Twilight draped the hollow in muted grays, the overhang shielding Luochen and Xiaoyu from the wind that howled through the foothills. The Silk Road ambush had left them ragged—Luochen’s shoulder throbbed with every heartbeat, the spear wound a jagged tear beneath Xiaoyu’s makeshift bandage, and his ribs ached from the temple fight. Xiaoyu sat beside him, her cloak spread over a flat stone, cleaning blood from her daggers with methodical care. The caravan’s scout had given them a map to Yanshan Pass’s heart—tomorrow, they’d face Bao Tian, Gu Yin, and whatever Jianren had become.

Luochen leaned against the rock wall, his sword across his lap, watching her work. The firelight danced in her eyes, softening the scar on her jaw, and he felt the pull of her presence—stronger now, after the blood they’d shared. She’d patched him up again, her hands steady despite the exhaustion lining her face, and he’d caught the tremor in her voice when she’d called him a fool. Not just convenience anymore, he’d said, and the words lingered, heavy as the night.

“You’re staring,” she said without looking up, her dagger’s edge gleaming as she wiped it.

“Thinking,” he replied, voice rough from fatigue. “You’re good with those. Saved my hide back there.”

She smirked, faint but real, and sheathed one blade. “You’re not bad yourself. Taking a spear for me wasn’t smart, though.”

“Kept you breathing,” he said, shifting to ease the pain in his shoulder. “Worth it.”

Her hands stilled, her gaze lifting to meet his. “Don’t make a habit of it. I can’t carry you to the Pass.”

He chuckled, a low sound that surprised him, and she shook her head, hiding a smile. The silence settled again, warmer now, and Xiaoyu moved closer, checking his bandage. Her fingers brushed his skin, cool against the heat of the wound, and he tensed—not from pain, but from the closeness.

“It’s holding,” she said, her voice softening. “You’ll live ‘til tomorrow.”

“Good enough,” he murmured, catching her hand as she pulled away. She froze, eyes widening, and he held her there, his thumb tracing the calluses on her palm. “Xiaoyu…”

“Don’t,” she said, but she didn’t pull back, her breath catching. “We can’t afford this—not now.”

“Afford what?” he asked, leaning closer, the fire’s glow narrowing the world to just them. “A moment before the end?”

Her lips parted, a protest dying unspoken, and then she closed the distance. Their kiss was fierce, desperate—a collision of need and fear, tasting of dust and blood and the unspoken things they’d carried too long. His hands cupped her face, her fingers dug into his shoulders, careful of the wound, and the hollow faded away. It wasn’t Meiqi’s ghost or Jianren’s shadow—just them, raw and alive.

When they broke apart, panting, Xiaoyu pressed her forehead to his, her eyes shut tight. “This changes nothing,” she whispered, echoing the temple, but her voice shook with the lie.

“It changes what it needs to,” he said, his hand sliding to her neck, feeling her pulse race. “I’m not losing you too.”

She pulled back, standing abruptly, and turned to the fire, her shoulders rigid. “You don’t get to decide that,” she said, voice sharp. “Tian, Zheng, Jianren—they’re waiting. We finish this first.”

He nodded, letting her retreat, though the ache in his chest wasn’t from his wounds. “First,” he agreed, and picked up his sword, resuming its care. The moment lingered, a fragile thread woven into their steel, and he clung to it as the night deepened.

Sleep came in fits, the wind a restless howl beyond the hollow. Luochen woke to Xiaoyu’s quiet breathing, her form curled near the embers, and he kept watch, his sword ready. Dawn crept in, gray and cold, and they broke camp without words, the Pass a dark wound in the mountains ahead.

They reached its edge by midday—a narrow gorge flanked by cliffs, the air thick with smoke and the distant clang of metal. The Bao Clan’s stronghold lay within, a fortress of stone and timber carved into the rock. The scout’s map pointed to a side path, a steep climb skirting the main gate. Luochen’s shoulder burned, his steps uneven, but Xiaoyu steadied him, her arm a silent support.

Halfway up, the wind carried a laugh—sharp, mocking. Gu Yin stepped from a ledge above, his black cloak stained with dried blood, his curved blade gleaming. His arm hung stiff, wounded from their last clash, but his grin was as cold as ever.

“Persistent,” he said, descending with a limp. “I told you the Pass is your grave.”

Luochen drew his sword, pain flaring but his stance firm. “You’re bleeding too, ghost. Come finish it.”

Xiaoyu flanked him, daggers ready. “You’re alone this time,” she said. “No darts to save you.”

Gu Yin tilted his head, unperturbed. “Alone’s enough. Bao Zheng pays well—Tian’s head stays on ‘til the summit’s done. You’re just loose ends.”

He struck, blade flashing for Luochen’s chest. Luochen parried, the impact jarring his shoulder, and Xiaoyu darted in, daggers slashing at Gu Yin’s legs. The assassin twisted, blocking her with a backswing, and kicked out, catching Luochen’s wounded ribs. He grunted, staggering, but swung low, forcing Gu Yin back.

The ledge became a battlefield, steel clashing in tight, brutal arcs. Gu Yin fought with savage grace, his wounds slowing him but not stopping him. Xiaoyu ducked a slash, stabbing at his thigh, and blood welled, dark and thick. Gu Yin hissed, retaliating with a thrust that grazed her arm, and she cursed, rolling clear.

Luochen pressed him, blade heavy with intent. “You’re done,” he growled, locking swords and shoving Gu Yin toward the edge. The assassin smirked, slipping a dagger from his sleeve, and stabbed at Luochen’s side. Xiaoyu shouted, lunging to block, and the dagger sank into her forearm instead. She gasped, blood dripping, but held firm, her other dagger piercing Gu Yin’s shoulder.

“Now!” she yelled, and Luochen drove his sword through Gu Yin’s chest, steel grinding past bone. The assassin’s eyes widened, his grin fading, and he slumped, blood pooling beneath him. Luochen yanked the blade free, and Gu Yin toppled over the ledge, his body crashing into the rocks below.

Xiaoyu sank to her knees, clutching her arm, and Luochen dropped beside her, tearing his sleeve to bind the wound. “You’re a fool,” he said, echoing her from the caravan, his voice tight with worry.

“Had to,” she rasped, managing a weak smile. “Kept you breathing.”

He tied the cloth, his hands shaking, and pulled her close, her head resting against his chest. “Stay with me,” he whispered, the words a plea more than a command.

She nodded, her breath steadying. “Still got Tian to kill.”

They rose, leaning on each other, the fortress’s smoke curling into the sky. Gu Yin was dead, one shadow lifted, but the Pass loomed larger now—Bao Tian within, Jianren and Zheng waiting. Luochen gripped his sword, Xiaoyu her daggers, and they climbed on, their blood mingling with the dust, their bond a fire against the cold ahead.