The morning after the lantern festival was softer, quieter. The streets of Xiangluan were littered with fading petals, scraps of red silk, and the ashes of paper lanterns that had burned out against the night sky.

Lian carried a basket of herbs through the market, her sleeves rolled delicately at the wrists. She walked quickly, hoping to return home before the summer sun grew too heavy. Her father’s health had been failing for months, and each day she found herself gathering remedies from healers who had long stopped believing he could recover.

She did not expect to see him again.

And yet, as she rounded the corner near the tea pavilion, she stopped short.

Ruo Jian stood there, in plain robes instead of his armor, though no cloth could disguise the sharpness of his bearing. Soldiers saluted him discreetly as they passed, but he waved them away. He did not want ceremony that day.

For a long, breathless moment, neither spoke. She lowered her gaze, but not before she saw the way his eyes lingered on her—not with arrogance, as other men did, but with something unspoken, something restrained.

“You were at the festival,” his voice was deep, steady.

Lian inclined her head. “So was the rest of the city.”

A flicker of amusement touched his mouth, but it faded quickly. “Your lantern—what did you wish for?”

Her fingers tightened on the basket handle. It was a question no stranger should ask. Wishes belonged to the heavens, not to men. Yet something about his tone made her answer before she could stop herself.

“For freedom,” she whispered. “For my father. For myself.”

Jian studied her, as if memorizing the tremble of her words. And in that silence, Lian realized: she had not been invisible last night. He had seen her—clearly, and dangerously so.