Chapter 26: Yun Fei
When Ye Changsheng sealed himself away for seclusion, Yun Fei told herself it wouldn't change much. She'd only been married for a short while. She'd been independent before, and she'd be independent again. What were a few months?
But days stretched.
Weeks blurred.
And still, the stone doors remained shut.
At first, she found herself reaching across the bed at night, half-asleep, only to feel empty silk. His warmth had faded quickly from the sheets, but not from her habits. She missed the way he'd whistle—badly—through his flute while watching her inscribe talismans. The way he looked at her like she wasn't just a cultivator or a clan bride, but something irreplaceable.
She didn't realize how fast he'd burrowed into her life until he was gone from it.
—
Yun Fei adjusted slowly to the Ye Clan. She had grown up in a place where everything was rigid and cold, her old clan valuing restraint, propriety, and image above all else. In contrast, the Ye Clan felt warmer, messier. People laughed more. Argued more. There were disagreements, but they weren't veiled or dangerous—just honest. The walls here didn't listen to report you.
She hadn't expected to feel comfortable.
And yet.
Changhu would bring her street food near the outer markets—greasy, spicy skewers that made her cry and laugh all at once. Changjian, ever elusive, returned mid-month and asked her, with disarming sincerity, if she needed anything. Then promptly gifted her a talisman pen.
Tianying, her aunt by marriage, would visit during evenings with trays of bitter tea and quiet company. The matriarch never said much, but the weight of her presence was grounding.
It was Changrui, though, that Yun Fei found herself closest to. He was quiet, methodical, and his talisman strokes carried a precision she respected. They spoke often about technique, ink variations, the little quirks that made a charm sing or fail. He didn't treat her like a guest or a sister-in-law—just another artisan.
He made space for her.
So did the clan, in their own ways.
There were also regular visits from her father-in-law. Though Ye Tianbao was a reserved man, he often invited her for quiet afternoon tea in the garden. He asked about her cultivation, her thoughts on clan life, and occasionally, his son. Once, after a particularly long pause, he said, "He chose well. You ground him. That's not easy."
And her grandfather-in-law, Ye Xuefeng, proved to be unexpectedly thoughtful. He'd gift her rare talisman paper or a peculiar ink formula every now and then, chuckling when she lit up. "A woman who handles both brush and blade. My kind of cultivator," he said once.
Even a few of the Rui-generation nieces began orbiting her. Ruiyin, a young niece who liked braiding charms into her hair, often clung to her after lessons. Ruiling, the more tomboyish of the bunch, challenged her to a spar in the courtyard and got knocked flat—then demanded a rematch.
These interactions, small as they were, stitched themselves into the fabric of her days.
And yet, the ache remained.
—
Sometimes, she sat under the peach tree where she and Changsheng had first spoken honestly. She would lean back, eyes half-closed, and try to hear his off-tune flute, her mind replaying every foolish, sweet moment he'd stolen from her.
He'd thrown her world off its axis. Taught her to flirt. To laugh more openly. To let her guard down.
And she had. More than she should have, maybe.
She never imagined missing someone could feel so physical. Like hunger. Like thirst. But it wasn't just desire—it was the stability he gave her. The sense of being seen.
Her old clan had never done that.
They'd seen her as potential. As a marriage token. As a resource.
Here, she was herself. And a wife. And a cultivator. And someone who could walk into the talisman hall without whispers trailing her.
One evening, after sparring with Changjian and losing horribly, she laughed breathlessly on the grass and whispered up to the stars, "You really messed me up, Changsheng."
But she didn't regret it.
By the eighth month, she could go a day or two without thinking of him. She smiled more. Sparred more. She even found herself teaching a few younger cultivators about the theory behind talisman layering.
—
Every morning now, Yun Fei walked through the eastern wing of the Ye estate toward the talisman hall. She wore her teaching robes—plain, with just a silver thread along the cuffs—and carried her own brush set in a wrapped case.
"Morning, Aunt Yun!" a student called, eyes wide with nervous excitement.
She gave a nod, stepping into the hall. The room smelled of ink and burnt paper, and several beginner students were already seated at the wide tables, struggling to keep their qi steady enough to make a single-line charm stick.
"Today," Yun Fei said, setting down her brush set, "we'll try something ambitious. You're going to fail. That's expected. But I want to see how you fail."
Some blinked. One looked terrified. Another cracked a grin.
She began the lesson.
Correcting posture. Teaching ink ratio. Demonstrating how the smallest breath of qi could make or break a talisman. She didn't shout. She didn't scold. But she was firm. Sharp. Encouraging.
And when one of the boys managed to activate a Cleanse Dust charm without burning his sleeve, she almost smiled.
Almost.
—
Even with all these distractions, There were nights when sleep wouldn't come. Nights when the air inside her courtyard felt too still, too silent. When even the peach tree's petals seemed to stir restlessly in the breeze.
She'd lie on the bed, covers pulled to her chest, and close her eyes. And without meaning to, her thoughts would drift.
To the curve of Changsheng's smile when he was about to tease her. To the way his hand had rested on her back during their wedding, protective and firm. To the way his voice dipped, soft and low, when he whispered things only she was meant to hear.
She wasn't sure when memory turned into desire. When missing him became something heavier. Warmer. When the ache in her chest moved lower, coiled itself deep in her belly, and refused to leave.
It was frustrating. Embarrassing, even.
She'd never thought of herself as someone ruled by want. She'd been raised to restrain. To hold back. And yet here she was, lying awake and breathless, imagining how his skin might feel under her fingers, how his weight might feel over hers.
Once, she threw her pillow across the room and muttered into the darkness, "This is your fault, Changsheng. You made me a pervert."
Then she buried her face into the sheets and laughed quietly, shame and amusement tangled together like silk threads in a knot.
He had changed her life. Quickly. Radically.
And in his absence, she was learning what that change meant—not just for them, but for who she was becoming.
Still, sometimes at night, she'd trace the seal line etched onto his chamber door and whisper,
"Don't take too long. I want to show you who I am when you're not watching."