NOVEL NEXT Chapter 295: Another Night, Another Potential Nightmare
It still surprised me that Lin Wei had not let go of Sun Yizhen.
Even after three days of being home and surrounded by everyone, his small fists were twisted tight into the folds of Yizhen's robe, his knuckles white against black silk. His cheek rested on the man's chest as though there were nowhere else in the world it could belong.
The brazier at the foot of the pallet hissed now and again when a knot of resin caught flame. I had picked up another blanket and draped it over the two of them. Not because Yizhen needed it, but because my son did. The cloth weighed enough to keep his body from remembering the coffin.
Shadow stretched in front of the door, one paw twitching in dream. The room smelled of warmed chestnuts, honeyed porridge still clinging faintly to the air.
I had fought a war for this silence, and I was damn well going to enjoy it.
Even if I couldn't remember how it felt to not be barking out orders… or go off killing people who wanted to take what was mine.
Letting out a long sigh, I forced myself to relax.
And the moment I did, the door shifted open without sound, causing me to tense up for a moment.
Yaozu slipped in as though he had never been gone. His hair was damp at the edges, a sign he had walked through frost and back. He closed the panel behind him with that same measured quiet, then set his back against the wall where the torchlight didn't quite reach.
"All is locked down," he reported softly. "The south storehouse sealed, Hua breathing under straw until you choose otherwise. Ren's clerks named. Rope-sellers accounted for. The palace is safe tonight. No coin will buy another gate."
His words did not press the air like danger. They unknotted it.
I inclined my head once. "Good."
He let the quiet hold after that. Yaozu never filled space for the sake of sound.
The door opened again, this time with the heavier cadence of boots that did not care who heard.
Deming entered carrying another brazier pan, already lit, and placed it near the pallet so the warmth would not falter before dawn. He crouched to adjust the coals, his scarred hands moving with the precision of a soldier who had spent too many years making fire where fire refused to live.
When he rose, his eyes went to Yizhen.
The two men had known each other before, though never closely. One had worn steel, the other silk. And now the silk carried my son while the steel brought coals.
Deming's jaw flexed. He didn't reach for his sword, didn't snarl, but when he finally spoke, his voice carried the weight of blunt truth.
"Where did you come from?"
Yizhen's mouth curved, half amusement, half edge. He didn't move, didn't jostle the boy who breathed steady against his ribs. "From nowhere worth naming."
"That doesn't explain why you're here."
"No," Yizhen admitted, his thumb brushing the boy's back unconsciously. "But perhaps this does: your Empress liked jasmine tea. I just so happened to run across some that she liked and brought it to her. And one day I realized I preferred her taste to my own. So I kept sending it."
It wasn't a confession, not truly, but it was a window cracked wide enough to let something honest slip through.
Deming didn't argue. He only stood with his arms folded, watching the man who now held the heir as though the balance of the empire rested in that quiet grip.
Yaozu shifted against the wall, his voice dry. "Tea is a flimsy excuse for a life's devotion."
"Is it?" Yizhen asked without looking at him. "It kept her throat clear when no one else remembered she needed it."
I let them talk. For once, I didn't feel the need to sharpen every word into an order.
My hand found Wei's hair, smoothing the strands where glue still clung stubborn in places. White mist seeped through my palm, the kind that mended rather than burned. He stirred faintly but did not wake. His breath came easier, the tightness along his shoulders easing as warmth and fog did their work.
I looked at the men arrayed in this chamber: Yaozu, sentinel at the wall; Deming, fire-straight at the foot of the bed; Yizhen, cradle for the child who would not release him.
All of them watching, waiting, not to be commanded but to be present.
It was strange, the kind of strange that settles into your bones and feels heavier than war. I had lived enough years cutting throats and burning bridges to know this was rarer.
I had not invited them. I had not asked. And yet, here they were.
Yaozu's voice cut through again, quieter than before. "Rest. The palace holds. No one stirs outside these walls tonight unless I wish it."
I believed him. That was the frightening part—I believed him without question.
Deming pulled one of the fruit plates closer to me again, stubborn in his own quiet way. "Eat something. You look less terrifying when you've eaten."
"I thought terrifying was useful," I smirked, spearing a slice of pear and making sure he saw me chew.
"Not here," he replied. "Here, he needs you soft." His chin tipped toward Wei, still tucked against Yizhen's robe.
I glanced down. My son's fists were still locked, but no longer white. His mouth had slackened, just enough to look like sleep rather than battle.
Soft. The word felt foreign, but not wrong.
I leaned over, let my lips brush the crown of his head. My voice was low, meant only for him.
"Sleep, Wei. We're done with coffins. Tomorrow is ours."
The mist pulsed once more through my hand. His body yielded to it, sinking deeper into rest.
I looked back at the men, my men whether I had claimed them or not. For once, none of them spoke. None of them moved. They simply stood, as if to prove by their presence that the night belonged to us.
And I let myself believe it.