“Young Master, you must hurry!” urged a pretty maid with increasing urgency, compelling Qian Ye to quicken his pace and follow her to a secluded side chamber.
The place was genuinely tranquil—nestled in its own courtyard, shut behind a small gate, invisible from the outside. The side chamber itself was indeed tiny—comprising no more than two small rooms: one for sitting, the other for resting, and together smaller than an ordinary room.
The girl slammed the courtyard gate shut with a *thud*, patted her chest out of relief, and instinctively let slip her thoughts aloud: “Thank the Gods, no one saw us!”
In a flurry, she rushed inside and said, “Young Master, please be seated. I will prepare tea for you straightaway.”
Moments later, she appeared holding a tray with tea. It was a newly harvested seasonal brew—its color vividly green, its infusion brilliant and translucent, its fragrance ethereal beyond measure. It truly was a fine selection; steeped exactly to perfection.*Exquisitely appropriate, the phrase bore quiet witness to years’ worth of time, effort, and wealth, the hallmark of only maids nurtured in noble households with generations of refinement.
At this point Qian Ye was at least moderately educated on the finer things. Sipped it carefully, and nodded, “Excellent tea… and a remarkable hand.”
Preparation of fresh leaves like this required precisely balanced temperatures—not boiling hot, not at all tepid; it demanded a careful cooling after boiling before the water met pot—a test of one’s refined touch.
Proudly receiving his compliment, the maid beamed, “Then, Master, I will prepare a few steepings more—for within this garden’s walls, we have quite a collection, and I can share each one with you properly.”
Qian Ye smirked ever so slightly, “It seems your master’s intentions remain honorable, after all—worried, though unspoken, I might make no peace with their walls.”
Taken aback, she said, “What *could* you mean by that?”
“You wish most fervently I remain unseen, for fear that word may bring down storming hosts?”
The maid was clever enough to conceal her thoughts and laughed softly, covering her mouth. “既然Young Master has guessed, why trouble speech aloud?”
She added in hushed breath, “Seven Young Master will arrive before long—there is much you will need to speak. The garden today is filled by more strangers than family welcomes. Even our Head of House cannot keep their prying mouths at bay. And even should no outsiders roam our gardens, gossip and idle tongues plague family still…”
The faint trace of mirth still upon Qianeyes lips, his reply was calm: “Concealments that echo through walls cannot hide from forever. Even were I mistaken, not all these faces crowd more densely than the sky above a city without sinking heart. You, surely, understand—should I decide, I would pass through no blockade.”
She blinked twice in wonder before retorting, “Fate bears no F Zhao’s hand under my watch.”
Spoken so directly, these words betrayed more than the station a maid is meant to uphold. There was, indeed, truth in this. The flight of Qian Ye from the floating fortress known as Falling City—the reason it went so smoothly—rested not merely upon his unmatched strength or a warrior’s fortune, but also upon the silent backing of the Zhaos and young Song Zining’s aid from shadows.
A shadowed amusement returned to Qian Ye’s voice. “True. None of F Zhao dwell here, I admit—but then, I am not the man once cast upon their mercy either. The others, Song descendants all, live in trepidation, reluctant and afraid even before glances are cast. In a garden such as this swarmed to brimming, few, very few indeed, dare present themselves to Qian Ye.”
“You, though mild and scholarly in looks, act in the manner of one who flinches from no crude deed.” The maid teased him gently, though her eyes glittered mischievously as she sized him boldly from head to toe.
Her gaze, so direct and unyielding, could raise a man’s temper to near explosion—but her laughter betrayed little fear.
Laughing softly in turn, Qian Ye admitted, “I lacked for books as a youth.”
“Even Yama’s own halls speak training not only in sword-play but in knowledge too. One should not take such men lightly for might alone.”
Silenced by her quick tongue though not at all taken aback, Qian Ye’s gaze deepened: “You have talent yourself—young Song. So swiftly to take disguise to heart from hairpin to silk, down to thread on slipper. This too speaks mastery rare indeed.”
“Not my choice. Grandpa’s passing was an occasion beyond even our household’s comprehension. The last respect, our final debt to one whose soul seeks eternity in stillness—we dare not allow distraction from her peace, yet our girls were clumsy, unable to hold even candle properly without mishap. No other path but that I attend here myself…Now—sip again and tell its merits.”
She laid yet another cup before him, one that bore upon steeping a depth, more profound still; tea’s art reborn.
Even sipping it thoughtfully, she added offhandly: “Ah. Almost forgot another matter altogether. Miss Yanyan had once meant to send me here before your arrival—not with tea and sweets, though, but as her spy; judging if you fit as husband and match.”
“Not that such matchmaking is ever worth the effort in any case…She delayed so often past bloom, until her years now press so she must marry or fall behind the wayside—unfit, in truth, to claim one as capable and—”
“Surely *not*—” Qian Ye barely avoided spraying his tea.
“—as someone altogether more suitable… someone…me!”
“…”
Still smiling smugly while Qian Ye stifled his coughs from almost losing decorum so completely, she finally extended her hand and said, “Come now…official introduction. We should keep things proper, even mid-silliness. My name, my formal name… is Song Hui.”
He hesitated a fraction but reached out to shake it. Fingers grazed lightly in a near gesture—a shallow meeting—but she seized Qian Ye’s hand without hesitation and squeezed twice gently.
“Soft… very soft.”
Before coming here, Qian Ye imagined only worst scenarios. Battle breaking out at first breath within Song Domain gates; crimson blades dancing mile upon mile, carving a bleeding route across Empire itself if need be—
He never imagined—how utterly disoriented he’d feel at first moment, being molested upon entry—by the Song House’s very ‘maid’.
His thoughts betrayed awe inwardly he had to quell.
*True bloodline. Centuries of legacy must harbor hidden masters indeed.*
Seeing the flickers within eyes unguarded from a certain Song Hui, her laughter rang again in air: “Still thinking about something strange inside that head?”
“Of course! We knew—*everyone already knew.*”
She continued on mirthful tone:
“One, the gentlest words from Seven. A man whose every gaze cloaked ambition behind velvet eyes. Two—Zhao, eyes fixed high and distant, no glance spared, as though all daughters Earth and Sky alike held no spark in his world. Third and *least*, you—fearsome brow, but all show and bluster; flinch easily upon any flirtatious breeze and hide it well only from those who don’t know you!”
Qian Ye gaped, words unstrung, emotions tangled without shape:
“What sort of story… is *this?*”
“A harmless secret traded over whispered silks within girlhood halls. Admittedly—hardly *‘secret’*, anymore. All High-Born lasses know already, what with you three standing tall—fame-wise, looks too.”
He remained awkwardly caught in speech.
Song Hui now leaning close beside him in a whisper that seemed to linger far too long, fingers—her fingers already entwined gently again around his. As though holding his presence steady.
“…Xiao Ye young gentleman.”
*SPLUUT!*
His carefully sipp’d tea had finally met abrupt fate.
She patted him gently upon back while laughing softly. But that smile—it could only promise no good.
“This name… Who has the breath even now… *TOLD* YOU?!”
He demanded, nearly roaring, murder in his voice, barely muffled by etiquette anymore.
“Restrain wrath—you cannot act against this one… nor gain anything from it. Perhaps best to let slide?”
His eyes now burned holes upon space between them. *“Zhao Zening. This time I kill *everybody* who knew…*including her*.”*
“Who called my name?”
In doorway stood Song Zening.
A brief huff from nose, Qian Ye’s expression became carved rock.
“I see… leave already?!”
Song Zening blinked bewilderedly.
“You came all this way and turn tail to leave?!”
“I have brought no burden.” Tone, icy—yet emotion ran deep beneath its surface.
“*But*… I came unprepared to become the Song Family Head… Not even to chase some stupid crown.”
Qian Ye, unmoved, asked flatly:
“If power’s not why you’ve arrived… tell me—then *why* you even leave hiding place?”
He paused only a heartbeat.
“Just wanted once… to see the old Master again.” Voice grew hushed as though to himself.
Observing this quiet grief etched upon tired lines beneath Song Zening’s normally lively visage, Qian Ye hesitated, some harshness finally softened—
“You and I… I understand. I remember her too. I had no place attending this time but since I am here—it’s because I stand with you, support you. Do whatever you feel required. Say freely whatever words needed. Displeased they will be… Let my presence shield.”
Qian Ye rose without another look and turned, walking onward.
Before Song Zening could gather words, Song Hui spoke again cheerfully.
“Sir Xueye sure wears presence regally.”
Qian Ye turned stone once more. Zening, now finally grasping why Q had stormed earlier, sighed deeply. Song Hui herself didn’t mind his wrath one iota.
Stepping forward boldly, eyes gleaming playfully:
“What’s wrong? Going to strike me like we haven’t grown up? Hit all you wish—I won’t even dodge.”
Saying not to retreat, she advanced two… while nearly knocking bosom flush upon his very chest—
*…Impossible!*
He recoiled instinctively; one step back—
But *Song Hui* stepped two—forward—grinning wide as to embrace him.
She edged closer again, until nearly crashing against body itself.
Qian Ye backed yet once and—no further. He’d retreat no more. Then she would push ahead once more. The whole scene becoming absurd to watch.
Watching the odd spectacle develop, Song Zening finally intervened, tone turning severe:
“Lady Song! Enough—this *must* stop! Q has chosen a path, taken love. You must not mock.”
“Who said I would care if *married* or not?” She replied lightly with shrug.
“Such nonsense… every noble man takes many wives.”
But turning to Song Zening specifically:
“*Especially you* who bed girls, then flee in day’s light.”
She hissed, “Who still dares mention loyalty or duty with *you*?”
His entire face flushed reddish-purple this time. Words stuck, unuttered.
With quiet but clear force, Qian Ye raised a single hand—only one finger tapped lightly upon forehead, and she froze.
An unmoving distance held between his digit’s point and her brow—a barrier neither mind nor spirit managed to bypass—she, for once, could only struggle in place yet touch naught.
With safety regained, Q hastily inquired of Song Zening:
“Sung Ming Hui—who is she?”
A sigh from old friend answered first.
“You met with original branch, yes—Five House, the ancients once counted with Song name. Divided by my grandfather into independent estate long ago. Henceforth, her names never follow direct heir. As to line… she indeed may pass as *cousin-in-blood*, yet no relation too *close*. Within us—the next generation—we all hold her in admiration… though she bore not fortune’s favor, being born daughter.”
“But…” Song’s frown deepened, “…why choose Yanyan? Was she more worthy than Hui?”
A scoff met such words.
“Such flattery—I recall it well, and how *I*, *ignored*, *disregarded* even once considered. Even that young brat Song Yunqing—*also not suitable at all*…”
Taken aback at the sharp reply, beads of worry lined brow as Song Zening sought diplomacy.
“Subtley. Let me explain…
Despite talent, Song Yan has no brilliance to rival yours Hui. As to you…” He stammered slightly, then finally admitted, “…just slightly *too much* brightness to be easily… *managed*.”
“*‘Too clever’ meaning I make a better man than wife?”*
“…”
Zening made no further comment and instead offered silence…a de facto reply.
“You hesitate… afraid I may one day outshine you all, even. I suppose *’brilliant’, for us women of House Song…* is a threat, not advantage…”
Still smiling cool and smug, Hui added casually:
“But in actual truth…”
“…I offer but two key qualities…”
That piqued his *and* Qian Ye curiosity alike.
“What… two?”
Eyes wide of knowing smile:
“1. Cuter face.
2. Bigger chest.”
A silence ensued, unshakeable and unspoken between two men who had… nothing immediate *to contest the matter.*
Yet seeing their stunned expressions, she let things rest gently now—
“My duty has finished… now I must head for Council. Will you two attend, or not?”
Confusion now upon Zening, “Your task… to *delay*… is it even completed?”
“Isn’t it?” She grinned, not even trying to conceal.
“Then…” he hesitated, “Was that merely… *delayered flirtation*? You wouldn’t even let a few extra seconds slip without warning council’s gathering now!”
“What I just did *was* delay.”
“Plus *some added benefits?”* Zening questioned pointed.
“And if I did seek marriage—natural ambition of any young unmarried girl. Who’s to argue *wrong*?”
A frown crested Song Zening’s brow, “Marrying Q is… no match. He carries love elsewhere, in deeper ways than I think even *you’ll change him*.”
She gave no signs of defeat:
“Oh come now—better candidate *must be me*… than a *sackcloth and shadow* that *you* are.”
Caught red-handed once again by her words, Song attempted to recover:
“But I wasn’t at first—I had reasons! Just not everyone could… properly understand.”
“I *really and truly do* not care to hear such *excuses*, you know.”
“Go on.”
She gestured toward chamber exit leading back deeper into ancestral halls:
“…Go to the Grand Meeting now—before elders grow further restless.”
He watched Song Zening contemplate in silence for a beat…then finally decide.
“I had refused involvement prior. Since Q walks with me still, might as well make way—see what fools scheme now in darkness. When in Hall—you, do exactly as fits your vision. Words unfiltered and honest—say all that must be spoken. Make no compromise for *‘Song’ name or for *me*, understand?”
“Agreed.”
Turning at long last, the pair departed down echoing corridor leaving Hui behind as a wistful breath escaped.
A whisper of final reflection followed softly after her own retreat.
“I gave my best efforts.”
Indeed, compared to when he arrived—a man wreathed in grim resolve and blood-thought… Qian Yenow, while perhaps no less certain in purpose, carried less the killing chill. A soft thaw in the frost of his heart.
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