Lady Liu Huanyin stood alone in the brewhouse, her slender silhouette poised beneath the silver sheen of moonlight. Steam curled around her like a ghostly veil as her hands moved with practiced grace, blending petals and herbs into the fragrant brew.
Tonight's Zuihua Yin felt heavier than usual—its scent laced not just with intoxication, but memory.
She didn't notice the figure lurking in the shadows. Cloaked in black, he watched silently, his gaze sharp, eyes glinting like frozen stars beneath his hood.
Upstairs, on the second floor, Lao Hu's voice drifted down through the night with laughter and wine:
"Ye Mingzhi—the boy born of prophecy, the one who braved fire and storm for the sake of love."
In the far corner, a veiled woman leaned toward her companion, whispering teasingly. The man beside her remained still, unreadable.
But when Lao Hu spoke the name Ye Mingzhi, a flicker crossed the stranger's face. His fingers curled, tightening around his cup, causing the wine to tremble just slightly at the rim.
Chapter 2: Blossoms Fall Without Words
In the quiet brewing room, Ye Yishi leaned against the doorframe, watching Liu Huanyin. Her silhouette shimmered in the dim light, her hands moving with quiet precision over the bubbling pot.
"It's late," he murmured. "You should rest."
"I'm used to waiting," she replied softly, not turning.
He stepped closer. "Still waiting for him?"
She stirred the petals slowly. "Aren't we all, in some way?"
A pause fell between them. Only the faint bubbling of the brew filled the air.
"You still hum that tune," he said quietly.
For a moment, her hands froze. "Old habits."
"It's been a long time since you sang it," he added. "Since that night beneath the apricot blossoms."
She finally turned to face him. Her eyes held no blame—only a faint sorrow, like the scent of wine aged too long.
"You left without saying goodbye."
Ye Yishi looked down. "I had to."
"For the greater cause?" she asked.
He said nothing. Instead, he stepped past her and poured himself a cup of Zuihua Yin. The taste was bitter, laced with memories he had tried to bury.
Far away, in a fragment of his mind, Lao Xuan's voice echoed:
"Swordsmanship is for those who bleed, not those who hesitate. But love—love is the sword you never learn to sheath."
Yishi sipped the wine again. "You knew I would never return."
"But I waited," she said softly. "Because some memories are more stubborn than time."
That night, two souls stood apart, bound more by silence than words.
Outside, beneath the shadow of the moon, the wind carried an old tune—soft and haunting, like remnants of a past not yet forgiven.