It started with a scent.
The faint, bittersweet aroma of magnolia incense—a signature known only to one person.
When Lin Xiyan stepped into the back courtyard of the teahouse, he froze. A figure in white leaned casually against the wooden railing, a porcelain cup in hand, expression unreadable.
"Hello, Xiyan," said Fang Ziyue, lips curved into that familiar, mocking smile.
Shen Liufeng was already reaching for his sword, but Lin raised a hand. "Let him speak."
"I came alone," Fang said mildly. "And unarmed. Not that it matters—you never needed blades to hurt each other."
His gaze flicked between them, sharp as ever.
"Tell me, Shen—do you know where Lin was the night your master was poisoned?"
Shen stiffened.
"That's enough," Lin growled, stepping forward.
But Fang's voice slid in like silk. "You've both kept secrets. You vanished. He stayed behind. He lied. You betrayed. Why pretend there's still trust?"
The silence that followed was louder than any accusation.
Later, they walked in silence down the lantern-lit road, the space between them stretched taut like a blade drawn too tight.
"Did you go to the temple that night?" Shen finally asked.
Lin stopped. "You believe him?"
"I'm asking you."
"You said you'd walk beside me, not behind. Not ahead," Lin said quietly. "Now you're looking down on me."
Shen flinched.
"I can't do this," Lin whispered, turning away.
And just like that—they separated.
—————
The wind carried snow that night.
Shen Liufeng wandered into the mountains alone, his cloak soaked through, heart heavier than any burden. Each step took him deeper into the cold—and into memory.
A younger Lin, barely fifteen, grinning with a stolen bun in hand.
Their first spar under the moonlight.
The time Shen broke his ribs protecting Lin from a wild boar, and Lin cried beside him the whole night, hand never letting go.
"Don't die. I won't forgive you if you die."
Shen paused beneath a pine tree. His breath came hard.
He'd known many kinds of silence. But none cut like this one.
———————
Far away, Lin Xiyan sat alone in a ruined shrine.
The fire flickered low, and his hands trembled—not from cold, but from what he hadn't said.
He still doesn't know I took the blow for his master that night.
He remembered Shen as a boy—so earnest, always watching him with silent loyalty.
When Lin fell ill from overtraining, Shen stayed up for days, brewing medicine with trembling hands.
When others whispered about Lin's parentage, it was Shen who stood up and said, "He's my brother, and I'll fight anyone who says otherwise."
Lin pressed a hand over his chest.
What did I do to deserve someone like you?
Tears slipped quietly down his cheek.
By dawn, they had both started walking again.
Drawn by instinct.
Drawn by memory.
Drawn by something that neither betrayal nor silence could sever.
And when they saw each other again—across a snowy bridge, wind howling and trees bent low—neither spoke.
Shen stepped forward first. "I was wrong."
Lin didn't move. "So was I."
Shen looked at him, voice raw. "Do you still want me beside you?"
Lin's voice broke. "Only if you never leave again."
The distance closed in one breath.
They didn't kiss.
They embraced—like drowning men finding the shore again.