The descent into Yanshan Pass was a slow bleed of daylight, the cliffs swallowing the sun until only a gray haze remained. Luochen and Xiaoyu moved through the foothills, their steps cautious but steady, the air thick with the scent of pine and distant smoke. Gu Yin’s ambush had left them bruised and wary, but the fight had sharpened their edges, binding them tighter in the shadow of shared blood.

They found refuge in an abandoned temple perched on a ledge overlooking the Pass. Its roof sagged, tiles cracked and moss-eaten, and the wooden walls leaned as if tired of standing. Inside, a broken altar stood beneath a faded mural of a lotus, its petals curling into ash-gray swirls. Dust motes danced in the slanting light, and the silence was a heavy thing, pressing against their chests.

Luochen eased onto the floor, his wounded leg outstretched, and let his sword rest beside him. The ache in his arm had dulled, the poison’s sting a memory, but exhaustion gnawed at him like a hungry beast. Xiaoyu dropped her pack near the altar, her cloak shedding dirt as she shook it out. She glanced at him, then away, her scar catching the dim glow.

“We need rest,” she said, voice soft but firm. “Tomorrow’s the Pass. Tian’s there—maybe Zheng.”

He nodded, rubbing his face. “Gu Yin too. He’ll be licking his wounds, but he’s not done.”

She knelt by her pack, pulling out the last of their provisions—dried meat, a hunk of stale bread. “Eat first,” she said, tossing him a share. “Then sleep.”

They ate in quiet, the temple’s stillness wrapping around them. The food was tough, tasteless, but it steadied Luochen’s hands, chased the fog from his mind. Xiaoyu chewed slowly, her gaze drifting to the mural, its lotus a ghost of beauty turned to ruin.

“Fitting,” she murmured, almost to herself. “Ashes everywhere we go.”

Luochen followed her eyes, the weight of her words settling into him. “That’s what they leave us,” he said. “Bao Clan burns everything—villages, lives. All we’ve got left is the fight.”

She looked at him, her expression unreadable. “And after? When the ashes settle?”

He leaned back, staring at the cracked ceiling. “Don’t know. Never thought that far. You?”

Xiaoyu shrugged, tearing a piece of bread. “Same. Revenge doesn’t leave room for after.”

The honesty hung between them, raw and unguarded. Luochen shifted, his leg protesting, and pulled a small whetstone from his pack. He began sharpening his sword, the rhythmic scrape filling the temple—a ritual to keep his hands busy, his mind from drifting to Meiqi’s grave.

Xiaoyu watched, then set her food aside. “Your leg’s bad,” she said. “Let me see.”

“It’s fine,” he grunted, but she was already moving, kneeling beside him with a strip of clean cloth from her pack.

“Stubborn,” she muttered, unwrapping the blood-stiff bandage. The arrow wound was red, swollen, but not festering. She cleaned it with water from her skin, her touch firm yet careful, and rebound it tighter. Luochen tensed, then relaxed, the warmth of her hands a strange comfort against the pain.

“You’re good at this,” he said, voice low.

“Had to be,” she replied, not looking up. “After the village, I patched myself up plenty. No one else left to do it.”

He nodded, understanding too well. “Meiqi taught me some. Said I’d get myself killed without it.”

Xiaoyu’s hands stilled, her eyes flicking to his. “She was right.”

A faint smile tugged at his lips, the first in days. “She usually was.”

She finished the binding, sitting back on her heels, and for a moment, they just looked at each other—two souls scarred by loss, their edges softened by the temple’s quiet. Xiaoyu reached out, hesitant, and brushed her fingers against the scar on his cheek, a jagged line from an old fight. The touch was light, electric, and Luochen froze, caught off guard.

“Yours has stories too,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

His breath hitched, Meiqi’s memory stirring, but Xiaoyu’s closeness held him there, a tether to the present. “Too many,” he said, and his hand moved—slow, uncertain—to cover hers. Her skin was rough, callused, yet warm, and the contact sent a shiver through him he couldn’t name.

She didn’t pull away, her gaze locked with his, and the air thickened, heavy with something unspoken. Then she leaned closer, her breath brushing his lips, and he met her halfway. Their kiss was tentative at first, a question asked in silence, then fiercer, a need born of shared pain and fleeting hope. His hands found her waist, hers tangled in his hair, and the world shrank to the press of their bodies, the temple’s dust and ruin fading away.

When they parted, breathless, Xiaoyu rested her forehead against his, her eyes closed. “This doesn’t change anything,” she whispered, a tremor in her voice.

“It doesn’t have to,” he said, though the lie tasted bitter. It changed everything—added weight to their pact, a thread of light in the dark.

She pulled back, standing abruptly, and busied herself with her pack, avoiding his gaze. Luochen let her retreat, the moment slipping into memory, and returned to his sword, the whetstone’s scrape a steady anchor. They settled into their corners, the silence different now—charged, fragile, but not broken.

Sleep came fitful, the temple’s cold seeping into their bones. Luochen drifted, Meiqi’s face blending with Xiaoyu’s in his dreams, until a sharp crack snapped him awake. He bolted upright, sword in hand, as Xiaoyu stirred, daggers drawn.

The temple door hung open, splintered, and Jianren stood in the threshold, his Bao Clan cloak stark against the dawn’s gray light. His short blade gleamed, his face a mask of regret and resolve. Behind him, shadows moved—soldiers, five or six, their armor clinking softly.

“Xiaoyu,” Jianren said, voice tight. “I didn’t want it to be like this.”

She rose, daggers trembling in her fists, her expression a storm of anguish and rage. “You tracked us,” she hissed. “For them.”

“I had no choice,” he said, stepping inside. “Bao Zheng knows you’re coming. He sent me to stop you—before you get to the Pass.”

Luochen stood, ignoring the flare in his leg, and leveled his sword at Jianren. “You picked the wrong side, boy.”

Jianren’s eyes flicked to him, then back to Xiaoyu. “Leave, sister. Please. They’ll kill you—both of you—if you keep going.”

“You chose them over me,” Xiaoyu said, her voice breaking. “Back at the camp, now here. You’re not my brother anymore.”

Jianren flinched, his blade lowering slightly. “I was a kid when they took me. They broke me, shaped me. But I never forgot you—I begged Zheng to spare you, to let you walk away.”

“And what about Tian?” Luochen cut in, stepping closer. “He killed my Meiqi. You’re shielding him too?”

Jianren’s jaw tightened. “Tian’s a dog on a leash. Zheng’s the one you want. But you won’t reach him—not through me.”

Xiaoyu lunged, daggers flashing, and Jianren parried, their blades clashing in a furious blur. Luochen moved to join her, but the soldiers rushed in—five men, armed with sabers and spears, their faces set with grim purpose. He met the first with a slash that cleaved through armor and bone, dropping him in a spray of blood. The second thrust a spear, and Luochen sidestepped, grabbing the shaft and pulling the man into his sword’s arc. Two down.

Xiaoyu and Jianren fought in tight quarters, her daggers weaving against his blade. She was faster, but he knew her moves—siblings turned enemies, their strikes a twisted mirror. “Stop this!” Jianren shouted, blocking a thrust. “I don’t want to hurt you!”

“Then leave!” she spat, slashing his arm. Blood welled, and he grunted, retreating a step.

Luochen felled a third soldier, his sword piercing the man’s chest, but the fourth caught him with a saber slash across the ribs. Pain flared, hot and sharp, and he staggered, parrying the next blow just as the fifth aimed a spear at his back. Xiaoyu broke from Jianren, hurling a dagger that took the spearman in the throat, and Luochen finished the saber-wielder with a thrust through the gut.

The temple floor ran red, the air thick with death. Jianren stood alone, bleeding, his blade raised but his eyes pleading. “Xiaoyu, please,” he gasped. “Walk away.”

She stared at him, tears cutting tracks through the dust on her face. “You chose them over me,” she said again, voice hollow. “I won’t forgive that.”

Jianren’s shoulders slumped, and he backed toward the door. “Then I’ll see you at the Pass,” he said, and fled into the dawn, leaving the bodies behind.

Xiaoyu dropped to her knees, daggers clattering, her breath ragged. Luochen sheathed his sword, clutching his side where blood seeped through his robe, and knelt beside her. “He’s gone,” he said, voice rough. “We’re still here.”

She nodded, wiping her eyes, and stood, retrieving her blades. “Yanshan Pass,” she said, the words a vow. “No more hesitation.”

Luochen gripped her shoulder, a silent promise, and they gathered their gear. The temple stood silent, its ashes heavier now, stained with blood and betrayal. They stepped into the light, the Pass a dark line ahead, Jianren’s shadow a wound that wouldn’t heal.