Chu Wanning watched that small gesture, his expression unreadable.

The night air grew colder. The road ahead darkened, stretching into trees and deeper shadows.

They moved forward quietly with Mo Ran leading, and Chu Wanning high on the horse, both of them wrapped in the same fragile silence from before. But now, with the night swallowing the path and only the two of them alone beneath the sky, that silence felt heavier, charged enough to spark.

And their journey continued deeper into the dark.

They left the quiet little town behind, its dim lantern glow fading into the distance until it was nothing more than a faint memory against the dark horizon. The road narrowed further, flanked by tall grass whispering with the wind. Above them, the moon was thin and sharp, like a blade tracing the edge of the sky.

They walked for a long time.

Long enough that the air grew colder, long enough that the path vanished into a forest trail, long enough that Wanning’s legs ached from the rocking rhythm of the saddle. The trees closed around them, tall and dark and old, branches overlapping to form a canopy that smothered the starlight.

Finally, Mo Ran stopped.

“Listen,” he said softly.

Wanning held still. The forest was quiet, almost unnaturally so. No birds. No insects. Just the whisper of leaves shifting in the night breeze.

“We’re close to shelter,” Mo Ran said. “Follow me.”

He tugged the reins gently and guided the horse off the path, weaving between trees. Wanning had to duck low branches, the cold leaves brushing his hair as they pushed deeper into the forest. The moonlight barely reached through the canopy, and every step felt heavier, as if the shadows around them thickened with each pace.

Then Mo Ran stopped again, looking to the right.

“There.”

Between two massive boulders, half-hidden by vines and thick foliage, was the dark mouth of a cave. Not large enough to be a threat, not small enough to be useless. Just deep enough to shelter them from the wind and the cold.

Mo Ran moved aside and let Wanning see it clearly.

“It’s not comfortable,” he said, voice low, “but it will keep us warm. And safe enough.”

Wanning dismounted slowly, stretching his stiff legs. The closeness of the forest, the darkness, the long hours… everything weighed on him. He looked at the cave, then at Mo Ran.

“Did you know this place?” he asked quietly.

“No. I heard the wind change,” Mo Ran said. “There’s a hollow in the rock that shifts the sound. Most people wouldn’t notice.”

Wanning felt something flicker in his chest: surprise, respect and even admiration. Things that he quickly smothered to avoid thinking too deep into them. 

Mo Ran lifted the saddlebag from the horse and slung it over his shoulder.

“Stay close,” he murmured.

Wanning nodded.

They approached the cave together, footsteps muffled by moss and fallen leaves. The air grew cooler near the entrance, but not unbearably so. It smelled of stone, damp earth, and a faint trace of old smoke; someone else had sheltered here once.

Mo Ran stepped inside first, scanning the interior. The cave wasn’t deep, just curved enough to offer shelter from wind and rain. He walked to the back, tested the ground with the heel of his boot, then turned to Wanning.

“This will do,” he said.

Wanning exhaled slowly, the long journey finally settling in his bones. He walked toward the center of the cave, brushing past Mo Ran without meaning to. The accidental touch was brief, barely a brush of sleeve against bare skin, but Mo Ran felt it like a spark down his spine.

“Sit,” Mo Ran said, quieter than before. “I’ll start a fire.”

Wanning hesitated, looking at him in the dimness, but then he nodded and sank slowly to the ground, exhaustion catching up with him at last.

Mo Ran watched him for a heartbeat too long before forcing himself to turn away and gather wood.

The forest outside rustled softly. The cave breathed back its silence.

The night closed in around them.

And the tension, quiet, fragile, unavoidable, settled with them like a third presence in the dark.

Mo Ran returned with an armful of dry branches, the faint sound of twigs snapping under his boots echoing lightly against the cave walls. He crouched near the entrance, arranging the wood with practiced hands. Sparks caught quickly when he struck flint to stone, and soon a small fire crackled between them, warm light painting the cave in soft amber.

Chu Wanning sat with his knees drawn slightly toward his chest, robes gathered around him. The fire cast shifting shadows across his face, making him look both impossibly young and impossibly tired. He watched Mo Ran in silence.

Mo Ran felt the gaze. He always did.

He fed another piece of wood into the flames and sat down across from Wanning, close enough to feel the warmth of him beneath the layers of cloth, but far enough to pretend it meant nothing.

For a while, they remained quiet.

The fire popped. The wind outside rustled the leaves. A soft breath escaped Chu Wanning, and Mo Ran looked up despite himself.

Their eyes met.

In the warm, flickering light, Wanning’s expression was softer than usual: curious, cautious, a little raw. It tightened something in Mo Ran’s chest. He looked away first.

Chu Wanning let the silence linger before speaking.

“Earlier,” he said quietly, “you knew there was shelter nearby. You said you heard the wind change.”

Mo Ran didn’t respond immediately. He kept his eyes on the fire. Wanning continued, voice still gentle, but edged with genuine curiosity.

“How do you know that? How can you tell when something like a cave is nearby just from the wind?”

Mo Ran’s hands stilled. For a heartbeat, he didn’t breathe.

He felt the truth rise like heat under his skin: something old, instinctive, a knowledge carried by a bloodline that no longer existed. It pulsed in him the way memory lived in bone, deeper than thought. But he forced it down, burying it in the dark where it belonged.

He forced a slow exhale.
“I traveled a lot when I was younger,” he said at last. “My father took me through the mountains often. He taught me how the air shifts near stone hollows. How sound changes when there’s an opening nearby.”

It wasn’t a lie… just incomplete.

Wanning listened. His gaze didn’t waver.
“You were very observant,” he said softly.

Mo Ran almost laughed. “Necessity makes people observant.”

“You mean survival,” Wanning said.

Mo Ran glanced at him, surprised at how easily he read the truth beneath the surface.

“Yes,” Mo Ran admitted. “Survival.”

The firelight flickered between them, warm and intimate.
Wanning shifted slightly closer without realizing it. Mo Ran noticed; he noticed everything… and his breath caught for a moment, shallow and quiet.

Wanning looked at him again, eyes reflecting the fire. There was a softness in them. Sympathy, empathy, something tender he didn’t know how to offer openly.

Mo Ran felt it like a touch.

Their gazes held a moment longer than either expected.
Close. Warm.
A little dangerous.

Wanning was the first to look away, but he didn’t move back.
The fire crackled again, filling the silence.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.
“For finding this place.”

Mo Ran studied him. The quiet sincerity of it.
The trust he hadn’t asked for, but somehow kept receiving.

“You’re welcome,” Mo Ran said, voice lower than he intended.

Wanning’s eyes lifted slightly, drawn by the tone, but he didn’t comment.

The silence between them shifted again; not cold, not tense, but charged with something fragile and unspoken. The intimacy wasn’t loud or dramatic. It was in the quiet glances, the soft breaths, the shared warmth in a cave far from anyone else.

Mo Ran looked at him through the firelight and thought, not for the first time: “This is going to ruin me.”

And he still didn’t move away.

Finally, Chu Wanning spoke again.

“I was twelve when they came for me.”

His voice wasn’t steady. It wasn’t cold.
It was quiet, soft in a way Mo Ran had never heard before.

Mo Ran lifted his head. “Who?”

“The emperor” Wanning said. “I don’t know who my parents were. Whether they gave me away or whether I was left somewhere. When I first began having visions as a child, the monks considered it a sign. A calling.”

Mo Ran leaned forward slightly, instinctively.
Chu Wanning didn’t seem to notice.

“By the time I understood anything at all, I was already living in the monastery,” Wanning continued. “They raised me. Strictly, but not unkindly. I was taught meditation, clarity, discipline, and silence.”

Mo Ran’s brow tightened. “Silence?”

Wanning nodded. “An Oracle must be an empty vessel. Clear. Unbiased. Untouched by emotion. They said feeling too much would interfere with the visions.”

“You were a child,” Mo Ran said, a dangerous softness in his voice. “You should have been allowed to feel something.”

Chu Wanning exhaled. It wasn’t quite a laugh, not quite bitterness.

“It was not cruelty. Just expectation. Purpose.There were others like me, other children with visions. I never saw them again after we grew older. We are separated once we are chosen. Too much contact is considered a distraction.”

Mo Ran’s jaw ticked.

“When I came of age, they sent me to the Emperor,” Wanning continued. “And there, too, I learned my place. Revered, but not known. Respected, but not seen. My duty was to interpret what the heavens showed me, whether people wished to hear it or not.”

His hands tightened faintly in his lap.

“The older I grew, the more the court stopped seeing me as a person. I became ‘the Oracle.’ A title. A tool. A holy instrument meant to serve.”

His voice dropped to almost nothing.

“Sometimes I wonder if there is anything of Chu Wanning left at all.”

“There is.” Mo Ran whispered

Wanning looked up, startled by the certainty in his voice.

“You’re not a vessel,” Mo Ran said quietly. “Not to me.”

Something raw flickered through Chu Wanning’s expression. A longing so carefully buried it barely had shape. He swallowed it down with visible effort.

“You don’t have to say that,” he murmured.

“I’m not saying it because I have to.”

Their eyes locked. Both of them motionless, both of them caught in something that felt perilously close to honesty.

Outside, the forest wind murmured.
Inside the cave, tension curled between them like a living thing, tender, dangerous, inevitable.

Two men, one hiding his nature, the other hiding his worth, sat facing each other, each already far more entangled than they should be.

The silence between them shifted, warmed, thickened.
Not uncomfortable.
Not exactly comfortable either.
Something in between, charged in a way neither dared name.

Chu Wanning’s eyes dropped first. He reached for his outer robe, sliding it around his shoulders with a quiet rustle. The motion brought him a little closer to Mo Ran, the cave too narrow to hold any real distance. When he tied the fabric in place, the back of his hand brushed Mo Ran’s knee.

He froze. Mo Ran did too.

For a heartbeat neither of them breathed.

Wanning withdrew his hand, but the movement wasn’t abrupt, just careful, composed, the way he had lived his entire life. He didn’t retreat. He simply folded that part of himself inward, smoothing the emotion before it could be seen.

Mo Ran watched him with a heavy tightness in his chest.

He’d seen Chu Wanning frightened. Reserved. Cold. Exhausted.
But this soft, startled embarrassment… he wasn’t prepared for it.
It made something inside him twist sharply, painfully.

It made him want.
And wanting was dangerous.

Chu Wanning spoke first, voice low. “We should… prepare for the night. It will get colder.”

Mo Ran rose to his feet. “I’ll check the entrance.”

He brushed past Wanning as he moved, his dry shirt whispering against the sleeve of Wanning’s robe. The faint contact sent a subtle tremor through Wanning’s body. Mo Ran noticed.
He wished he didn’t.
Wishing was dangerous too.

By the time he returned, Wanning had only shifted a little, adjusting his posture near the cave wall. Mo Ran sat beside him, close enough their shoulders nearly touched, leaving only the thinnest space between them.

Wanning didn’t move away.

The cave dimmed. The forest hummed beyond the entrance.
Their breaths mingled softly in the cold air.

It should have been peaceful, but it wasn’t.

Wanning tilted his head, watching him in a glance he probably thought subtle. He seemed on the edge of speaking, but hesitated, trapping the words in his throat. The restraint tightened something in Mo Ran’s chest.

“You should rest,” Wanning murmured. “You kept watch last night.”

Mo Ran blinked, surprised.
A soft, warm lie came before he could stop it.

“I slept enough.”

Wanning accepted it with a nod: trusting, without any suspicion, and Mo Ran felt a strange pull inside him. Something like guilt. Something like tenderness. Something he didn’t want to feel.

Chu Wanning leaned a fraction closer, instinctively seeking warmth. Not enough to touch. Just enough that Mo Ran felt the shift like a pull on his heartbeat.

He didn’t move.

Their shoulders brushed, a light contact, barely there, and the tension between them deepened, swelling in the quiet cave.

“Mo Ran…” Wanning whispered. Whatever he meant to say dissolved on his tongue.

Mo Ran turned toward him slowly, careful not to frighten him, to break the fragile air between them.

Their faces were close. Too close.

Wanning looked away first, cheeks faintly red. “We should sleep.” He repeated, as if he was trying to convince himself.

Mo Ran hummed in agreement, though something inside him resisted the idea of closing his eyes. Still, he shifted back just enough to let Wanning settle.

They remained side by side, their warmth shared in the cave’s cold breath, pretending not to notice the way their bodies aligned.

Wanning closed his eyes.
Mo Ran didn’t.

He stayed awake a while longer; watching the cave entrance, listening to Wanning’s breath steady beside him, feeling the weight of too many contradictions pressing against his ribs.

Outside, the forest exhaled.
Inside the cave, something fragile and dangerous exhaled with it.

A shiver passed over Wanning’s body, faint but unmistakable. Mo Ran noticed it instantly. He hesitated only a second before shifting even closer, close enough that the heat between their bodies gathered even more. 

Wanning didn’t push him away. He didn’t even flinch.
Instead, after a long moment, he unconsciously leaned the smallest degree toward the warmth, as if gravity itself had pulled him.

Their arms touched softly. 

Mo Ran’s heart throbbed once, hard.

“Are you comfortable?” He asked quietly, sure that Chu Wanning was not asleep yet.

Wanning’s response took a moment. “It’s fine,” he murmured, though his voice was soft in a way that suggested the opposite. “The nights are colder outside the capital. I had forgotten.”

Mo Ran swallowed. “You’re not used to this kind of travel.”

“No,” Wanning admitted. “I was never permitted far beyond the palace walls. And when I was, someone always prepared the way in advance. A sheltered path, a warm carriage, assistance…”

He trailed off, as if realizing how soft the confession sounded in the dark.

Another silence settled; comfortable now, warmer. Chu Wanning’s eyes remained closed. His breathing slowed. The tension in his body unwound gradually, as if being allowed to rest in someone’s presence was a foreign luxury.

He shifted again, unconsciously, and his head came to rest near Mo Ran’s shoulder. Not touching, but close enough that Mo Ran felt the ghost of heat.

“Mo Ran…” Wanning murmured, barely audible.

“Yes?” Mo Ran whispered back.

A pause.
Long enough that Mo Ran wondered if he’d imagined the sound.

“…Goodnight.”

Mo Ran closed his eyes for one slow second.
It hurt in a way he did not have a name for.

“Goodnight,” he answered.

Wanning drifted off first, his breath settling into a soft, steady rhythm. His features softened in sleep, the usual discipline slipping away, leaving something tender and unguarded.

Mo Ran stared at him far longer than he intended.

He told himself he was being vigilant.
Watching the cave entrance.
Making sure Wanning rested safely.

But the truth was quieter, tighter.
More dangerous.

The truth was that he couldn’t look away.

Only when the weight of exhaustion finally pressed behind his eyes did Mo Ran allow himself to lie back fully, still angled protectively toward the sleeping Oracle.

He closed his eyes.

Sleep crept in slowly, reluctantly.

And the last thing he felt was the warmth of Wanning’s presence, steady beside him in the dark.

Chapter Text

Not even a few hours later, Mo Ran woke long before dawn.

He didn’t remember falling asleep, only the weight of exhaustion finally pulling him under with Chu Wanning resting against him. Now the faintest blue light touched the cave’s mouth, and Wanning was still asleep, breathing evenly, curled in on himself like he was conserving warmth.

Mo Ran carefully untangled himself. The impulse to stay, to keep watching him, to pretend none of this mattered flickered through him for a moment. But the sky outside was changing, and the restlessness under his skin was too loud.

He stepped outside the cave.

The moment he crossed the threshold, the air sharpened. The cold didn’t bother him, but he felt it ripple outward, a wave of frost-tinted energy that breathed from him without permission.

He forced a breath, forced his pulse to steady.

Not now. Not around him.

The wind answered anyway, curling at his feet like something recognizing its master.

Mo Ran clenched his jaw until the sensations withdrew. Then he stayed outside until the sunrise diluted whatever instincts had woken with him.

When he finally returned to the cave, he found Chu Wanning sitting up, blinking sleep from his eyes. He looked dazed and… unsettled. His gaze shifted immediately to Mo Ran, studying him too closely.

“You’re awake,” Mo Ran said, keeping his voice steady and casual.

“Yes,” Chu Wanning replied softly. He looked around the cave, then back at the entrance. “It feels almost… warm,” he murmured. “Strange. It was cold just a moment ago.”

Mo Ran stiffened almost imperceptibly. “Cold? Maybe the breeze changed.”

Chu Wanning didn’t answer. He was still watching him, eyes narrowing slightly, as if trying to line up details that wouldn’t settle into a clear picture.

Mo Ran stepped farther in, and the air warmed even more. It always did, whether he wanted it to or not.

Wanning’s expression tightened.

He felt it. He noticed.

But he didn’t speak.

Mo Ran moved toward their things, gathering his cloak, tightening a strap on his pack, pretending not to feel the weight of that silent suspicion. Pretending not to feel the small flash of fear he saw in Wanning’s eyes before it was quickly masked again.

Chu Wanning finally looked away, busying himself with his own things, but the question lingered in the air between them like a held breath.

Something about you isn’t human. I can feel it.

Mo Ran pretended not to notice what Chu Wanning almost said. Pretended not to see what he almost understood.

“Let’s head out,” Mo Ran said softly.

Chu Wanning nodded, still thoughtful, still shaken by a cold that vanished the moment Mo Ran returned.

The morning felt too warm now. Too alive.

And Wanning could no longer pretend the world wasn’t shifting around Mo Ran’s presence.

They stepped out of the cave together, packs slung over their shoulders. Dawn was thin and silver, the kind of light that barely clung to the treetops before slipping between the branches. The air was cold enough to sting their lungs, but still, Chu Wanning was able to feel the same warmth as before. Their horse shifted when they approached, stamping the ground as if relieved they were finally moving again.

Chu Wanning ran a gentle hand down its neck, whispering something too soft for even Mo Ran to catch. The horse immediately calmed, leaning into the touch with a trust it rarely showed anyone but them. Mo Ran found himself watching the scene longer than he meant to… something warm twisting beneath his ribs before he forced himself to look away.

He adjusted the reins instead, saying nothing, and they set off.

Chu Wanning mounted, settling into the saddle with quiet grace. Mo Ran walked beside him, boots crunching over the leaves. The forest was still waking: birds murmuring sleepily, the scent of pine sharp in the cold air, branches dripping the last of the night’s condensation. Mist curled low around their ankles like it wanted to follow them.

Despite the peaceful morning, the silence between them felt different now. Not hostile. Not even awkward. Just charged, stretched thin like a thread pulled too tight.

Wanning kept stealing glances down at Mo Ran: tiny, cautious flicks of his gaze he likely thought went unnoticed. But Mo Ran felt every single one. Felt them brush across his skin like warm fingertips, leaving heat in their wake.

He pretended not to notice.

After almost an hour, he finally spoke, voice low and practical. “If we keep this pace, we should cross the border into the Air Nation in two or three days. Their villages are scattered. Fewer people. Fewer places to stay.”

Wanning’s brows drew together slightly. “So shelter will be harder to find.”

“Harder,” Mo Ran said, “but not impossible.”

The horse snorted, tossing its head impatiently. A loud, unmistakable growl came from its stomach. Chu Wanning straightened immediately, embarrassed on the horse’s behalf.

“It’s been a while since its last proper meal,” he said quietly.

Mo Ran hummed. “It’s not the only one.”

Wanning opened his mouth to comment, but then Mo Ran’s stomach growled even louder than the horse’s. A silence fell over them. Chu Wanning’s lips twitched, the faintest hint of a smile.

Mo Ran shot him a warning glare. “Don’t say anything.”

“I wasn’t planning to,” Wanning answered, voice deceptively calm.

But the slight curve of his mouth said otherwise, and Mo Ran felt his face heat in a way he immediately resented. He focused on the path, pushing down the strange warmth curling inside him.

“The next town should be near the border,” he said. “We’ll look for food and an inn. Even a barn would be better than another ruined house.”

“And if they don’t have room?” Wanning asked.

“Then we move on,” Mo Ran replied. “But I’d rather the horse rest somewhere safe. We all need it.”

Chu Wanning nodded, his expression softening. “Yes. We should take care of it too.”

Mo Ran glanced at him from the corner of his eye. Something gentle flickered over Wanning’s face: a mix of concern, exhaustion, and quiet resilience. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t loud. But it pulled at something in Mo Ran’s chest all the same.

He tightened his grip on the reins. “Then we should pick up the pace.”

Wanning adjusted his hold on the saddle and straightened, ready to move faster.

They pushed forward, deeper into the thinning forest. The sunlight stretched itself across the path, warming the frost but not the air. Their breaths puffed visibly in front of them as they walked.

Both hungry. Both tired.
Both pretending the silence wasn’t thickening with every step.

Neither brave enough to break it.

And with that, the hours wore on.

By midday they had left the forest behind, trading trees for wide plains and rolling hills. The wind was stronger here, lifting Chu Wanning’s hair and tugging at Mo Ran’s clothes. Their shadows stretched long beside them, slipping over stones and dust.

The road was quiet. Too quiet.

Even the horse seemed subdued, snorting softly now and then, ears flicking back toward the sound of their footsteps.

By late afternoon, the land began to change. The grass grew shorter, dotted with pale blue flowers neither of them recognized. Flags: colorful, fluttering strips of cloth, appeared tied to wooden posts along the path. Some bore the Empire’s symbols, others the swirling patterns of the Air Nation.

“We’re close,” Mo Ran murmured.

Chu Wanning nodded, though his eyes were on the flags. “It looks… different from what I expected.”

“It always does.”

It took them another hour before the town came into view.

Nestled between two low hills, the border town looked as though someone had dipped it into a palette of bright pigments. Houses were painted in deep reds and wood tones. Lanterns hung over doorways even though evening had barely begun. Wind chimes crafted from bone, metal, and colored glass tinkled softly in the breeze.

People walked in clothes unlike either nation alone could claim; flowing robes from the Empire mixed with airy, layered fabrics common in the Air Nation. The scents of spiced tea and grilled vegetables drifted through the streets.

It was loud in color, yet strangely peaceful.

Chu Wanning stared at it, his face unreadable.

Mo Ran watched him for a moment before speaking. “You’ve never been to the border?”

“No,” Wanning said. “At least not in this way, or to this place specifically”

Mo Ran didn’t respond. But something in his jaw tightened.

They crossed under an arch painted with swirling clouds and the Empire’s crest. People looked their way: some curiously, some politely, none with suspicion. A refreshing change.

The horse perked up at the smell of food.

They walked down a stone path toward the largest building on the street: an inn decorated with strings of multicolored flags and warm, golden lanterns. Music played faintly inside; laughter drifted through the windows.

Mo Ran kept walking steadily, but Wanning saw the exhaustion in his shoulders. They both needed rest.

They walked until they reached the entrance of the inn, Mo Ran helping Chu Wanning to dismount, their hands brushing slightly while doing so. Both decided not to make any comment on that and walked together.

Inside, the inn smelled of sweetened tea and smoke. Wooden beams crossed the ceiling, painted with delicate patterns. The innkeeper, a cheerful man with round cheeks and a silver-streaked beard, greeted them warmly.

“Travelers! You look tired. Need a place to stay? We have plenty of rooms available and the best service in town!”

Mo Ran inclined his head, thinking. Their closeness has been dangerous lately, now even more because of Chu Wanning’s suspicions. 

Without even giving time for himself to think, he said “Two rooms.”

For a heartbeat, the world went still.

Chu Wanning’s breath caught: subtly, barely noticeable, but enough that Mo Ran felt the shift in the air beside him.

Wanning kept his expression carefully neutral, eyes lowered, hands still. But something inside him twisted tight, and sharp at once. He couldn’t name it.

He didn’t want to.

The innkeeper nodded enthusiastically. “I’ll prepare two rooms right away. I also see that you came with a horse; my son can feed and brush it down. Do the masters want that?”

Mo Ran simply said, “Yes. That would be good, thanks.”

Chu Wanning said nothing at all.

The innkeeper clapped his hands together, and a young boy rushed forward, taking the reins with reverence. Chu Wanning gave the horse one last gentle stroke along its neck.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

As the horse was led away, the innkeeper beckoned them forward.

Mo Ran walked ahead, as always.

Chu Wanning followed; a step behind, silent, his heartbeat unexpectedly unsteady, a strange hollowness blooming in his chest where warmth had been earlier.

Two rooms.

Of course. It was practical. Reasonable.

Exactly what he should have wanted.

So why did it feel like something had slipped quietly out of his hands?

The inn was alive with midday noise. Voices drifted up from the common room below, mixed with the clatter of bowls and the scent of food. Sunlight spilled in through the open windows, catching dust in the air and warming the worn wooden floors. 

They climbed the stairs together, footsteps measured, unhurried. The corridor upstairs was narrow but bright, sunlight pouring in through a row of windows overlooking the street. Outside, people passed by laughing, trading goods, living their lives without pause.

Mo Ran stopped first.

He hesitated, just barely, as if some thought had risen and been swallowed again. Then he gave a short nod and unlocked his door.

The sound of it opening and closing was ordinary. Unremarkable.

And somehow, it felt heavier than it should have.

Chu Wanning remained where he was for a moment, not wanting to move just yet. The space beside him felt oddly bare, as though Mo Ran’s presence had left an imprint the light itself could not erase.

He turned and entered his own room.

Sunlight flooded the space through a wide window. A neatly made bed. A small table. 

Everything was fine.

Chu Wanning closed the door and leaned back against it for a brief second, steadying his breath.

This was proper. This was how it should be.

Still, when he crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed, the brightness did little to dispel the strange quiet that settled in his chest. The warmth from earlier had vanished, replaced by an unfamiliar awareness of absence.

He folded his hands neatly in his lap, posture composed, expression serene.

Yet even in full daylight, with the world moving loudly just beyond the walls, Chu Wanning could not shake the feeling that something had been left behind in the hallway between their doors.

He got up and started to unpack his things slowly. He had barely set his things down when the knock came. 

Three firm taps. Not urgent, but deliberate.

He straightened, smoothing the faint wrinkle in his robe, though he wasn’t sure why he bothered. Then he opened the door.

Mo Ran stood there, his now dry shirt hung loose on his frame. He looked calmer than he had in the cave, but there was something restless in his eyes, something unspoken.

“Were you resting?” Mo Ran asked, voice quiet.

“Not yet,” Wanning replied. “Did you need something?”

Mo Ran hesitated only a moment before saying,”We need to eat. …Before it gets too late.”

Wanning blinked, then nodded.“Okay.”

“There’s a market outside. And a small restaurant everyone seems to be crowding toward.” Mo Ran rubbed a hand at the back of his neck, suddenly awkward. “I think that would be the best option. You need to eat something proper.”

The sincerity of it caught Wanning off guard.

After a moment, he said softly, “And you?”

Mo Ran’s mouth twitched. “I should too.”

Chu Wanning nodded, stepping aside to close the door behind him. They walked down the stairs side by side, the soft murmur of voices rising as they neared the common room. 

Just before they exited onto the street, Mo Ran spoke again.

“About paying for food…” He reached into his sleeve and pulled out a small pouch, heavy with coins. “The Emperor gave me money before we left. Enough to make sure the journey wouldn’t be… too difficult.”

Chu Wanning looked at the pouch, then at Mo Ran. “I suspected it the first night when you paid for the inn. Still, really considerate of him.”

Mo Ran didn’t answer, but his expression said enough. He didn’t particularly agree.

Wanning didn’t push.

They stepped onto the street. Evening had settled, turning the town into a festival of lanternlight and color. Vendors called out softly, offering steamed buns, spiced noodles, grilled vegetables wrapped in thin bread. The air smelled of roasted meat, fresh herbs, honey pastries, and something sweetly fermented.

As they walked toward it, their shoulders brushing for just a moment longer than needed, Wanning felt something unfamiliar rise in his chest.

A warmth he didn’t want to name.

And Mo Ran, for all his efforts to seem composed, kept glancing at him as though each quiet breath Wanning took mattered.

They stepped into the restaurant together. The lights inside were low and warm, the tables close enough to feel the life of the room but far enough apart to keep their corner private.

They instantly walked to a table by the window.

Mo Ran sat first, letting Wanning choose the seat opposite him.

For the first time since the cave, since that morning, since the river, they were right in front of each other, giving themselves the time to analyze one another.

There was definitely space, but not distance.

The tension remained, thin as silk and just as easy to tangle.

“What would you like to order?” Wanning asked.

Mo Ran leaned forward slightly, his voice low. “I’m not sure. I don’t really know the gastronomy of this town. ”

Chu Wanning nodded and then waited in silence, both of them still stealing glances occasionally from the other, too shy to admit it.

A moment later, a server came with a pot of tea, then gave them all the menu options. It seemed like the restaurant was known for its food as much as for its place in the town itself, a meeting point where flavors from the empire and the air nation blended without ceremony. Sweet vinegar fish shared the tables with chili oil wontons, and mild broths were set beside bowls fierce enough to sting the tongue. It was a place that welcomed outsiders without asking where they came from.

Once the server finished telling them what they had available, it didn’t take long for them to decide what they would get.

“I’ll get the chili oil wontons,” Mo Ran said without hesitation.

“Of course you will,” Chu Wanning muttered into his cup.

Mo Ran arched a brow. “Is that a complaint?”

“No,” Wanning said, though his lips almost curved. “Just an observation. You seem intent on burning your tongue off.”

Mo Ran waited for a beat, watching him too closely. “And what will you order?”

“There’s sweet tofu pudding,” Chu Wanning said softly.

“Ah.” Mo Ran leaned back slightly. “Something gentle.”

Wanning’s eyes flicked up, briefly defensive. “There’s nothing wrong with sweetness.”

“I didn’t say there was,” Mo Ran answered quietly.

Something unspoken passed between them, warm enough to soften the tension of the past days. They placed their orders: wontons for Mo Ran, tofu pudding and sweet-and-sour fish for Wanning, and the restaurant slipped into a comfortable hush around them.

They drank tea. They listened to the sounds of the kitchen. And slowly, the weight between them loosened.

When the food arrived, steam curled deliciously from the bowls. Mo Ran immediately dug into his wontons, eyes lighting up as the chili oil stained his lips red. Chu Wanning watched him for a moment; more openly than he meant to. Mo Ran noticed, pausing mid-bite.

“…What?” he asked.

“Nothing.” Wanning’s gaze flicked down to his own bowl. “You seem to enjoy it.”

“I do.”

But he kept watching Chu Wanning in return.

Wanning’s sweet tofu pudding was smooth and fragrant; he ate it quietly, savoring each bite. Mo Ran found himself staring without meaning to: at the delicate way Wanning held the spoon, at the tiny sigh he made after tasting something sweet, at the warmth that entered his expression only when food was involved.

It was embarrassing, how soft it made him look.

Mo Ran had never seen him like that in public.

They ate mostly in silence, but it wasn’t the heavy silence of fear or distance. This was something else. Something quiet. Something warm enough that Mo Ran almost forgot his shirt was still damp on his shoulders.

He cleared his throat. “Your expression softens when you eat sweets.”

Chu Wanning froze. “Does it?”

“A little.”

The tip of Chu Wanning’s ear turned pink. He looked down at his bowl as if it betrayed him.

Before Mo Ran could say more, a group of travelers at the next table glanced toward Chu Wanning. One man nudged the other.

“That one,” he whispered, not quietly enough. “The pretty one. The one with the cold face.”

His friend snorted. “Cold? He looks like he belongs to some noble house. Bet he has ten suitors.”

“Bet he turns them all down,” the first man said, leaning a little closer. “Wouldn’t mind trying my luck though…”

They laughed.

Mo Ran stopped eating.

Something sharp and heavy slid through him; not quite fury, but close. His hand tightened around his chopsticks until the wood creaked.

They were just staring at Wanning. Talking about him. Thinking they had any right.

Chu Wanning didn’t seem to hear them; he was occupied with his food, unaware of the attention he drew simply by existing.

But Mo Ran heard every word.

His jaw tensed, something dark sliding beneath his skin. He forced himself to look down at his bowl before he did something stupid—like break a stranger’s arm for staring too long.

He tried to breathe. To calm the sudden, irrational heat curling in his chest.

Possessive. Too possessive.

He had no right to it.

But it was there anyway.

And Wanning, oblivious, took another spoonful of tofu pudding, lashes lowered, the softest expression on his face.

Mo Ran swallowed hard, unable to look away.

Without thinking, he shifts forward, leaning his elbows onto the table. The motion draws him closer to Wanning, close enough that his knee brushes Wanning’s under the table. Close enough that anyone watching would have to look past him first.

Chu Wanning pauses mid-bite.

“Mo Ran?” His voice is quiet, lined with confusion. “You’re… tense.”

Mo Ran forces a small breath. “Am I?”

“You leaned forward suddenly.”

“Maybe I was just… making space.” He doesn’t elaborate. He can’t.

Wanning’s eyes narrow slightly. Observant. Sharp.
Too sharp.

“Did something happen?” he asks.

Mo Ran’s tongue presses against the inside of his cheek. He looks away, then back, unable to fully lie under that gaze.

“No one did anything,” he says carefully. “I just don’t like the way some people are staring.”

Chu Wanning blinks.

“Staring… at what?”

Mo Ran scoffs under his breath.
“At you.”

Wanning goes still.
Not offended, just surprised. Softened by something quiet and difficult to name.

“You shouldn’t let that bother you,” Wanning murmurs. “People look. They always have. It means nothing.”

“It means enough,” Mo Ran replies before he can stop himself.

Wanning’s gaze lowers, lashes casting shadows over his cheeks. A faint, almost invisible color rises in his face.

There’s a beat of silence; warm, tight, charged.

“…Thank you,” he says finally, barely above a whisper.

Mo Ran’s chest tightens. More than he wants.
His hand curls around his chopsticks, knuckles whitening.

He looks away, pretending to focus on his food.
But his body stays tilted toward Chu Wanning, still shielding him without thinking.

And Chu Wanning feels it, every inch of it, yet quietly lets him stay there.

They finished their meals in lingering quiet, bowls nearly empty, steam fading into the warm restaurant air. Chu Wanning set down his spoon with delicate precision, while Mo Ran devoured the last of his chili-oil wontons, still faintly annoyed at how good they were.

When Mo Ran rose to pay, he heard it again.

Two men at a nearby table whispering behind their sleeves, eyes flicking toward Chu Wanning. Admiring. Speculating. Their words were low, but not low enough.

“Look at him… a face like that shouldn’t be traveling with a man like…”

Mo Ran’s glare snapped toward them, dark and unhidden.

He didn’t say a word. He didn’t need to. The men fell silent instantly, stiffening like prey caught in a predator’s shadow.

Mo Ran turned away with forced calm and handed the coins to the owner. When he glanced back over his shoulder, the men refused to meet his eyes.

Good.

Outside, the air felt cooler, calmer. The sky had slipped to deep blue, lanterns glowing along the main road. Chu Wanning walked beside him quietly, unaware of the tension Mo Ran carried with him from inside.

They stepped into the lively market. Bright stalls lined each path, selling fabrics, sweets, carved trinkets, spices, maps. The town, sitting right on the border, blended colors and styles from both nations. People spoke two languages in one breath. Children ran past wearing robes trimmed in both red and sky-blue.

Wanning took it all in with a subtle softening of his expression. He didn’t smile. But something lighter settled in his eyes.

Mo Ran watched it happen.

They moved among the stalls at a slow pace. Wanning paused at a stand filled with carved pendants: clouds, birds, mountains, swirling spirals representing wind. He studied a small cloud carved from polished bone for a few seconds… then stepped back without touching it.

Mo Ran waited.
Then doubled back.

He bought the cloud pendant quietly, slipped it into the inside of his sleeve, and caught up to Wanning before he even noticed he’d fallen a step behind.

They wandered until the crowd thinned. The noise faded into murmurs. Ahead, a small arched bridge crossed the river, lanterns swaying gently along its railings.

Mo Ran stopped there first.
Wanning followed.

Golden reflections danced on the water below. The lantern light framed Wanning’s features in soft, shifting glow. For a long while, neither spoke.

Mo Ran looked at him sidelong. Wanning’s eyes were on the river, but his posture had loosened in a way Mo Ran rarely saw. The tension in his shoulders had ebbed. His face, usually controlled, looked… almost peaceful.

Wanning broke the silence first, quiet and hesitant. “Are you feeling better now?”

Mo Ran’s answer came easily, too easily. “Yes. The walk helped.”

Wanning nodded, accepting it without suspicion. That trust made something twist in Mo Ran’s chest, sharp and unwelcome.

They stood close enough that their sleeves brushed when a breeze passed. Wanning didn’t pull away at once. He lingered there a moment, eyes distant but calm.

Eventually Mo Ran spoke again.
“We should return. We still need rest.”

Chu Wanning nodded. “We do.”

They turned back, walking side by side toward the inn. The market lights softened behind them. Their steps matched without planning.

They didn’t talk on the way back.

But the silence between them had changed.
It was warmer.Heavier.
Full of something neither dared name.

And for the first time in days, both of them almost wished the walk back were longer.

After some time walking through the lively streets of the market town, they returned to the inn. The warm glow from its windows and the sturdy wooden beams gave a sense of welcome after the long day. The innkeeper glanced up as they entered, nodding slightly. “Welcome back. Hope you enjoyed the town” he said softly.

Both Mo Ran and Chu Wanning greeted the innkeeper and then walked towards the stairs,  the air between them still thick with unspoken thoughts from the market and the moment on the bridge. Once they reached the corridor where their rooms were, they both turned to look at the other.

Neither spoke. Their eyes met for a moment: holding, measuring, hesitant, before they silently moved toward their respective rooms. They each entered, the doors closing with a gentle thud that marked the end of the day’s tense but delicate closeness.

The hall outside fell silent. Inside their rooms, both carried the weight of unspoken feelings, a fragile awareness that lingered just beyond words.

Chu Wanning closed the door to his room behind him and leaned against it for a brief moment, exhaling slowly just as he did when they arrived. For a few minutes, he simply stayed there, letting the stillness of the night wash over him and trying to shake off the lingering tension from the day: the market, the bridge, the closeness with Mo Ran that he couldn’t fully ignore.

After a while, he stood and walked to his belongings. Carefully, almost ritualistically, he opened his satchel and pulled out his scrolls. He laid them across the small table, brushing off the dust that had settled during their travel. His fingers hovered over them for a moment, hesitant, before he began arranging them in order, checking notes and sketches he had made recently.

The quiet of the room allowed his mind to sharpen. He began to trace patterns in the prophecies, connecting threads he hadn’t noticed before. Some were straightforward, omens of harvests, wars, or the empire’s stability. Others were darker, less tangible: a shadow that crept through multiple visions, a figure that moved through the edges of his sight, one he hadn’t been able to identify.

His gaze lingered on that part of the prophecy longer than he intended. The description: the raw strength, the overwhelming presence, the destruction that seemed almost personal… It made his chest tighten. For a fleeting, impossible second, his mind flickered to Mo Ran.

He shook the thought away, still not sure what to think about it. He knew that the man was not simply a companion on this journey, nor a protector in the chaos that surrounded them. And yet, he was not sure about what he was missing. As he cross-referenced symbols and recurring visions, the unease in his chest grew. There were parallels he could not ignore, threads that aligned too precisely to be coincidence.

He leaned over the scrolls, quill in hand, mapping connections, sketching the faint outlines of events and figures he had only seen in fragments. His heart beat a little faster as he worked, not with fear, but with a strange mix of anticipation and apprehension. Something was coming: something that touched both the empire and the man who had entered his life with the force of a storm.

Hours passed unnoticed. The lantern’s light flickered softly, painting the room in amber and shadow, and Chu Wanning’s hand never stopped moving across the scrolls. By the time he paused to stretch his aching arms, he had filled half a page with connections and questions, some of which he wasn’t sure he wanted the answers to.

But one thing was certain. Mo Ran was now impossible to ignore, not just in presence, but in the whispers of prophecy that lingered at the edges of his visions.

On the other hand, Mo Ran couldn’t sleep. The inn was silent except for the faint creak of its wooden beams and the distant hum of the town at night. He didn’t lie down. He didn’t close his eyes. The scroll lay on the table, a reminder more than a guide, edges curling from repeated handling. The inked lines were clear: the emperor’s instructions, the air nation’s desire, the true purpose of this journey. Chu Wanning was not meant to be a companion, not a traveler: he was the prize.

Mo Ran had known this long before they set out. He had nodded politely, followed the emperor’s orders with a measured obedience that hid the truth, and now he kept the scroll close, a reminder of what everyone else thought was their plan. But he had never followed it. He had his own reasons for taking the oracle away. The scroll was his tether, a way to maintain appearances, but it was also a chain he refused to obey. How it would all end, he didn’t yet know. He only knew that Chu Wanning was at the center of it, and that thought tangled every emotion he tried to keep in check.

He couldn’t stop thinking about the older man. The way he had leaned against him in the cave, exhausted and trusting, had left something raw and unsettled in Mo Ran’s chest. He was supposed to be detached, supposed to be focused, supposed to view Chu Wanning as a tool, a key,a stepping stone on his way to achieve revenge. And yet, in the quiet dark of the inn room, he remembered the way Chu Wanning’s hair fell against his shoulder, the faint warmth of his body, the subtle steadiness in his breathing. It shouldn’t matter. It had no place in his plans. And yet it did.

Mo Ran ran a hand over his face, tugging at the strands of hair that clung to his forehead. His chest ached with a tension he couldn’t name. Desire, frustration, protectiveness, and guilt all twisted together inside him, and he found no relief. He had chosen this path. He had deceived the emperor. He had taken the oracle without full knowledge of what it would mean. And now, in the stillness, he felt the weight of that choice pressing down.

He leaned back in the chair, eyes flicking to the scroll again. The truth of it was simple. Chu Wanning was valuable, but not in the way anyone thought. Not for politics, not for land, not for diplomacy. The older man was a key to something else, something Mo Ran had been working for a long time. And yet, he would not tell Chu Wanning. Not yet. Not until he was ready.

Mo Ran’s gaze drifted to the window, where the faint glow of the moon cast silver across the rooftops. He wondered how much Chu Wanning suspected, if he could sense the subtle undercurrent of danger beneath the quiet journey. Probably not. At least that’s what he told himself. And that thought should have brought relief, but it only tightened the knot in his chest.

For a long while, he simply sat there, feeling the cool night seep through the open window, letting the silence stretch. He was vigilant, not just of the world outside, but of the man in the next room, of the delicate balance of trust and suspicion that hung between them. He had pulled Chu Wanning from one life into another, and now every choice he made would ripple into a future he could not fully see.

Eventually, he let out a slow breath and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He could not sleep. Not yet. Not until he had a clearer picture of what would come next, and not until he had a sense of where his own feelings: dangerous, unwanted, complicating everything, would fit into the path he had chosen.

Chu Wanning’s door remained closed, but Mo Ran’s mind was wide open, circling the older man endlessly. Protecting him, deceiving him, desiring him: it was all tangled together in ways he had never anticipated, and the weight of it both sharpened and dulled his focus. He was here for one reason. One goal. And yet, for the first time in years, Mo Ran didn’t fully know where his path would lead.

Only that Chu Wanning stood at its center, whether he wished for it or not.