Rumors spread quickly in Xiangluan, carried by merchants’ tongues and whispered behind silk fans. By evening, the name of the general and the lotus girl had already found its way into the ears of those who lived for secrets.

Lian heard none of it. She sat by her father’s side, grinding herbs into powder and feeding him water mixed with bitter roots. His once sharp voice was now frail, and when he grasped her hand, it felt like holding smoke.

“Do not waste your life on me, child,” he rasped. “Your glow is not meant for shadows.”

Her throat tightened, but she said nothing. To argue would mean to break.

Outside, a storm gathered, thunder rumbling over the tiled roofs. And with it came footsteps—heavy, deliberate—stopping at their gate.

When she opened the door, she found him again. Ruo Jian, his robes damp from the rain, his eyes unreadable.

“Forgive my intrusion,” he said, bowing lightly, though generals bowed to no one. “But I could not forget the words you spoke this morning.”

Her heart pounded, the storm echoing inside her chest. She should have sent him away. She should have closed the door. Yet the glow in his eyes was different tonight—less disciplined, more human.

And she understood, in that dangerous instant, that the man before her was not simply a general of the empire. He was a flame barely contained. And if she let him near, her world would never be the same.