The halls of the Lin estate were quieter in the evenings, when the servants lit the lanterns and the snow outside dimmed the world into hushed silver. General Lin Yuan stood in his study, fingers idly tracing the carved wood of the scroll cabinet, though he hadn't read a word all night.
A low flame flickered in the brazier. Shadows moved across the wall, long and tired. Like him.
Behind him, the door remained closed. She would not come tonight. She hadn't in weeks.
Yueli.
He exhaled slowly. The name felt like silk wrapped around a blade. Too soft, too dangerous.
She had spoken back today—not rudely, not even angrily. But enough to shake something loose inside him. Enough to make him hesitate in the hall like a fool, unsure of what he should have said.
She had always been composed, sharp beneath the surface. He had noticed that from the first time they met. In her father's guest hall, she had sat with her hands folded neatly, speaking with precision and clarity as she commented on the shifting trade routes along the southern border. Her voice calm, her mind keen.
A woman who knew music, medicine, painting, and court politics—and wielded them all with grace.
At the time, he'd thought her clever. Admirable, even.
A perfect wife for a man with ambitions. For a household like the Lins, hungry for status cloaked in silk and poetry.
But he hadn't wanted a perfect wife. He had wanted Qingxue.
Still, when the proposal came, he had agreed. Out of duty. Out of weariness. Out of the quiet belief that perhaps love was not necessary—that peace was enough.
Yueli had smiled at him on their wedding day like someone who had finally arrived where she belonged. He had not known how to return it.
And yet—he remembered small things.
The way she touched a zither string when she thought no one was watching.
The scrolls she copied in the winter, her brushwork so fine it could shame the court calligrapher.
The way she sat beside him in silence on cold nights, never speaking unless he did—but always present, always near.
She had fallen in love with him. He had seen it, though he'd pretended not to.
And now… now he wasn't sure what remained.
She no longer looked at him the same way. She had grown quieter, but not in defeat. There was distance in her now. A dignity that did not bend.
He could feel her slipping away from him, and still, he said nothing.
Because if he spoke, he might say the wrong thing. Or worse—he might say something true.
The truth was, he had not forgotten Qingxue. But he no longer dreamed of her either. Not as often.
And sometimes, in the long hours between war councils and court summons, he would find himself looking toward the east wing, wondering if Yueli still played music when he wasn't there. If she still read policy scrolls by the candlelight, not for praise but for understanding.
If she was still the woman he hadn't dared to truly see.
A soft knock broke his thoughts.
"General," came his steward's voice, muffled through the door. "The Dowager requests your presence."
Yuan turned. "Tell her I will come shortly."
As the footsteps faded, he looked down at the scroll cabinet again—and saw it clearly now:
A medical text. The one Yueli had restored last winter when he returned from the northern front with frostbite in his hands. She hadn't spoken a word when she handed it to him. Just a salve, a wrapped cloth, and instructions written with delicate care.
She hadn't expected thanks.
And he hadn't given it.
His fingers hovered over the spine of the book but didn't open it.
Not tonight.