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Chapter Text

Hidden deep within a scroll of forgotten history is mention of a man whose name has nearly been lost to time: Shen Song, the Omega.

Small, frail, the only Omega in over six generations of his family.

No drums were beaten to announce his birth. No silk flags were hoisted in celebration. Astrologers whispered of ill omens, and his father, overcome with grief, declared the child cursed.

"My poor, unfortunate son."

Shen Song grew up shunned by his relatives, under the weight of superstition, his presence considered more of a burden than a blessing. He only found refuge in solitude and the silence of ink on parchment. His life a study in stillness, an existence ignored by the world.

When his father announced the marriage agreement, Shen Song received the news with little more than a low glance and a polite nod. His father spoke of it with pride, a renowned soldier, an alpha of strength and honor, a husband worthy of respect. Gratitude, perhaps even joy, was expected. But Shen Song simply accepted it, his voice soft, obedient, without protest, without a hint of excitement.

As the only omega in the family, he had never dared dream of love. Such things were not promised to him. Instead, he imagined a quiet existence, where he could be left with his scrolls and medicines, disappearing into his studies, undisturbed, unnoticed.

And yet, as the days passed, something troubled him. A restlessness, a whisper of curiosity he could not suppress. Who was this alpha his father deemed so worthy? To what kind of man would he be bound for life?

It was not in ceremony nor in formal introduction that Shen Song first glimpsed the alpha who would be bound to him. It was chance, a fleeting moment in the palace courtyard when he had accompanied his father to deliver medicines to the Ministry of War.

There, among rows of armored men, he saw him, General Huo Ying. Tall, broad-shouldered, his presence as sharp and unyielding as tempered steel. Sunlight struck the polished plates of his armor, but it was not the gleam of metal that unsettled Shen Song, it was the sheer gravity of the man himself.

Huo Ying did not laugh with his soldiers. He did not bow his head in idle chatter. He stood as if carved from stone, his silence commanding more than any shout could.

Shen Song lingered at the edge of the courtyard, hidden behind his father’s sleeve, yet his gaze could not pull away. He thought then, with a flutter in his chest he did not recognize: So this is the man my life has been given to?

That night, dreams came unbidden. In them, Huo Ying turned his gaze upon him, not cold, not distant, but warm, steady, the gaze of a protector. Shen Song dreamed of walking beneath banners beside him, dreamed of a hand, calloused and strong, resting gently against his own. In his sleep, he knew a love he had never dared imagine awake.

The days that followed were restless. Shen Song found himself at his desk, brush in hand, ink pooling like his thoughts. He wrote letters, careful, tentative, restrained. Words of courtesy, of respect, of small hopes. He asked after the general’s health in winter, whether his armor weighed heavy in the summer heat, whether the burdens of command left him sleepless.

None were love letters. An omega could not presume so far. But between the lines, every stroke of ink trembled with fear, the fragile wish that his existence might be seen, acknowledged, if only once.

He sent them quietly, through servants, through trusted hands. And as quietly, they vanished. No replies ever came.

Still, each night he sat again before his desk, candle burning low, inkstone cooling in the silence, and wrote anew.

The bridal hall was filled with golden brocades and fragrant smoke, but Shen Song felt the silence more than the music. He stood beside Huo Ying, dressed in crimson silk embroidered with dragons, his omega form delicate under the weight of the moment.

When the veils were lifted, when the final bows were performed, he saw again the man he had dreamed of, General Huo Ying, stern and proud, his gaze cast not upon Shen Song but beyond, as if the rites were mere military drill.

A room had been prepared for him, rich in silks and candles, the red of marriage laid out like a theater’s stage. Yet when the doors closed, Shen Song found himself alone. Huo Ying did not come.

In the days that followed, Shen Song tried, in his small way, to belong. He laid out herbs to ward off illness, stitched silk sachets of chrysanthemum and angelica to hang in the corners of the house. He pressed a gentle hand against the armor Huo Ying left behind, tracing the dents and scratches as though they were stories he was not allowed to hear.

But Huo Ying rarely returned. And when he did, he walked past Shen Song as one walks past a shadow, acknowledged, perhaps, but never truly seen. His words were brief, polite, a general addressing not a spouse, but a duty.

Shen Song would turn his face into the pillow, inhaling the faint fragrance of camellia oil from his hair, and pretend to sleep. 

No hand sought his, no voice whispered his name, no warmth reached across the emptiness. He was dressed in red silk, the color of joy and fire, yet he felt himself fading like a shadow cast by dying candles.

At times he would glance at Huo Ying’s broad shoulders, at the rigid line of his spine, and wonder if stones could feel more compassion. He longed for the simplest gestures, a shared glance, a question of comfort, but none came.

It was not rejection, not even disdain, that cut deepest. It was indifference.

To be unloved is sorrow. But to be unseen, as though one does not exist at all, that is a kind of death.

Night after night, he lay in silence, listening to the emptiness stretch between them like an unbridgeable chasm. 

And as the moon spilled silver across the empty bed beside him, Shen Song realized that he had married to the silence.

Chapter Text

The invitation came on an early spring morning, when the plum blossoms had just begun to scatter like drifting snow across the palace courtyards. Shen Song was summoned to the residence of Prince Xiao Shu He, the emperor’s sixth brother, who had been his childhood companion before fate scattered their lives onto separate paths.

When Shen Song entered the prince’s hall, carrying himself with quiet grace, Xiao Shu He at first saw only the same gentle friend he had once known: slender, refined, his voice soft. But as they spoke, Xiao Shu He began to notice what others overlooked.

It was in the faint hollows beneath Shen Song’s eyes, in the way his laughter never reached its depths, in the subtle stillness when conversation faltered.

The prince set aside his wine cup and studied him carefully.

“You speak of duty with such ease… but why do your words carry sorrow, as though they bleed with every syllable?”

Shen Song smiled, the way he always did when he wished to veil his heart.

"I am blessed beyond measure, Shu He. A roof over my head, a husband of high esteem, and peace in my household, what more could one ask for?”

But Xiao Shu He had known him since boyhood. He remembered the Shen Song who would gaze at the moonlit river and whisper dreams of a love as vast as the heavens. He could see now how those dreams had been quietly extinguished.

The silence between them grew heavy. Finally, Shen Song lowered his gaze, his fingers tightening around the rim of his cup.

“Tell me, Shu He… do you think a man can vanish while still breathing? Can he live each day as though walking through mist, unseen even by the one standing beside him?”

For a moment, Xiao Shu He had no answer. His chest tightened, for his friend, for the fragility of that smile, for the loneliness that clung to him like a second skin.

He reached across the table, resting a hand lightly atop Shen Song’s.

“You are not invisible to me.” Shu He’s throat tightened. He looked at Shen Song’s delicate hands resting in his lap, at the faint weariness that clung to his smile. "You are too gentle for such loneliness. If the world refuses to speak to you, then let me listen. If it turns its gaze away, then let mine remain, Shen Song.”

Shen Song did not answer at once. Instead, he turned toward the garden, where the first fireflies had begun to rise in the dusk. 

It was in one of these visits that Shen Song heard the courtiers saying:

"Huo Ying's devotion to his majesty ... is beyond loyalty. Some say that his heart belongs totally to the emperor."

There was no need for further explanation, Shen Song understood now, he was just an intruder in someone else's love story.

Over time, the silence of marriage led Shen Song to delve deeper again into medical studies. Since childhood, he had learned the secrets of roots and minerals, the careful balance of poisons and antidotes, the delicate pathways of qi that flow through the body.

Now, in the long hours when his alpha was absent, he returned to these lessons.

By candlelight, Shen Song ground herbs into fine powders, brewed potions that could calm fevers or soothe a restless heart, and practiced the art of acupuncture on his own pale wrists until he knew each meridian as intimately as his own breath.

At first, it was simply a way to fill the empty days. But soon it became a necessity to stay sane.

For his heats, once gentle and discreet, had become sharp and relentless. Neglect had transformed them into something cruel, a fire that burned his blood, leaving him writhing in pain, without the presence of an alpha to soothe him. Alone in his room, he endured the torment with clenched teeth and trembling hands, not allowing a scream to escape the closed doors.

He turned to medicine as a shield. Certain herbs dulled the pain, certain needles redirected the raging currents of desire into a controllable stillness. He learned to master his body with a discipline as severe as any soldier's training.

Yet, though the medicines dulled the fire, they could not touch the deepest wound, the full awareness that his suffering stemmed not only from fate, but from his alpha's lack of care.

Still, Shen Song endured gracefully. To the world, he was a gentle figure who dispensed healing to serfs and villagers with skilled hands and a kind heart. Mothers brought him their children, soldiers sought him out to treat their wounds, and word of his quiet expertise spread.

At night, when the flames of heat returned, he would sit alone with his needles and bitter draughts, whispering to himself:

"If I cannot be loved, then at least I will be useful."

And so his life became a paradox, a healer for all, invisible to the one whose single touch could have eased his torment.

Chapter Text

No one whispered about Huo Ying and the emperor anymore, it was a secret in plain sight.

Wherever the emperor went, Huo Ying followed, silent as a shadow. When His Majesty rose to address his ministers, Huo Ying was already at his side, sword at his waist, gaze lowered in perfect deference. When the emperor laughed, Huo Ying's stern face softened instantly, as if the light itself had broken through the clouds.

And when the emperor retired to his quarters, the general followed without hesitation.

It wasn't subtle. It wasn't meant to be. To those watching, it was as if the general existed only to serve and worship his sovereign.

The courtiers laughed or sighed, but none dared to censure. After all, love is not forbidden to an emperor.

Only Shen Song, waiting at home, felt the full cruelty of it.

Every night, he sat with the tea cooling, the candles burning dimly, waiting for footsteps that never came. In the morning, the servants would report that the alpha had not returned that night.

When Huo Ying finally did, his words were brief, just the usual politeness, and nothing more.

Shen Song lowered his eyes, hiding the pain that burned like fire beneath his ribs. His husband's heart did not belong to him.

The general did not hate him. He did not despise or attack him. He simply treated him as if he were a decorative thing, necessary, yet invisible.

So Shen Song learned to smile serenely during the day, to heal others with steady hands, to walk gracefully through the corridors that echoed his loneliness. But when night fell and the bed was empty, he would put his hand to his chest and cry.

The grand audience hall shimmered with light, golden dragons curling around the red pillars, vermilion banners stirring in the breeze that drifted through the open doors. Ministers lined the sides, heads bowed, while the Son of Heaven sat enthroned above them all, serene as jade, sharp as tempered steel.

Shen Song stood among the gathered relatives and attendants, his figure cloaked in plain white silks that paled beside the jeweled brilliance of others. His presence was quiet, as it always was, meant to pass unnoticed.

But that day, the emperor’s gaze found him.

“So this is the famed Shen Song,” he said, his voice carrying easily across the vast hall. “The village healer, the gatherer of herbs? An omega who spends his days grinding weeds and piercing flesh with needles. Tell me, is this what passes for virtue?”

His eyes narrowed. “You look pale to me. Are you ill, Shen Song? Or perhaps your medicines serve no one, not even yourself?”

A ripple of laughter spread among the courtiers, eager to echo their sovereign’s disdain.

Shen Song’s throat tightened. He lowered himself into a deep bow, pressing his sleeves close to his face to steady his trembling. “This unworthy one begs Your Majesty’s pardon if his humble skills displease.”

The emperor’s expression chilled further. “Be wary. Charlatans and sorcerers poison more than the body, omega. Guard your hands.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

When Shen Song rose, his lashes veiled the faint gleam of humiliation in his eyes. Instinctively, his hand brushed toward the figure who should have been his shield, his anchor, his alpha, his husband.

Huo Ying stood rigid beside the throne, armor gleaming, posture unyielding. His gaze never wavered from the emperor. When Shen Song’s trembling fingers brushed his arm, Huo Ying shifted, subtle but deliberate, shaking him off as though even that fleeting touch were an offense.

The rejection cut deeper than any insult. Shen Song drew back at once, clasping his hands within his sleeves to hide their tremor, his chest hollowing with the weight of it. The courtiers’ laughter still rang in his ears, but it was not the emperor’s words that would haunt him, it was that cold dismissal, the silent refusal of the man bound to him.

He bowed again, lower than before, until his knees throbbed against the unyielding stone.

When court was dismissed and the hall emptied, he lingered, gathering the tatters of his dignity before turning to leave. Alone.

The emperor was beyond opposition, no one could stand against him. But in that moment Shen Song realized he had lost more than just the Son of Heaven’s favor. He had lost even the right to lean, for a heartbeat, on his husband’s arm.

Huo Ying lingered at the threshold of the great hall, his armor catching the last rays of light through the high windows. Another general stood beside him, murmuring clipped reports of deployments and provisions. His tone was even, detached, nothing in it betrayed that only moments ago, his omega had been humiliated before the eyes of the entire court.

Shen Song slowed as he approached. His steps were soft, hesitant, each one driven by the smallest hope, that a glance, a word, a gesture might anchor him, remind him he was not entirely alone in his shame.

Their eyes met.

Huo Ying’s expression carved from iron, cold, disciplined, the mask of a soldier who belonged to duty. Not a husband’s gaze. Not a protector’s. Not his.

Shen Song’s lips parted, but no sound came. He inclined his head, a gesture stripped of life, and moved on.

Beyond the hall, the palace gardens glowed with the amber of late sun. Children chased each other between clusters of peonies, their laughter bright, careless, wounding. Shen Song paused, breath unsteady. He pressed a hand to his forehead, the world shifting faintly, then turned toward the quieter path leading to the outer gate.

At home, Shen Song retreated into his study, sliding the doors closed. The dimness embraced him at once, a mercy that hid the burn behind his eyes. He stood a long moment, until his knees threatened to give, then sank into the floor. His hands rested on the desk, trembling, as though even the polished wood beneath them might slip away.

When Huo Ying entered later, the air shifted, thick with the weight of silence. He stood by the doorway, his tall frame casting a shadow that stretched across the floor, long and heavy, cutting the room in two.

“You should not have bowed so low,” Huo Ying said at last. His voice was even, flat, carrying no warmth. “It made you appear weaker before them.”

Shen Song gave a hollow, broken laugh. “What strength do I have to show, Huo Ying? What power do I possess?”

Huo Ying’s jaw clenched, his silence sharper than any word.

Shen Song leaned forward, his knuckles pressed white against the desk, eyes fixed on the man who would not look at him.

The silence stretched, thick, suffocating.

At last, Huo Ying’s voice came, low, harsh, brittle as steel strained to breaking.

“Don't bow so low next time, Shen Song.”

Chapter Text

Spring lingered over the palace gardens, scattering petals across winding paths, filling the air with the scent of magnolias. Shen Song often accompanied Xiao Shu He during these months, finding in his friend’s quiet company the only reprieve from the emptiness of his home.

Shen Song became, unwillingly, a keeper of secrets.

At first, it was only small things. Duan Zi Ang would speak to Xiao Shu He with polite ease, and Shen Song would catch the faint curve of Shu He’s lips, the quiet warmth in his eyes, as if the world itself had stilled to make room for that one voice.

Then came subtler signs: a brush of sleeves in a narrow corridor, a glance held a moment too long, words carefully measured but weighted with feeling. Shen Song, who lived in silence, knew how to see what others overlooked. Beneath the calm, he sensed something deeper, affection wrapped in restraint, devotion hidden in the shadows.

One evening in the garden, Shen Song watched as Shu He and Zi Ang played weiqi. When Zi Ang’s hand reached across the board and his fingers brushed Shu He’s, the touch was fleeting and secret, yet it lingered in Shen Song’s mind like a soft echo, engraved in his memory, reaching him like a lullaby.

So this is love? Shen Song thought. Soft, delicate, deep, secret. A flame that hides its light, but still warms those it touches.

He swallowed against the ache in his chest, for in his own home, there was nothing of the kind.

When he returned to his chambers, Huo Ying had not a glance, not a word for the omega bound to him by marriage.

Shen Song bowed when required, silent as stone, his gaze lowered. But inside he was drowning.

He had become a man surrounded by love, Shu He’s tender secret, Zi Ang’s delicate devotion, Huo Ying’s reckless worship of the emperor, and yet he himself remained untouched, unseen, unchosen.

Even so, Shen Song smiled when others looked upon him, poured medicines into bowls, laid his hands upon the sick and weary. But at night, alone, he pressed a palm to his chest as though to keep his breaking heart from spilling out.

The road stretched endlessly, the wheels of the carriage groaning over stones, the horses’ hooves striking the earth with weary rhythm. Inside, Shen Song sat with his hands folded neatly in his lap, eyes lowered. Beside him, Huo Ying’s broad frame filled the opposite seat, his gaze fixed outside the curtained window, silent as if the journey itself were an affront.

Shen Song dared not break that silence. He knew his husband’s irritation well, the tightening of his jaw, the faint crease in his brow. Any words would be wasted. So he turned his face slightly toward the swaying curtain and pretended to admire the distant hills, lips pressed too tightly together, his tiny eyes already rimmed with fatigue.

By the time they reached his family estate, dusk had softened the gardens into shadow. Lanterns glowed warmly along the eaves, and his mother hurried to receive them, her joy spilling over in gestures and words.

“Song-er, my poor child, you grow thinner with every season,” she said, smoothing his sleeves as though he were still a boy. Then her gaze shifted to Huo Ying, bowing low. “General, our house is honored by your presence.”

Huo Ying inclined his head. “It is no trouble.”

At dinner, the table gleamed with lacquered dishes, the air thick with steam and fragrance. Shen Song’s father presided with grave dignity, his mother fluttering with pride, pouring wine with her own hands for her son-in-law.

It was midway through the meal when the question came, casual in tone, devastating in weight.

“Tell me,” his father said, setting down his cup, “when may we expect a grandson?”

The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut. Shen Song’s fingers stiffened around his chopsticks. Huo Ying, without so much as a glance toward him, replied evenly:

“The matter has not been discussed.”

His mother laughed softly, waving her hand as though to lighten the tension. “Ah, newlyweds always take time. But an omega’s duty is to bear fruit, Song-er. We long to see you with child.”

Her hand, warm and insistent, reached across the table to rest upon her son’s abdomen. Shen Song recoiled before he could stop himself, his knees scraping faintly against the floor. The gesture was small, almost imperceptible, but in that silence, it roared.

“I...” Shen Song began, but the words tangled in his throat. He forced a smile instead, lowering his gaze to the untouched rice in his bowl. How could anyone hide the pain and frustration of a marriage that hadn't even been consummated yet?

Huo Ying set his cup down with a muted thud, a wall erected to deflect embarrassment, his own, not Shen Song’s.

“Enough. Such matters are not for the dining table.” His father coughed, stiffly. His mother withdrew her hand, murmuring apologies. Conversation resumed, stilted, broken.

Shen Song ate nothing more. He moved food about his plate, until the meal ended and they rose from the table.

Later, when the household retired and the lamps burned low, he sat alone in the guest chamber, his hand pressed lightly to his belly where his mother had touched. His lips curved in a faint smile that was not a smile at all.

Chapter Text

The Shen household overflowed with laughter that evening. Lanterns swayed in the breeze, the sound of children’s footsteps echoed through the courtyards, and the table brimmed with delicacies. To any guest, it was the picture of prosperity, harmony, filial piety.

Shen Song's younger sister leaned against her husband, their son tugging playfully at her sleeve. His elder brother lifted his infant daughter high into the air, the child’s laughter ringing pure and bright. Everywhere he looked, Shen Song saw wholeness, warmth, the easy intimacy of touch, things he had never once known in his marriage.

He forced a smile as his mother poured him wine.

When the night grew late, and the family dispersed, Shen Song lingered by the empty corridor, watching shadows stretch across the floor. From there he could still hear laughter, the laughter of siblings embraced, of children cherished.

He pressed a hand lightly to his lips, whispering to no one:

"It is enough that he treats you with courtesy, Shen Song." Courtesy. The word tasted like ashes in his lips.

Behind him, Huo Ying’s footsteps sounded, firm and unhurried. Shen Song turned, hopeful for a moment, only to see the same hard eyes, the same unyielding composure.

Huo Ying brushed past him with nothing more than a curt nod.

 “It grows late. Rest.”

And then he was gone, leaving Shen Song alone once more, surrounded by the distant echoes of a happiness he could never grasp.

The fever came like fire through Shen Song’s veins.

He had been speaking quietly with his younger sister when his words faltered, his hand trembling around a teacup. At first he thought it was simple exhaustion from travel, but the ache grew hotter, deeper,  that turned his skin damp with sweat. His breath caught, his body betrayed him in the worst possible way.

He excused himself quickly, retreating to the guest chamber. Once inside, he collapsed upon the bed, pressing his fists against his mouth to stifle the small, strangled sounds that escaped. He knew what it was, heat, violent and ill-timed, no longer the manageable cycle he once contained with herbs and needles.

Not here. Not in this house. Please, not now.

But fate was merciless with Shen Song.

Servants whispered, family members exchanged alarmed looks. Before long, the rumor spread through the halls like fire: the young master’s heat had come upon him suddenly, fiercely.

Someone ran to the stables, where Huo Ying was discussing horse-breeding with Shen Song’s father. “General,” the servant stammered, bowing low, “forgive me, but… the young master... he… he requires you.”

The older man turned sharply toward his son-in-law, eyes stern. “What are you waiting for? He is your omega!”

Huo Ying’s jaw tightened, his expression unreadable. For a short moment, he said nothing. Then, with a cold bow, he excused himself and strode toward the inner chambers.

When the door slid open, Shen Song turned his face toward the sound. Through blurred vision, he saw his alpha framed in the doorway, armor removed, but posture as rigid as ever. Relief and dread crashed together in his chest.

“Huo Ying…” His voice cracked due to the throat parched.

The alpha’s gaze flicked over him, over the flushed cheeks, the sheen of sweat, the body curled yet restless against the sheets, hands clutching at the fabric as though to keep himself from reaching out.

Instinct, fierce and humiliating, had already overwhelmed Shen Song. His legs were spread wide, trembling with need.

Disgust passed, quick and sharp, across Huo Ying’s face.

“Danmed,” he muttered, almost too low to hear.

Shen Song’s heart clenched. He turned his face away, wishing for death rather than this. Yet his body betrayed him still, heat making every nerve raw, every breath a plea for touch. Tears stung his eyes.

“I did not call for you,” he whispered, his voice thin. “Please… just leave me be.”

But outside the door, footsteps stirred, his mother’s voice, anxious, insistent: “He is suffering, he needs you!”

Trapped by duty, by appearances, and by the weight of expectation, Huo Ying stepped further into the room. His expression remained carved from stone, but his presence was felt, the very air bending to his alpha scent.

Shen Song curled into himself as best he could, ashamed of his own trembling, ashamed of the way his body yearned toward the man who would never love him.

The air was thick with pheromones, sharp and cloying, filling the chamber like smoke that suffocated rather than warmed. Shen Song’s fevered body quivered beneath the instinct, every nerve alight, every breath a plea he could not swallow back.

Huo Ying’s presence was not gentle, not chosen, but inevitable. Their scents clashed and tangled, until thought itself dissolved into the haze of heat. Shen Song’s skin grew slick with sweat, his hair clinging damply to his brow as his body, untried and trembling, was opened to pain and surrender.

There was no kiss. No whispered comfort. Only the relentless rhythm of duty and desire twisted into one.

The first tear came sharp, searing; he bit his lip to keep from crying out, tasting blood upon his tongue. Virginity, fragile and delicate, broke within him, leaving behind its crimson trace upon the white silk sheets.

"Hurts... be gentle... Alpha.." But the gentleness never came. The sharp burn coursed through him, the proof of lost innocence. He bit down hard, stifling a scream, but a thin sound still escaped his throat, fragile as glass. "It hurts... ah..."

Round after round, the struggle gave way to inevitability. Shen Song’s body softened, his resistance unraveling into instinctive surrender. His hands, once clenched in defiance, loosened to clutch the sheets, then his own arms, as if to hold himself together. The bed grew stained with blood and sweat, the silent witness of his pain.

Huo Ying’s face never softened. His eyes never lingered with affection. His mouth never sought Shen Song’s lips. He took, and took again, fulfilling an obligation, as though mastering a battlefield.

For Shen Song, the humiliation was almost greater than the pain.

"This is what it means to be his mate?", he thought, staring at the canopy above, vision blurred. Not loved, not cherished, only claimed. His body bears the taste of Huo Ying, but his heart remains untouched, unwanted.

And as the night deepened, as the sheets grew dirtier with the marks of their union, Shen Song closed his eyes against tears he would not let fall, telling himself the bitter truth:

"He doesn't love me. He never will."

Dawn crept pale through the lattice windows, washing the chamber in  golden light. Shen Song stirred, though every movement felt like fire in his bones. His thighs trembled when he shifted, and the sheets beneath him were stiff with dried blood and fluids. He winced, biting back a sound, ashamed.

The bed curtains parted slightly. His mother’s voice was soft, careful, yet threaded with unease.

“Song-er… you wake up, son.”

Behind her hovered two servants, their eyes lowered, though curiosity flickered in their stolen glances at the disheveled bed, the stains upon the silk. They exchanged looks, whispers unspoken but almost audible: Had the union truly waited until now? Or was the general always so merciless like that?

Shen Song turned his face into the pillow, wishing to disappear. His lips felt cracked, his body sore in ways he could not name aloud.

“Was it… always thus, my child?”

Shen Song forced a small, brittle smile, though his voice was raw.

“Do not trouble yourself, Mom. Huo Yin's… diligent in all things.”

The words felt like knives against his tongue. “Diligent” as if his body had been nothing but another campaign to conquer.

The servants exchanged another look, one lowering her gaze quickly, as though ashamed for him. His mother reached to touch his hair, smoothing it back with trembling fingers.

When she withdrew, and the servants gathered the stained sheets with careful hands, Shen Song closed his eyes again. He felt exposed, humiliated, his body no longer his own but proof on display, crimson blossoms upon white silk, evidence of a duty, at last, fulfilled.

So this is what it is about? He thought bitterly. Not my happiness, not my heart. Only blood on the sheets, and silence in my throat.

In the courtyard outside, children’s laughter rang again, bright as bells. Shen Song pressed his hand to his chest, feeling the emptiness there grow wider, deeper, like a wound that would never close.

Chapter Text

All day, the room had been quiet but for the shuffle of servants, the soft clatter of bowls. Shen Song endured it in silence, keeping his eyes lowered, ashamed of his soreness, of the bruises on his skin that even ointment could not hide. He ate when food was pressed upon him, drank when urged, but he asked nothing. Not once did he speak his husband’s name.

Better to remain invisible than to hope.

By afternoon, the fever weighed heavy on his body. He drifted in and out of shallow sleep, waking each time to the ache that curled like fire in his bones. He was almost certain the murmurs outside his door were not for him at all, but for the shame his condition had cast upon the household.

So when the door slid open and Huo Ying stepped inside, Shen Song thought at first it was only another fever dream.

The alpha set down a tray with careful hands. Steam curled from bowls of broth and rice.

“Sit up,” Huo Ying said, his voice gentler than Shen Song had ever heard it. “Eat while it is hot, Shen Song.”

For a long moment, Shen Song only stared, his tiny eyes wide-eyed, his breath caught in his throat. His lips parted, but no words came. He forced his body upright slowly, each movement sharp with pain, while Huo Ying poured a cup of tea and placed it within reach.

The general’s eyes swept over him, not cold, not scornful, only quiet, unreadable.

“Are you in pain?” he asked at last. “Shall I call for more medicine? Or have you enough?”

Shen Song swallowed, his throat dry. “I… I am well enough.”

A faint crease touched Huo Ying’s brow, though he said nothing. He set the chopsticks in Shen Song’s hand, closing his fingers around them as if ensuring he would not refuse.

“Eat,” he murmured. “When you are stronger, we will depart. There is no need to linger here longer than you wish. Rest until you can travel.”

His voice was steady, almost kind, too kind. It pierced Shen Song more cruelly than silence.

Was this real? Or was his fever conjuring illusions of tenderness to soothe him? Was it pity? Was it duty? Was it some fleeting kindness meant only to silence gossip in the halls?

Shen Song lowered his eyes, afraid of what he might see if he searched his husband’s face too closely. His hands trembled faintly as he lifted the bowl.

“Thank you,” he whispered, though the words tasted strange, fragile as glass on his tongue.

And when Huo Ying turned away to adjust the window lattice, Shen Song let his lashes fall shut, half-convinced that if he opened them again, the tray would be gone, the bowls vanished, and the silence of neglect returned as it always had been.

The next morning dawned clear, the courtyard awash in pale sunlight. Shen Song, still weak but restless, rose from his bed and wrapped himself in a his clothes. His steps were slow, careful, the stones beneath his feet felt cold, grounding him as he crossed the garden path lined with flowers his mother had tended for years.

The air smelled faintly of earth and dew, he let himself breathe freely.

Then he heard the sound of boots against stone. Before he could retreat, a familiar shadow fell across his own.

“Shen Song.”

Shen Song turned. Huo Ying was there, not armored nor distant, but strangely at ease. He stepped closer, and to Shen Song’s surprise, he offered his arm. For a moment, Shen Song could only blink, frozen. Then, hesitantly, he took it. 

Huo Ying’s voice was quiet, almost contemplative. “This courtyard… I can see why your mother tends it so carefully. The flowers soften even the sternness of stone.”

Shen Song glanced at him, startled by his voice peaceful cadence.

“I am an orphan,” Huo Ying continued. “I never knew my mother. But sometimes, when I see flowers, I imagine she must have loved them. Gentle things, bright things. That is how I picture her, Shen Song.”

For the first time in two years, Shen Song felt as though he were speaking to a stranger wearing his husband’s face.

Huo Ying turned slightly, his eyes resting on a cluster of chrysanthemums blooming pale gold against the wall. “Which flower is your favorite?”

Shen Song’s voice was soft. “Chrysanthemums.”

The general’s lips curved, not in mockery, but in recognition, as though he had already known. “I thought so.” He paused, then added, “There is a legend… that chrysanthemums were once medicine, brought down from the mountains to heal an emperor. They are said to carry endurance within them, the strength to outlast frost, to remain when other blooms have withered.”

Shen Song stopped in his tracks, breath caught in his throat. He looked up at Huo Ying, but the man’s gaze was fixed upon the flowers, not upon him.

Still, those words lodged deep in his heart. Endurance. Survival. A flower that outlasts frost. Was it truly Huo Ying who spoke them? Could this man, whose coldness had been his only companion, also hold such gentleness, such unexpected sweetness?

He held onto Huo Ying’s arm more firmly, as if afraid that when he let go, this newfound softness would vanish like a dream.

Chapter Text

The night air carried the faint scent of earth and flowers as Shen Song stepped out of the courtyard again, guided lightly by Huo Ying’s steady hand at his waist. Each step still brought a pang of soreness, but Huo Ying’s presence was grounding him in a way that made the world seem less heavy.

“Eat a little more,” Huo Ying urged gently, offering a small rice ball from the basket they carried. His voice was soft, patient, almost coaxing, not the sharp, commanding tone Shen Song had grown used to at home.

Shen Song hesitated, but the warmth in Huo Ying’s hand, resting against the small of his back, encouraged him to try. He took the food, tasting it slowly, noticing the faint smile tugging at his husband’s lips.

As they walked, villagers greeted them politely, some bowing, some nodding, and Huo Ying responded with warmth that felt effortless. Shen Song realized, with a pang, that he had never truly seen this man. Not the alpha at court, not the distant husband at home, but this Huo Ying: gentle, smiling, attentive, present.

“Carefully, Shen Song.” Huo Ying said lightly as they walked through the village near Shen Song’s parents’ estate. “Lean on me if you need to.”

Shen Song dared to glance at Huo Ying’s face and found a small, genuine smile curving the corners of his lips.

“Do you like this village, Shen Song?” Huo Ying asked, his hand still resting lightly on hin waist, protective. “I imagined it once, years ago, from your letters and descriptions… but it’s better than I imagined.”

“My letters?” Shen Song repeated, his voice barely a whisper, as if speaking louder would shatter the fragile bubble of disbelief surrounding him.

Huo Ying’s hand tightened slightly at his waist, steadying him. “Yes,” he said simply, without hesitation. “I have read them.”

This was the first time Huo Ying had mentioned it. Shen Song convinced himself he had never received them, that hurt less than being ignored. Now he knows the alpha has read them.

He turned his gaze to the alpha’s face, searching for judgment, for scorn, for indifference, but found only the gentleness that had been guiding him along the path. That small, genuine smile lingered at the corners of Huo Ying’s lips, and his eyes, so rarely soft, met Shen Song’s without accusation.

Shen Song felt the fragile threads of his composure unravel. His chest ached in a mixture of disbelief and shame. The letters he had written out of loneliness and hope, the ones he had sent into silence, had not vanished into nothing. They had reached the man who held him now, walking beside him, protective, attentive, smiling.

He swallowed hard, words failing him. “You… you read all of them?”

“Yes,” Huo Ying repeated, calm and steady. “I know everything you wrote. All the thoughts you wished to share. All the little things you believed no one would ever know, Shen Song.”

Huo Ying’s tone was uncharacteristically calm, almost playful.

“Are you surprised I read them? Isn’t that why you sent them? So I could read them and learn more about you?”

Shen Song’s lips parted, his tiny eyes widening. “Yes, but… I didn’t think...” He stopped, lowering his gaze, fingers curling at his sleeves. “Forget it. I talk too much. Shu He always says I’m inappropriate.”

Huo Ying’s hand at his waist pressed lightly, steadying him.

“I like the way you write, Shen Song.”

The omega’s breath caught. “Really?” His voice was almost childlike in its disbelief.

“Yes,” Huo Ying said simply, without hesitation. His eyes were steady, as though truth itself resided there. “I didn’t know how to answer them. I wasn’t sure my limited knowledge was up to your standard.”

Shen Song shook his head quickly, eyes flickering up in a rush of emotion. “Don’t say that.”

“I’m being honest,” Huo Ying replied. His lips curved into the faintest smile, softer than Shen Song had ever seen. “If I tried to write, you certainly wouldn’t understand me.”

Shen Song blinked, taken aback. Was this humor? A jest from the man who had so often seemed carved from ice? His heart fluttered with a confusing warmth, and before he could gather a reply, a passing villager bowed in greeting, speaking cheerfully of the approaching Lantern Festival.

“The festival?” Shen Song repeated faintly, as though surfacing from a dream.

Huo Ying turned to him immediately, without the usual hesitation. “Do you want to stay for it?” His voice carried an eagerness Shen Song had never once heard directed at him. “We could wait. See the lanterns together.”

The suggestion struck Shen Song like a bell, resonating in the hollow of his chest. To see lanterns together, such a simple, ordinary thing for a pair bounded. And yet for him, it felt like the promise of a whole new world, one he had long stopped believing in.

He lowered his gaze, afraid to show too much hope, and whispered: “If… if you wish it, Huo Ying.”

Huo Ying’s hand at his waist lingered, firm and protective. “I do.”

And for the first time, Shen Song dared to believe him.

Chapter Text

 Lanterns floated into the heavens like drifting stars, carrying wishes to the gods, while couples walked side by side beneath the glowing displays, believing that to watch the lanterns together was to bind their fates more tightly, to invite harmony into their union.

For Shen Song, it was more than tradition. It was the first time he stood with his alpha in a crowd, not as two distant figures bound by duty, but as something resembling companions. The village paths were alive with color and laughter, the air heavy with the fragrance of roasted chestnuts and sweet cakes, the night sky painted with silk lanterns of crimson and gold.

Huo Ying remained close, his hand steadying Shen Song’s waist whenever the crowd pressed too tightly. When the music swelled, he leaned down, his voice quiet, so only Shen Song could hear:

“Which one do you like? I’ll take you to see it.”

Shen Song pointed to a chrysanthemum-shaped lantern, its golden petals glowing like a sun suspended above the earth. For a moment, he saw nothing of the cold soldier, the emperor’s hound. He saw instead a man with a softened gaze, a faint smile, a fleeting gentleness that had the power to undo years of neglect.

It was their farewell to his parents' house, a memory Shen Song held tightly as they departed the next day. Even with the lingering ache in his body, he carried the sweetness of that night like a hidden treasure. Huo Ying had helped him into the carriage with unusual care and softly promised they would be home early that night so he could rest. Shen Song believed him.

But promises, he learned, were as fragile as lantern light.

The next morning, Huo Ying returned from the emperor's chambers transformed, his kindness dissipated as if it had never been. The warmth that had guided Shen Song through the night was gone, replaced by the familiar indifference. His words were harsh, his eyes unyielding, and when Shen Song, tender and hopeful, reached out to him, he recoiled.

"Do you think I don't see right through you?" Huo Ying's voice sounded cold and sharp, echoing in the empty room. "That heat of yours... wasn't it perfectly timed, Shen Song? Didn't you summon it to trap me and force me to do my duty? To force what shouldn't have happened?"

Shen Song froze, the blood draining from his face. His lips parted, but no words came out.

Huo Ying's gaze hardened. "You mistake me for a fool, Shen Song. You seduce me with suffering, trap me with pity, as if your body were a trap."

The accusations fell heavier than any blow. Shen Song, who had never asked for more than a glance, who had endured two years of silence and loneliness, now stood accused of treachery within his own marriage.

That night, lanterns still floated in the sky somewhere beyond the palace walls, but Shen Song knew he would never see them again with the same hope. What had seemed the fragile beginning of warmth was nothing but an illusion, shattered by dawn.

Whatever fleeting gentleness Shen Song had glimpsed was buried beneath layers of ice, sealed away so thoroughly it was hard to believe it had ever existed.

Huo Ying avoided him at all costs, absent in body, absent in spirit. When duty did not call him to the palace, he lingered there anyway, a constant shadow behind the emperor, ever the loyal dog who would gladly give his life for a single command.

At home, silence reigned. When Shen Song approached, Huo Ying turned away, when he spoke, Huo Ying answered curtly, if at all. There were no more careful hands guiding him through a crowd, no smiles hidden in quiet moments. The man who had once lifted him gently into a carriage now passed him in the halls as if he were no more than a stranger.

Shen Song did not weep. Instead, he folded the fragments of his heart into stillness, returning to the life he had known before hope had deceived him. His days were filled with herbs and scrolls, medicines and poisons, the quiet rhythm of healing those who sought his skill. Acupuncture needles lined his desk like soldiers, each one a reminder that his body could be useful even if his soul was disregarded.

When loneliness threatened to consume him, he sought Shu He. With the emperor’s sixth brother, he could breathe freely, unburdened by accusation or suspicion. 

Shu He would sometimes smile at him knowingly, as though aware of the ache buried behind Shen Song’s composed expression. Shen Song, in turn, offered only gentle words and quiet companionship. He was both comforter and observer, tending Shu He’s anxieties with tea or counsel, while hiding his own despair in silence.

It was enough, at least for now. To watch another’s love blossom, even if his own marriage rotted in neglect, was to remind himself that tenderness still existed in the world. It simply did not belong to him.

And so, day by day, he shrank into the quiet dignity of survival,  a healer of others, a witness to beauty not his own, a forgotten omega whose heart was both his burden and his secret.

Shen Song had always lived in rhythms of care, measuring herbs, preparing remedies, checking pulses, easing pain. His body’s fatigue he dismissed as nothing more than the toll of long hours and sleepless nights. When his appetite faltered, when dizziness caught him at odd hours, when nausea soured his mornings, he told himself it was tension.

It was only when his handmaid, pale with alarm, insisted he see to himself with the same diligence he gave to others, that he finally checked his own pulse with a healer’s practiced precision. The flutter beneath his fingers stopped his breath. 

It was unmistakable. A second life.

For a long while, Shen Song sat in silence, his hands trembling against his lap. His heart wavered between disbelief and fragile wonder. He was carrying Huo Ying’s child. Their child.

When he told his alpha, it was evening. The candles in his chamber flickered against the carved wood, throwing shadows around them.

“Huo Ying,” Shen Song said softly, almost afraid his voice would fail. “I… I am with child.”

The general’s head turned slowly. His eyes narrowed, not with surprise, but with something darker.

“With child?” His voice was flat, heavy.

Shen Song swallowed. “Yes. I confirmed it myself. It has been nearly two months. I only realized now.”

Huo Ying’s jaw tightened. He said nothing.

Shen Song searched his face desperately, aching for a flicker of warmth, relief, joy, even duty, but found only cold stillness. “This is… good news, Huo Ying,” he tried, his tone trembling but hopeful. “My family they will rejoice. The emperor himself may...”

“Do not mention His Highness!” Huo Ying’s voice cut sharply through the air.

Shen Song flinched. “I...I only thought...”

“Did you plan this?” Huo Ying’s eyes gleamed with suspicion, with a bitterness Shen Song had never heard so nakedly before. “Was this what you wanted all along? To tether me with a child I never asked for, Shen Song?”

Shen Song’s lips parted, his breath catching as if struck. “Plan this? No... I… how could you think such a thing?”

“You induced your heat,” Huo Ying said coldly, stepping closer. “You think I don't know? Was this another scheme? A way to bind me, to make me yours by force?”

Tears welled in Shen Song’s tiny eyes, though he fought to keep his voice steady. “I never wished to bind you. I thought… perhaps…” His voice broke, a soft whisper lost against the silence. “Perhaps you would be happy, Huo Ying.”

Huo Ying turned away, pacing, his fists clenched at his sides. “Happy?” He laughed bitterly, without humor. “You know nothing, Shen Song. You do not understand what this means. Do you think a child will bring us closer? Do you think I will forget where my heart lies?”

Shen Song lowered his gaze, his body trembling. “No. I know where your heart is. I have always known. But this child…” His hands pressed lightly against his stomach, protective already. “This child is innocent. He does not deserve your hatred.”

Silence followed, thick and suffocating. Huo Ying stopped, his back rigid, his shadow long against the chamber wall.

When he spoke again, his tone was quieter, but no gentler. “Do what you wish with it. I will not interfere. But do not expect me to be his father.”

The words struck like a blade, cold and merciless. Shen Song felt his knees weaken, but he held himself upright, though tears slipped silently down his face.

Huo Ying had already turned his back.

The room swallowed Shen Song whole, leaving him with nothing but the hollow ache of betrayal, and the fragile heartbeat within him.

Chapter Text

The autumn of that year was exceptionally cold. The rain fell softly like silk threads, veiling the eaves and drenching the garden moss with a soft green. Inside the general's residence, servants laid out new fabrics for Shen Song, silks in pale hues, light as mist. Soft blues, muted grays, the white of plum blossoms. He hadn't asked for them, but when he wore them, their looseness hid his body, and their softness comforted his growing waist.

His body had begun to change, subtly, in ways only he could feel. His chest ached in the mornings, the skin stretched taut over his belly, delicate, demanding care. He warmed precious oils with ginger and camellia petals, pressing them against his skin with steady hands. The fragrance lingered, mingling with herbs hanging in his study to ward off ill-temper. For his aching breasts, he would wrap them lightly with silk during the day, loosen them at night, and bathe in warm rice water.

No one was warned, no one besides the midwife he trusted. Shen Song carried his son like a secret jewel buried within him, sacred and trembling.

"...be still, my son. Don't be afraid..." His hand rested on the small swell of his belly, caressing absently, soothing the child within. His lips moved in whispers, soft as breathing.

From the doorway, unseen, Huo Ying watches. He took a step forward. The floor creaked under his weight.

Shen Song was startled, turning around, his eyes wide in the dim light. "Huo Ying...?" His hand instinctively flew to cover his stomach, as if it were something shameful, something to be hidden.

Huo Ying's gaze followed that movement and then lifted to Shen Song's face. For a long moment, he said nothing, and the silence itself felt unbearable. His hand hovered on the doorframe, then withdrew. He said nothing. Not that night, nor the next. 

The emperor’s eyes narrowed as he surveyed the hall.

“Your omega,” he said lightly, “has not been seen these past moons. The court has grown accustomed to his quiet figure among the others. Tell me, Huo Ying, has Shen Song hidden himself away? Or has he simply grown tired of our halls?”

The courtiers stilled, waiting.

Huo Ying bowed deeply, his voice controlled, each syllable clipped. “He is… indisposed, Your Highness.”

“Indisposed,” the emperor echoed, a faint smile curving his lips. “And yet you will not say why.”

Huo Ying kept his eyes lowered, his silence heavy, unyielding. To speak Shen Song’s truth aloud would be to expose him, to place the fragile life within him into hands far too dangerous.

The emperor’s gaze lingered, sharp and searching, but Huo Ying did not break. He bore the silence as one bears the weight of armor.

And so Shen Song’s secret remained his own. For a while longer.

But secrets are like smoke, eventually, they draw attention...

Shen Song often thought of himself as small, almost invisible, a man born of fragile circumstance. He was only the son of a distant noble house, his worth measured not in glory but in usefulness, in how quietly he bore what fate had dealt him. 

For almost five months he kept it secret, guarding it as one might guard a candle flame from the wind. He masked his nausea with long hours of work, explaining away his pallor as overexertion, letting fatigue settle into his bones like an old friend. He prepared medicines, healed the sick, and listened to the whispered ailments of courtiers and servants alike, all while hiding the fragile secret beneath his robes.

Then, one rainy morning, the emperor himself arrived at his residence. The silks of his robes rustled as he crossed the threshold, his attendants keeping their distance, as if it were a private matter.

“I require medicine,” the emperor said, his voice smooth, deceptively casual. “For headaches.” The emperor's gaze lingered on him for a long time, sharp as a blade's edge.

Shen Song bowed deeply, hiding the tremor in his hands. Headaches? The emperor had dozens of physicians, men far more qualified than he. Why come here, to him? 

He kept his head lowered, his pulse quickened with primal fear. He was no threat, merely a healer, an omega with no ambitions beyond survival. And yet, the Son of Heaven's eyes followed him as if he carried something dangerous, something forbidden.

Still, Shen Song prepared the draught, each herb weighed and measured with painstaking care. He presented it with both hands, head lowered.

As the porcelain cup left his grasp, he felt it, the weight of the emperor’s gaze, not on his face, but on his body, on the slight swell he thought he had hidden so carefully. Their eyes met for the briefest moment, and Shen Song knew. The emperor knows.

A strange silence hung in the air before the emperor smiled faintly, a smile that chilled more than any scowl. He accepted the medicine, sipped, and departed with polite words.

An hour later, Shen Song lay motionless in the garden.

The world turned upside down in a blur of pain and shock. A hand, he couldn't quite identify whose, pushed him off the small wooden bridge in his courtyard. His body slammed into the stones below, tumbling, writhing, the impact tearing flesh and bone against the cold ground.

Now he lay there, blood seeping out from beneath him, staining his white clothes. His wet robes clung to his skin, his fingers twitching as if still searching for balance, for breath, for mercy. His vision blurred, the sky above him a shifting haze of blue and gray.

In the distance, he thought he heard voices, servants screaming, hurried footsteps, the thud of feet. But all he could feel was the hollow ache within him, the fragile life draining away with each drop of blood that soaked the earth.

And as darkness crept into the corners of his vision, a thought pierced his despair...

"So this is how they end me...?"

Chapter Text

Huo Ying, returning from the palace stables, heard the chaos before he saw it, the frantic voices, the rush of footsteps. He pushed through the garden gate, his hand instinctively at his sword, only to stop dead.

Shen Song lay sprawled on the ground, his white robe soaked with deeper red, blood trickling into the cracks and pooling beneath the stones. His body was twisted, fragile, too still, except for the faint, uneven rise of his chest.

For one breathless instant, Huo Ying’s heart clenched.

“Shen Song...” The name slipped out before he could stop it, raw and startled, as he rushed forward, kneeling in the spreading stain of blood. He pressed a hand against Shen Song’s shoulder, turning him gently. The omega’s face was pale, lips trembling, blood flecked at the corner of his mouth.

“Huo… Ying…” Shen Song’s voice was no louder than a thread of wind. His eyes fluttered open, dazed, glassy. “The baby…”

Huo Ying froze, his hand tightening unconsciously, touching the faint  in Shen Song’s belly, as blood seeped between his legs.

His jaw tightened. His gaze darted once toward the looming palace beyond the walls, as though even here, in his own home, the emperor’s shadow stretched over him.

A servant cried out nearby: “Fetch the physicians! Quickly!”

“No!” Huo Ying’s voice cut like steel. The servants fell silent, startled by the force of his tone. His eyes, cold now, did not leave Shen Song’s face. “Not the palace physicians. Bring his own herbs, his tools. No one enters this house!”

His grip on Shen Song was careful, steady, but there was no tenderness, only control, the way one might handle a weapon too dangerous to fall into the wrong hands.

Shen Song tried to smile through the haze of pain. “You… came…”

Huo Ying’s expression hardened, his voice low and unreadable. “You should not have been careless.”

Whether the words were blame or protection, Shen Song could not tell.

When the servants arrived and rushed to staunch the bleeding, Huo Ying stood, his bloodstained hands clenched into fists. He stood rigid, watching from distance. His face betrayed him, fear, sadness. A soldier trapped between the will of his emperor and the frail body of the omega to which fate bound him.

Shadows stretched across the walls as the midwive worked quickly over Shen Song. Her voice was clipped, tense.

“Turn him. Slowly... his hip... don’t let it lock.”

The midwive moved nonstop. She removed his blood-soaked robes, wrapped linen tightly around his hips, and placed bowls of hot water on the brazier. Dried mugwort was ground into powder and pressed against the bleeding. Decoctions of angelica root, peony, and cinnamon twig simmered in clay pots, their bitter aroma permeating the air.

Shen Song writhed against the cushions, his hurt hip making even the slightest movement unbearable. His fingers twisted the silk beneath him until the threads snapped. His screams rose and fell, each one higher than the last.

Needles were inserted along his abdomen and thighs, shallow and precise, meant to hasten what could no longer be stopped. Each prick sent his body jerking, his hands trembling uncontrollably.

Huo Ying stood at the edge of the room, his figure tall and rigid, the flickering candles light carving his face into shadow. He did not step forward, did not speak. 

Then, after what seemed like an eternity of torment, the screams changed. A weight pressed down on Shen Song's body, and with it came the final, irreversible truth. The midwive holds him, gently moving his legs. A small body immobile slid freely between his trembling thighs.

The room fell silent. The child did not cry. 

Steam still curled from the copper basin where cloths had been steeped in mugwort, the air thick, suffocating.

On the bed, Shen Song convulsed. His body, stripped to thin layers of linen, shivered as if caught in a winter gale. His teeth chattered so violently the sound filled the room, puncturing the silence left by the stillborn child.

Two maids hurried to press heated bricks wrapped in cloth beneath the quilts, another rubbed his arms briskly with towels warmed over coals. .

But nothing seemed to reach him. His skin was icy beneath the sheen of sweat, his breath ragged, shallow. His limbs jerked uncontrollably, every muscle spasming as if his body fought a battle already lost.

Huo Ying stood near the bedside, rigid as stone. Armor gone, yet he seemed no less trapped behind iron. His hands hovered, clenched, helpless. The scent of blood clung to his throat, choking him, yet still he did not move.

One maid fell to her knees, pressing her palms against Shen Song’s trembling calves, pinning him gently. Another leaned close, trying to spoon warm decoction past his cracked lips, but most spilled, running down his chin.

“His yang is collapsing,” the eldest maid muttered, voice taut with dread. “His spirit flees. We must keep him warm, keep him here...”

Shen Song’s back arched suddenly, a ragged sob tearing from him though his eyes were unfocused, blind with fever and pain. His hands clawed at the sheets, at the empty space where his child should have been laid.

One of the maids turned sharply toward him, desperation breaking through her deference. “General, if you would hold him... if you would share your warmth, it may steady him.”

For a moment Huo Ying did not move, then, slowly, almost unwillingly, he reached out, brushing across Shen Song’s damp forehead.

The omega flinched at the touch, then curled toward it instinctively, his spasms easing by a fraction as though his body knew what his mind could not trust.

And Huo Ying, staring down at the fragile figure shaking in his bed, realized that no battlefield had ever made him feel so powerless.

When the silence settled, Huo Ying stepped back. His foots clicked against the floor as he left the room. He did not look back. The door closed, shutting Shen Song in with his grief.

Outside, he walked quickly, his breath unsteady. He went to the small bridge where Shen Song had fallen. The night air was cold, the wood rough beneath his hand as he touched the railing.

Tears slid down his face before he could stop them. His chest felt split open, raw, though his expression did not change. He pulled a shard of splintered wood from the railing and pressed it hard into his arm until the skin gave way. Blood welled in a thin red line. The sting steadied him, but it did not lessen the weight in his chest.

He bent forward, gripping the railing until his hands trembled. His tears fell freely, hitting the wood beneath him. He stayed there until his eyes were dry and his arm throbbed.

By dawn, he would stand straight, the soldier returned, the loyal servant, the cold husband. But that night, on the bridge, he was only a man who had lost a child he never acknowledge. 

The maids moved softly around the chamber, wringing out cloths, pouring cooled water into basins, whispering to one another with relief. The storm had passed, though the aftermath lingered in every corner.

Shen Song lay still, his lashes damp against pale cheeks. His body was no longer his own, it felt emptied, hollowed, yet unbearably heavy with absence. Somewhere far away, incense burned, its smoke curling like a tether between him and the world he wasn’t certain he wanted to return to.

And there, just beyond the haze, he felt it.

A weight on the mattress. A hand, rough and calloused, resting carefully against his temple. A shadow leaning over him, the scent of iron and leather mingling with smoke.

“Shen Song…” The voice was low, almost broken. “Rest now. Just… rest.”

The words pierced through the fog, and his lips parted soundlessly. He wanted to answer, to cling to the sound, but exhaustion dragged him back under.

When his eyes flickered open again, hours later, the chamber was quiet. The hand was gone. The space beside him empty. Only the faint warmth lingering on his skin hinted that anyone had been there at all.

Shen Song lay still, staring at the ceiling above, unsure if what he remembered was truth, or merely a fever’s dream of the comfort he craved most.

Chapter Text

For the first few nights after the fall, Shen Song drifted in and out of darkness, fever pulling him under like a tide. Sometimes he woke to the sound of voices, servants murmuring, bringing basins of water, but more often, he woke to silence.

In those silences, he felt a weight beside his bed. A presence too steady, too still to be imagined. The cool press of a damp cloth against his brow. Fingers, rough and calloused, brushing lightly against his cheek. The faintest sound of breath held too long, then released.

“Huo Ying…” he whispered once, though his lips were cracked and his throat too dry for the name to carry. His vision blurred, and when he tried to lift his hand, it was too heavy, and the figure by the bed did not answer.

At times, Shen Song thought he saw him clearly, the familiar dark hair, the severe lines of his face softened by the candles light. At others, the image wavered, dissolved, leaving only shadows along the wall.

It could have been real. Or it could have been nothing but fever, grief, and the cruel hope of a heart too easily deceived.

When the fever broke days later, the cloths had dried, the bed was cold. Shen Song lay staring at the ceiling, his chest and womb hollow.

Had Huo Ying truly sat with him? Or had his mind, desperate and broken, conjured the one kindness it longed for and would never have?

He could not ask, so he would never know.

Shen Song asked for water, and a servant hurried to bring it. He asked, almost timidly, if Huo Ying was near. The servant bowed, hesitant, and said only, “The general will come this night.”

And he did.

The doors slid open with a sound too sharp for Shen Song’s tender ears. Huo Ying entered, armored as though he had come directly from duty. His expression was unchanged, the mask he always wore,  cool, efficient, unreadable. He stopped a few paces from the bed.

“You are awake,” Huo Ying said simply. "How are you feeling, Shen Song?"

Shen Song’s breath caught. For a heartbeat, he thought he saw something flicker in the other’s eyes, some recognition, some warmth, some proof that the nights of whispered comfort had not been fever-dreams. But it vanished as quickly as it came.

“I am fine,” Shen Song answered softly. His voice was a thread. “Thank you… for watching over me, Huo Ying.”

The words hung between them, fragile, waiting.

Huo Ying’s brows drew faintly together, the barest sign of confusion, or was it denial? 

“You should not strain yourself with talk. Rest. That is all that is required of you. I'll come see you before bed."

No acknowledgment. No confirmation.

Shen Song lowered his gaze to his hands, clasped weakly in his lap. Heat prickled behind his eyes, though he willed it away.

Had it been real? The cloth against his forehead, the quiet presence in the night, had it been Huo Ying’s hand, or only a ghost born of his own desperate heart?

“Yes...” Shen Song whispered. “I will rest.”

When Huo Ying turned to leave, the room felt colder. The faint trace of hope Shen Song had clung to crumbled silently inside him.

When Shen Song could finally stand without swaying, days had already slipped past like water through fingers. The air had grown cool, and the chrysanthemums in the courtyard were beginning to pale at the edges.

He did not ask, at first.

Perhaps part of him feared the answer, feared to make real what silence had mercifully left unspoken. But the question grew, small and insistent, until it filled his throat like a stone.

One morning, as a servant folded the bedding by his window, Shen Song’s voice broke the stillness.

“Where…” He hesitated. “Where did they put him? My son, where does he rest?"

The girl froze, linen clutched in her hands. For a moment, neither spoke, only the faint rustle of the garden came through the open shutters.

“I would like to know where he lies.” Shen Song said, quieter. "No one told me."

The servant bowed her head. “The general gave orders. None of us were to speak unless you asked.”

Shen Song closed his eyes. “I am asking now.”

Her voice trembled. “It was the general himself who… who saw to it. He would not allow anyone else to touch the child. He rode out before dawn, beyond the city walls. To the hill where the pines grow thick. He buried the little one there with his own hands.”

Shen Song’s breath caught, a sharp sound, half grief and half disbelief.

“Huo Ying…” He almost laughed, but the sound was hollow. “He buried him.”

“Yes.” The servant’s gaze flicked upward, uncertain whether to offer comfort. “He said it was… better that way. That the spirit would not wander among strangers.”

Shen Song pressed his palm against his abdomen, where the ache had dulled but not disappeared. “Did he… did he leave a marker?”

The servant shook her head. “No stone, my lord. Only a pine branch laid atop the mound. The general said names were for the living.”

For a long while, Shen Song said nothing. He could picture it too clearly,  Huo Ying alone in the grey dawn, armor still on, kneeling in the dirt, silent as he pressed the earth closed with his hands. Not a prayer. Not a word. Just duty, even now.

“Thank you,” Shen Song murmured. His voice was steady, though his hands were trembling. “You may go.”

When he was alone, he walked to the window. The morning wind carried the faint scent of pine sap, sharp and clean. He wondered if somewhere beyond the city, beneath those same trees, a nameless spirit stirred, neither lost nor found, waiting for the lullaby that would never come.

Shen Song's body mended, but his spirit withered.

At night, when the house was still, his mind returned again and again to the emperor’s visit. The too-casual request for medicine. The way his gaze had lingered, sharp and knowing. The faint smile, curved like a blade.

He knew.

And soon after, the fall.

It was no coincidence. Shen Song was not foolish enough to cling to such hope. He had been carrying something that was never meant to live, something the emperor would not allow, for reasons Shen Song dared not name.

And Huo Ying... Whatever had stirred when he saw Shen Song bleeding, whatever fleeting crack had appeared in the armor of his devotion, it was buried deep, hidden where not even Shen Song would see it.

At the thought of his husband, bitterness rose like bile. For a heartbeat, Shen Song had believed that perhaps Huo Ying had chosen him, even in that desperate hour.

Now he understood that he's completely alone. An omega, harmless, insignificant, yet bound to a man who would never comfort or protect him, and watched by an emperor whose gaze carried the weight of death.

All he could do was endure.

And so, he clung to his pain, like someone clinging to a letter that should never have been sent, and continued to breathe.

The Imperor's chamber was hushed, the lacquered walls glowing faintly in the candles light. Smoke from a bronze burner curled upward, veiling the room into haze.

Huo Ying knelt with discipline.

“Rise,” the emperor commanded softly, though there was an edge beneath the velvet tone.

Obedient, Huo Ying stood. The familiar presence of his sovereign, his lover, was as intoxicating as it was dangerous. The emperor descended from the dais, his gaze never leaving Huo Ying’s face.

“You have been occupied, General,” the emperor murmured, circling him as though inspecting a weapon. “Your attentions linger where they do not belong. Tell me, has your omega replaced me?”

Huo Ying’s jaw locked. “No.” His voice was low, steady. “My loyalty has not shifted. It never will.”

The emperor stopped at his side, so close the silken sleeve brushed against Huo Ying’s arm. “And yet… you hover by his bedside. You endure his tears. That does not sound like indifference to me.” His lips curved, but the smile cut like glass.

Huo Ying’s throat tightened. Images rose unbidden ,Shen Song’s cries, his body breaking under the midwive hands, the tiny, lifeless form that slipped into silence. It had torn through him in ways he not had  expected, and the emperor knew it. Of course he knew.

“He is my omega,” Huo Ying said at last, his words measured, carefully placed. “I do what duty demands.”

“Duty?” The emperor’s voice dripped disdain. He leaned closer, his breath brushing Huo Ying’s ear. “Be cautious, Ying. An omega’s weakness is not always weakness. Sometimes it is a noose, drawn tighter each time you lower your guard. Do not let him ensnare you.”

Huo Ying’s fists curled until his knuckles whitened. He wanted to speak, to demand if the emperor had known, if he had orchestrated the fall, if the child’s death had been more than misfortune. The thought burned through him.

Yet when the emperor’s hand slid against his arm, possessive, claiming, Huo Ying did not pull away. He could not. Love and doubt twisted together until he could no longer tell where one ended and the other began.

“Remember,” the emperor whispered, his gaze sharp as steel. “You are mine. Body, soul, loyalty, all mine. Do not let another rob me of what is mine.”

Huo Ying lowered his head, concealing the storm in his eyes. He  love this man, his emperor, his reason for every breath. But the seed of suspicion was planted, deep and immovable. 

Chapter Text

The first time Shu He came to visit, Shen Song could not bear to look at him. He sat propped against silk cushions, pale as moonlight, the faint scent of medicine clinging to his skin. 

Shu He closed the door softly behind him. No attendants followed. The hush that fell between them was almost reverent, as though even the air feared to intrude.

He stood for a long while without speaking, his gaze tracing the hollow beneath Shen Song’s collarbone, the way his hands trembled faintly where they rested against his abdomen, that empty place that once held so much hope.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low, gently.

“You needn’t pretend before me, Song’er. I know what was taken from you.”

Shen Song flinched, his fingers curling tighter into his robe. “There is nothing to know,” he murmured. “It is gone.”

Shu He’s expression did not change, but his silence pressed heavy, searching. When he moved closer, it was with the quiet precision of someone measuring each breath.

“Tell me,” he said softly, “what was my brother doing here the day you fell?”

The question landed like a blade.

Shen Song’s heart lurched. He did not look up, could not, though he felt the heat rise to his throat, the tremor in his pulse. “I cannot speak of it,” he whispered. “Not here. Not now.”

“Because you fear who might hear?” Shu He’s tone was calm, but beneath it ran a current of cold fury. “Who?”

Shen Song’s breath hitched. His lashes lowered, shielding his eyes. “Please,” he said faintly, “don’t ask me that.”

The tension broke like glass underfoot. Shu He exhaled, and the anger in him softened into grief. He sank to his knees beside the bed, his hand finding Shen Song’s, hesitant at first, then steady, firm. “Forgive me. I only...” His voice faltered. “I cannot believe this was misfortune alone, Shen Song.”

For a moment, Shen Song could not breathe. The words hung there, dangerous and raw, more confession than comfort.

“Shu He,” he said quietly, “you must not linger here. If he learns you’ve come... if he suspects...”

Shu He’s grip tightened. “Then let him suspect. Let him see that at least one of us still calls cruelty by its name.”

Shen Song’s vision blurred. Slowly, he leaned forward, resting his forehead against Shu He’s hand. The warmth there was steady, the first mercy he had known since the fall, but behind it, he could feel the tremor of contained rage, the knowledge neither of them dared to speak aloud:

That the emperor’s hand had never missed its mark.

Shu He came most mornings now, bringing news from court or simply quiet company. He carried himself with the ease of one who had grown up among power yet not cared to bow to it. His laughter was gentle, unhurried, and it filled the stillness that Shen Song had worn like a shroud since the fall.

They spoke little of grief. When they did, it was with the simplicity of those who no longer feared silence.

“Your lanterns are still there,” Shu He said one morning, as they paused by the pond. “The wind hasn’t carried them away.”

“They’re stubborn,” Shen Song replied, managing a faint smile. “Like me, perhaps.”

“Like someone who still believes the dead might hear.”

Shen Song glanced at him. “And if they do?”

“Then your daughter is luckier than most.” Shu He’s eyes softened. “Few are loved so fiercely by those left behind, Shen Song.”

Shen Song lowered his gaze to the reflection of the lanterns trembling on the water. “Perhaps,” he murmured. “But love seems a fragile defense in this house. Even the walls have ears, and I can’t tell which of them still listen to me.”

Shu He’s expression grew thoughtful. “You distrust the servants?”

“I distrust everyone,” Shen Song said quietly. “They bow too low, speak too softly. Sometimes I think they’re waiting for me to say something that can be carried elsewhere.” He hesitated, then added, “I don’t even know whose hands pushed me from that bridge. Only that it wasn’t chance, Shu He.”

The breeze stirred the surface of the pond, breaking the lanterns’ reflections into scattered light.

“Have you told Huo Ying?” Shu He asked.

A faint bitterness crossed Shen Song’s mouth. “I don't  know which version of him hears me. There are days when he looks at me as though I’m glass about to break, and then the next, it’s as if he’s forgotten I exist.”

Shu He was silent for a long time. “It changes when he returns from the palace, doesn’t it?”

Shen Song’s fingers tightened around the edge of his sleeve. “Always. He leaves one man and returns another. Cold. Certain. As if something there…reminds him what he must be.”

“You think the emperor’s hand reaches even here?”

“I think the emperor’s shadow does,” Shen Song whispered. “And it moves when Huo Ying moves. I used to believe it was duty that hardened him, but now—I don’t know. It feels like something deeper, something he can’t fight.”

Shu He studied him for a moment, the concern in his eyes tempered by caution. “Then until we know the truth, you must be careful whom you trust.”

Shen Song nodded, his gaze still fixed on the trembling lanterns

Chapter Text

The courtyard was quiet when Huo Ying found him. Evening light clung to the tiled roofs, soft and gold, the lanterns trembling in the breeze.

Shen Song sat beneath the old pine, a low table before him. He worked in silence, his pale hands folding paper, shaping it into small, round lanterns the color of dawn. Each one held a wick, a prayer, a whispered name. Beside him lay a bowl of rice and a shallow dish of milk, the simplest of offerings.

For a time, Huo Ying only watched. The scent of pine resin and paper oil filled the air. Shen Song’s movements were steady, almost ritual; there was a grace in the way he touched each lantern, as though afraid it might bruise beneath his fingers.

He did not notice the alpha at first. The light caught in his hair, turning it to bronze. His lips moved, shaping a lullaby too soft to hear.

Something inside Huo Ying stirre, a small, forgotten warmth, sharp in its clarity. He had seen him broken, silent, hollowed by loss. But here, in this fragile act of remembrance, Shen Song seemed whole again, even in grief.

The wind shifted, carrying away the smell of incense from the emperor’s halls, the faint metallic tang that always dulled his thoughts. For the first time in months, Huo Ying’s mind felt clear. The haze lifted like a curtain, and he saw, truly saw, the person before him, not duty, not burden, but someone he had once vowed, silently, to protect.

Shen Song looked up then, startled by his shadow across the lanterns. Their eyes met. For a heartbeat, the world went still.

“Huo Ying,” he murmured, uncertain.

Huo Ying should have looked away. Instead, he stepped closer, his voice low. “You shouldn’t be out in the night air. It’s cold, Shen Song.”

Shen Song smiled faintly, the first in a long while. “I wanted him to have light to follow.”

The soldier’s throat tightened. He reached down, straightened one lantern whose flame had faltered. Their hands brushed, the briefest touch, but in it was something fierce and aching, the echo of what might have been.

When he finally spoke, his voice carried the steadiness of command, but his eyes held warmth that no emperor could burn away.

“I’ll make sure it reaches her,” he said.

"She?" Shen Song said, his breath catching on the single word. For an instant he thought he had misheard, the sound warped by the night wind, or by his own exhaustion. But Huo Ying didn’t correct himself. His eyes stayed on the small, flickering light before them.

The soldier’s voice, when it came again, was quiet, stripped of ceremony.

“You had a girl, Shen Song.”

Shen Song stared at him. “You saw...?”

Huo Ying inclined his head. The gesture was slight, almost reverent. “I held her for a moment before…” He stopped. The words would not go further. “I thought it better you not know, then. You were fighting for your life.”

The world around them seemed to contract. Shen Song pressed a trembling hand to his lips, as if the truth itself might undo him. A daughter. All this time, he had mourned a nameless absence. Grief had a face he would never see.

“Where?” His voice broke. “Where did you... where is she?”

Huo Ying looked away, to the dark ridge beyond the garden wall. “In the north grove. There’s a pine that splits at its roots, she lies beneath it. I swore she would not be left among strangers.”

The lantern light painted his profile in amber and shadow. For the first time since the fall, Shen Song reached for him. “Take me there,” he whispered. “Please, Huo Ying.”

“As soon as you can travel.” Huo Ying’s answer came without hesitation. “I’ll see to the horses myself. The road is steep.”

Shen Song nodded, blinking against the tears that finally fell. “Thank you,” he murmured. “For giving her a place to rest, alpha.”

Huo Ying bowed his head. “It was the least I could do.”

The night wind shifted, scattering ash from the incense brazier. The faint trace of sandalwood reached him then, too sweet, too familiar. His pulse stuttered.

A servant’s footsteps echoed down the corridor, stopping just beyond the door. “General,” came the cautious voice, “His Majesty sends for you. At once.”

Huo Ying’s gaze flicked toward the door, then back to Shen Song. For a heartbeat, the soldier’s expression was open, unguarded, a dozen words caught behind his teeth. Then the mask settled over his face again, duty closing in like armor.

Shen Song saw the change, felt the warmth between them dim. “Go,” he said softly, though dread coiled through his chest.

Huo Ying straightened. “I’ll return before dawn,” he promised.

The chamber reeked of heat and musk, incense burned low in the bronze vessel, the air thick and heavy with the scent that the emperor favored, one that always left Huo Ying’s lungs aching long after he had left.

The emperor moved against Huo Ying’s lap with a feverish rhythm, robes sliding from his shoulders, his skin slick, his breath harsh in the soldier’s ear.

Huo Ying’s hands gripped his waist by instinct, steadying him, but his face betrayed nothing. His body obeyed, but his heart stayed locked. He had promised to return before dawn, Shen Song was waiting for him. Shen Song...

The emperor’s mouth pressed hard against his jaw, teeth scraping skin. “Why does he haunt me, even here?” His voice was guttural, ragged between gasps. “Your omega. That frail, trembling thing. He has never known your body, and yet I feel him between us. I feel him when you look at me.”

Huo Ying’s hands steadied him automatically, the gesture of a man trained to obey rather than yield. “You imagine shadows, Your Majesty.”

“Do I?” The emperor smiled, faint and poisonous. His fingers brushed the side of Huo Ying’s neck, lingering just long enough for the soldier to feel the sting beneath the skin, the faint burn that came sometimes after the emperor’s touch. “I know every breath you take, every tremor in your pulse. You would not stand here without me.”

Huo Ying’s jaw tightened. The smell of the incense thickened, metallic beneath the sweetness. His thoughts seemed to blur at the edges, the air itself pressed against his mind. He had begun to dread that scent, how it seeped into his blood, how it left him clear enough to think, but never quite strong enough to resist.

The emperor’s gaze traced his face, searching for rebellion and finding only restraint. “You serve me,” he said softly, almost tender. “Even your silence belongs to me.”

“I serve you,” Huo Ying said, his voice came out lower than he intended, roughened by the effort of holding steady.

The emperor’s smile deepened, slow as a blade unsheathing. “Of course you do. Imagine what would happen if that stopped.” His thumb brushed once more over Huo Ying’s pulse point, where the skin had long ago begun to redden faintly.

Something cold coiled beneath Huo Ying’s ribs. He could not remember when it had begun, the ritual draught before each audience, the incense that made his vision swim, the subtle reminder that loyalty was not only sworn but sustained.

The emperor leaned closer, his breath warm against the soldier’s ear. “You are mine,” he whispered. “You serve me,” he repeated, tasting the words. “But your silence serves him.”

Huo Ying stiffened, his grip tightening, though not in passion. “You imagine shadows where there are none, Your Majesty.”

The emperor pulled back to study him, pupils blown wide, sweat dripping down his temple. His fingers tangled in Huo Ying’s hair, tugging until pain forced his eyes up. “Do not lie to me. You are mine, mine alone. You have sworn it with every breath you draw. And yet I see the way the court whispers, the way my brother shields him, the way you…” His lips curled, a snarl breaking through the lust. “…look at him as though he were something worth pity.”

Huo Ying’s chest rose and fell heavily. He wanted to speak, to deny it, but the words would not come.

The emperor ground down harder against him, forcing a groan from Huo Ying’s throat. “Does he sit between us now?” he hissed. “Do you feel him when you take me? Is he here, in my bed, stealing from me what has never been his?”

He pressed closer, not in tenderness but in possession, until Huo Ying could smell the sandalwood in his hair, the faint trace of wine on his skin. Each heartbeat between them throbbed with command, with accusation.

"Tell me!" he whispered, though his voice was a command. "When you look at him, you little doctor, do you see what I see?"

Huo Ying's jaw tightened. "I see nothing, Your Majesty. He is my omega, nothing more."

The emperor laughed, but there was no joy in it. His hand slid down Huo Ying's chest, his nails tracing faint lines over the scarred skin.

"Your omega? You never wanted him. You were only mine. Mine. And yet..." He leaned closer, biting the word as if it burned. "...his shadow clings to you."

The soldier closed his eyes, torn between desire and dread, between loyalty and a suspicion that had begun to root deep in him. The emperor’s body was fire, commanding and relentless. His words, however, were knives, each one cutting until Huo Ying could not tell if he was being claimed, or punished.

The room fell silent except for the irregular rhythm of their breathing. Huo Ying lowered his gaze, the emperor's jealousy was a senseless storm, and Shen Song, fragile, distressed, and unprotected, stood in its path. And though Shen Song had never crossed the threshold of that bed, that night, Huo Ying felt him there more than ever. 

The faint tremor in his fingers betrayed the battle waging quietly within him, and somewhere, beneath that numb obedience, a single, dangerous thought began to take shape: If not for the emperor’s poison, none of this would bind him at all.

Chapter Text

The winter court was heavy with ceremony. Candles flickered against the jade pillars, shadows long and restless. The emperor sat high upon the dragon throne, his golden robes flowing like liquid fire, his gaze sharper than the blade of any general.

Shen Song stood below, among physicians summoned to discuss the year’s remedies for plague and fever. This was his first time at court since what happened, he was not feeling well, but his presence was demanded by the emperor.

His posture was low, deferential, his voice steady as he explained the use of bitter herbs and acupuncture to balance humors. Yet as he spoke, his breath caught, for he could feel the emperor’s eyes on him, not casual, not disinterested, but fixed, probing, as if peeling back his skin to find what secrets lay beneath.

When Shen Song faltered, Shu He’s voice rose smoothly to support him.

“His methods are sound, Your Highness. I have seen their results with my own eyes.”

It was an unremarkable defense, yet the emperor’s brow arched faintly. His gaze shifted to his younger brother, lingering just long enough to draw silence into the chamber. Shu He’s expression remained composed, his tone even, but something in his eyes, gentleness, perhaps too much, betrayed him.

The emperor’s lips curved, though the smile did not reach his eyes.

“My sixth brother speaks as though he were this phisical’s advocate.”

A ripple of unease passed through the gathered courtiers. Shu He bowed quickly, his voice calm.

“Truth requires no advocate, only witness. I merely offer what I know.”

The emperor studied him for a long moment, the silence heavy, suffocating. Then he let out a soft laugh, dismissive, but his eyes slid once more to Shen Song.

“So many are eager to shield you, physician. Tell me, what virtue lies hidden in you that inspires such loyalty?”

Shen Song bowed lower, his voice a whisper.

“I am without virtue, your Highness. I only serve where I am commanded.”

"I heard you were sick. Tell me, couldn't your medicine save you?"

Shen Song stepped back for a moment. He was still healing, slowly and painfully, and to make matters worse, the very cause of his pain was now questioning him. Desperately, he sought Huo Ying's eyes, and for the first time, the alpha didn't look away. He discreetly lifted his chin, reminding him not to bow so low.

"My illness, Your Highness, was a... misfortune of fate. Nothing herbs could cure."

The emperor said nothing more. But when the assembly dissolved, Shen Song felt that gaze still pressing upon his back, cold and inexorable.

Later, as Shu He walked him to the outer gate of the palace, his hand brushed Shen Song’s sleeve for the briefest moment, reassuring, unspoken. Shen Song felt his throat tighten with gratitude and fear alike.

Neither of them noticed the shadow of the emperor standing high on the balcony above, watching, his eyes narrowing with a glint of something sharp, calculating, dangerous.

Huo Ying knelt before the throne, armor still dusted with the grey of the training grounds. Above him, the Emperor lounged in his seat, a single sleeve slipping down from one narrow shoulder, the picture of  grace.

“I heard something interesting today,” he said at last. His tone was mild, but the stillness behind it carried weight. “They tell me the little physician from your house was with child. Imagine my surprise. A secret hidden even from your Emperor. How careless of you.”

Huo Ying bowed low. “Your Majesty was burdened with the realm’s affairs. I would not add to them.”

“Would not,” the Emperor repeated, lips curving faintly. “Not could not. You choose which truths I may hear, then?”

He set the seal down, the sound echoing like a struck bell. “When were you planning to tell me? When the child was old enough to walk the palace halls? To bear your name?”

Huo Ying’s hands tightened against the floor. “The child is gone,” he said quietly. “It would have brought you no joy to hear of it.” 

For a moment, silence. Then the Emperor sighed, a sound of feigned sorrow that carried no weight.

“How tragic,” he murmured. “A loss so delicate, before it could even draw breath. You must be devastated.”

Huo Ying’s jaw tightened. “Shen Song is still recovering.” 

“Yes, yes,” the Emperor said lightly, “the frail little physician. It’s always the gentle ones the fates choose first.” His gaze drifted away, as though chasing an idle thought. “Tell me, Huo Ying, how does such a thing happen? You, a man of discipline, a soldier of iron, how could you allow your household to be so careless?”

The question landed like a slap. Huo Ying bowed again. “It was an accident.” He remembered the day of Shen Song’s fall too clearly, the Emperor’s visit to their house. But proof? There was none. Only coincidence, only dread.

“An accident,” the Emperor echoed softly, tasting the word. “Accidents have a way of finding those who least deserve them, don’t they?” He rose, descending the steps with unhurried grace until he stood close enough that Huo Ying could smell the faint trace of incense on his robes. “Was it a boy?”

Huo Ying hesitated. “We did not know.” He lies, and bowed again, concealing his face. “I thank Your Majesty for the thought. But the matter is ended.”

“Ended?” The Emperor’s hand came down on his shoulder, heavy, deliberate. “Nothing ends without my command, General. Not even grief.”

He began to pace, his robes trailing like spilled ink. “Do you think I did not notice the way you’ve changed? The way your eyes wander toward the door each time I summon you? As if something, or someone, waits beyond it, Huo Ying.”

Huo Ying did not answer.

The Emperor stopped behind him, close enough to touch the soldier’s neck. “Tell me, Huo Ying, do you dream of him? The frail little physician, so pale, so trembling while you fuck me in my bed? Do you imagine he could ever belong to you more than you already belong to me?”

Huo Ying's pulse throbbed in his throat. Beneath the Emperor's touch, he felt the same gentle warmth that followed nights spent in the royal chamber. A bitterness mixed with sweetness, and the slight numbness in his body afterward. 

He wondered, had it been the poison?

“My loyalty is to Your Majesty,” He said, but the words came out too fast.

The Emperor laughed softly. “Loyalty.” He rolled the word on his tongue. “How small a thing. I would rather have your heart, raw, unguarded, without hesitation. But it seems there are pieces of it scattered elsewhere.”

He moved to the window, watching the courtyard below. “They say my brother, Shu He, visits your household. That he shows great concern for the little physician’s health. My courtiers whisper that his concern is… personal.”

The words sliced through the quiet.

Huo Ying looked up sharply. “Your Majesty?” 

The Emperor’s smile was delicate, cruel. “The child, General. How can you be certain it was yours? My brother is a compassionate man, too compassionate. He spends much time at your house. Some say his heart is easily moved by sorrow.”

A tremor passed through Huo Ying’s hands before he could still them.

“You think I would allow such a disgrace?” Huo Ying said, low.

But the Emperor only laughed, the sound low and brittle. “Peace, my loyal Huo. I mean nothing by it. Only, in these halls, rumors have teeth. I would hate for them to bite where it hurts. Still, it no longer matters. The child is gone, and what remains of you, your strength, your loyalty, belongs here.”

He stepped back, smile smoothing into courtly indifference. “You may go. And extend my condolences to your household. Such delicate lives, so easily broken.”

Huo Ying rose, saluted, and left. The doors closed behind him with a sound of a sealing tomb.

Outside, when he finally stepped into the cold air of the courtyard, he pressed a hand against the wall until the world steadied. His skin burned where the Emperor had touched.

And somewhere behind him, in the shadows of the palace, the Emperor smiled.

That night, the summons came again.

Huo Ying tried to resist. He sat by the window of his chamber until his hands began to shake, until the ache beneath his skin became unbearable. His blood felt wrong, too hot, too alive. Every breath came with a pulse of pain that whispered one name only.

By the time he rose, his vision swam. He left without a word. Shen Song lay asleep, the faint glow of the lantern tracing the hollow of his face. Huo Ying paused at the door, wanting to reach for him, to stay. But the poison in his veins drove him onward, relentless.

The palace corridors waited.

When he entered the Emperor’s chambers, steam hung heavy in the air. The ruler was there, surrounded by warmth and the scent of wine and incense, his voice low and certain.

“My loyal dog,” the Emperor murmured.

Huo Ying dropped to one knee, every nerve screaming to obey. The command sank into him like a blade, and he hated how easily his body answered. The poison bound him tighter than any chain, stripping away thought, pride, self.

When he lifted his eyes, he saw nothing but the reflection of his own ruin staring back at him in the Emperor’s gaze. He knotted him there on the floor, too poisoned to think straight.

Chapter Text

Tell me, Huo Ying, are you sure the baby was yours?”

The Emperor's smile curved, slow and dangerous, even in Huo Ying's dreams. The scent of blood filled the room. It dripped from the banners, from the cracks between the tiles.

The Emperor rose from his throne and descended the steps barefoot, his robes dragging through the blood. His eyes gleamed like wet ink in candlelight.

“Tell me, my loyal Huo Ying…” he whispered, leaning close, the words coiling into Huo Ying’s ear like smoke. “…when you looked at the child, were you truly certain whose eyes you would have seen?”

Something cold slid down Huo Ying’s spine. He looked down, and saw a child in his arms, limp and pale, its eyes closed. But as he stared, the lids fluttered open. One eye was his own, the other, dark and cruel, belonged to the Emperor.

He dropped the bundle, but it didn’t fall. It clung to him, tiny hands gripping his armor, the scent of decay thick in his throat. The Emperor laughed softly behind him.

“Mine,” the voice murmured. “You are mine, Huo Ying. You always were.”

When he awoke, he was still in the royal chambers, the emperor's soft body lying on top of his, sleeping peacefully. Huo Ying tried to move, but discovered they were still tied together. A pained expression appeared on the sleeping emperor's face. Huo Ying lay still, not daring to hurt him.

It began as whispers, slipping through the marble corridors of the palace. No one could say where they started, perhaps a bored attendant, perhaps a jealous concubine, or perhaps someone far more deliberate. By the time the words reached the outer halls, they had already grown teeth.

The physician Shen Song, they said, had grown too close to the Sixth Prince. Too many visits. Too many glances exchanged in court. Too much softness in the way the prince shielded him.

By the time the talk reached the servants in Huo Ying’s household, the words had curdled into poison.

And soon, it was no longer a secret, but a spectacle. Laughter behind fans. Eyes following him as he passed. 

By then, no one asked who had begun it. The truth had already drowned beneath the noise.

“Maybe he’s tired of being ignored by his own alpha.”

And Shen Song's honor, silent, fragile, but unassailable, was now questioned.

Huo Ying, however, heard the rumors not as idle talk, but as daggers wrapped in courtesy.

He was summoned by his fellow generals, men who smiled too easily, their voices dipped in mock concern.

“They say your omega has found comfort in the palace, General.”

“Ah, but you know how it is, where smoke rises, there’s always fire.”

Huo Ying’s jaw locked. The faintest sound, a knuckle cracking, made the room fall silent.

“Be careful,” he said, each word cold. “You mistake my patience for tolerance.”

They bowed, stammered apologies, retreated quickly. But their words didn’t leave. They clung to him like ash.

By nightfall, the poison had already taken root.

When he entered his household, the first thing he saw was light, faint, flickering, spilling from Shen Song’s chamber. The omega sat hunched over his desk, sleeves rolled back, hands steady as he mixed tinctures in the glow of a single candle. His hair had come loose from its tie, shadowing his thin pale face.

“Shen Song,” Huo Ying said.

The other started, looking up. “You’re home.” His tone was mild, empty of expectation.

Huo Ying watched him for a long moment, silent. Too pale, too quiet, still wearing the fragility of loss like a shroud. Certainly not the schemer the court made him out to be.

And yet, the questions gnawed. Why did the prince linger near him in court? Why did he speak his name with such care? Why did he defend him when others would not?

Jealousy was an unfamiliar weapon, but it cut deeper than any blade Huo Ying had ever known. It slid under armor and reason alike, burning in his chest.

“Did Prince Shu He visit today?” he asked at last. The words came out sharper than intended, more accusation than question.

Shen Song blinked, confused. “No… not today. Why?”

“No reason.”

Huo Ying’s voice was flat, but his pulse thundered in his ears. He turned away before the silence between them could deepen.

Shen Song watched him go, his expression unreadable in the shifting light.

Outside, Huo Ying’s hands curled into fists until his nails broke skin. He knew Shen Song’s loyalty as he knew his own sword, tempered, unwavering. And still, it wasn’t truth that haunted him. It was the thought that it could be true, and the Emperor would be the one who was telling the truth.

He stood there in the dark corridor until the air felt cold. The edges of the wooden pillar beside him caught under his palm,  before he realized it, he’d driven his arm against it, once, twice, each strike sharp, deliberate. Splinters bit deep into the flesh of his forearm, warm blood welling between his fingers.

The pain steadied him for a moment. It was something he could control, when everything else had slipped beyond reach.

He pressed his forehead against the cold beam and exhaled through his teeth, breathing through the sting.

That night, Huo Ying did not sleep.

And so the seed the Emperor had planted found its soil, in pride, in doubt, in silence, and now, in pain that he caused into himself to keep from breaking entirely.

Shen Song kept to his chambers for the next days, the candlelight flickering over mortar and pestle, over the faint ink stains on his sleeves. He measured herbs, annotated scrolls, tested small brews that might ease lingering fever or calm a restless pulse. It was safer, he thought, to lose himself in healing than to dwell on what had been taken from him.

But Huo Ying lingered in the doorways more often now. Silent, his broad shoulders filling the frame, his shadow falling long across the polished floor. Shen Song would lift his head sometimes, startled by the presence, uncertain whether to speak or to ignore.

One evening, Shen Song broke the silence first. “If you are tired, Huo Ying, I can prepare something for your rest. Magnolia bark, perhaps. You’ve been… restless these past nights.”

“I do not need your fucking medicine, omega!” Huo Ying answered, his voice sharper than intended.

Shen Song’s hands faltered on the pestle. He bowed his head quickly. “As you wish.”

The silence thickened, heavy and uneven, until it felt like a third presence between them. Huo Ying’s gaze caught on the curve of Shen Song’s neck, on the soft tremor of his hands, and something in him twisted, possessive, defensive, shamed. He wanted to demand why Shu He lingered, why he looked at Shen Song the way he did in court. But to ask was to confess how deeply the jealousy had taken root.

Instead, he said only, “Do you wait for him?”

Shen Song’s head lifted at once, tiny eyes wide. “For… who?”

“The Sixth Prince.”

Color drained from Shen Song’s face. “No.” The answer was quiet, unguarded, as though the very question had not offended him.

Huo Ying’s throat tightened. He believed him, he did. Shen Song was still too pale, his shoulders too thin, his eyes too hollow with grief to be capable of deceit. Yet the whispers still clung to his mind like smoke he couldn’t breathe through.

He turned to leave, but Shen Song’s voice stopped him.

“Huo Ying,” he said softly, “does it hurt?”

The question startled him. He turned back, confused. “What?”

“Your arm,” Shen Song said, eyes flicking to the sleeve where blood had dried dark at the seam. "I saw the bandage.”

Huo Ying froze, pulse stuttering. He had hidden it beneath his armor, beneath silence, but Shen Song had seen anyway.

“I... It is nothing,” he said, his tone too rough, too defensive.

The flame in the oil lamp trembled. 

Huo Ying managed, finally, to mutter, “Stay indoors tomorrow. The palace corridors are full of vipers. Best not to give them cause to speak, Shen Song.”

Shen Song nodded faintly, though his eyes did not leave Huo Ying’s. “And you, Huo Ying, who will protect you from the vipers?”

Huo Ying turned abruptly. "Don't leave the courtyards tomorrow, omega!" He reinforces the order, making it clear who gives the orders here.

Shen Song rose unsteadily, clutching the edge of the desk for balance. “But the apothecary...” 

“I will send for what you need,” Huo Ying cut him off. When he finally spoke again, it was quieter. “Stay within the estate for a few days. I’ll have the gates watched.”

 “Watched?” Shen Song whispered. “By whose order... yours, or his?”

 Huo Ying did not answer. He left before the question could wound them both further. Shen Song sank back down, lips pressed tightly together. The door shut behind Huo Ying with a hollow sound. 

Chapter Text

Huo Ying didn't had this name before. Just a half-starved body and the sound of his own breathing in the alleys of Luoyang. Winter after winter, he watched the snow swallow the weak and learned that hunger was the sharpest blade.

Then the royal academy took him in, more by chance than mercy. An orphan with nothing but a scar and a pair of steady hands. They taught him letters and strategy, how to bow and how to kill. At fifteen, he was silent, precise, and already more weapon than boy.

It was there that he first saw the Crown Prince.

The man moved like fire contained in silk. The first time their eyes met, something ancient in Huo Ying's blood responded, part fear, part adoration. The Prince spoke to him as if testing the edge of a blade:
"Are you loyal, Huo Ying?"

"I have nothing else to be, Your Highness."

What began as fascination quickly turned to ruin. Nights summoned to the Prince's chambers, the scent of sandalwood and thick power in the air, the touch that burned and branded. They were both alphas, two predators trapped in the same hunger, and this should have been impossible. But the Prince made impossibility a kind of art.

When he laughed, Huo Ying felt alive. When he turned away, Huo Ying felt cold enough to shatter.

He fought wars in the Prince's name and was rewarded with a rank, General Huo, the Emperor's favorite beast. He thought this was love,  obedience and fire, submission disguised as devotion.

Only later did he realize the pattern, the slight discomfort after nights together, the heat in his blood that turned to numbness in the morning. Small doses, subtle and precise. A collar made not of chains, but of poison.

He accepted. He told himself it was the price of closeness. Until those letters arrived.

They were written in clean, elegant handwriting. Words measured, thoughtful, sharpened by a gentle wit. From Shen Song, the youngest son of a minor noble famiy. An omega. 

The letters spoke of herbs and philosophy, of poetry and the study of the constellations. They carried the stillness of someone who listened more than spoke.

Huo Ying read them while sitting in a tent, covered in mud and blood. One by one, they kept him sane amidst the chaos. But he never answered them.

He hadn't expected beauty. He hadn't expected tenderness. Yet the first time he saw Shen Song in the flesh, standing half-hidden behind his father sleeves, pale as the first frost, his eyes rising shyly before closing again, something in Huo Ying's chest changed.

For the first time in years, Huo Ying forgot to breathe.

He had killed for the Emperor, bled for him, endured his poison and his pleasure. But, standing before that frail figure, he understood, without words or reason, that there were still parts of him untouched by ruin.

Their wedding was meant to be a celebration, gold-threaded silks, music echoing through marble halls, the air perfumed with camellia and smoke. Yet for Huo Ying, it felt like a funeral. Every bow, every toast, every congratulatory smile was a blade dulled by hypocrisy.

He stood beside Shen Song, who looked as though the weight of the world pressed upon his shoulders. When their eyes met, once, fleetingly, Huo Ying felt the faint tremor in that gaze.

That night, after the guests had gone and the lanterns guttered low, he returned to his quarters not as a man newly wed, but as one summoned by command. The emperor awaited him, reclining against crimson pillows, the room thick with the scent of sandalwood and opium.

“You’ve played your part well,” the emperor murmured. His tone was soft, too soft, the softness that came before pain.

Huo Ying did not speak. He knelt as he always did, his hands on the back, the old habit of obedience carved into his bones. The emperor’s hand came to his face, fingers tracing the line of his jaw with something that might have been tenderness if it weren’t so cruel.

“Do you think I don’t see it?” the emperor said, almost laughing. “The way he looked at you today. The way the court watched him.”

“It was duty, nothing more.” 

The emperor’s smile vanished. “Then prove it.”

The chalice appeared from the shadows, porcelain, blue and white, filled halfway with something that shimmered faintly in the candlelight. The poison was clear as water. Familiar. Inevitable.

Huo Ying took it without hesitation. It burned down his throat, sharp and clean, leaving a hollow numbness in its wake. His veins felt slow, his heartbeat distant. He set the cup aside and looked up only when he felt the emperor’s fingers thread through his hair.

“Listen to me, my general,” the emperor whispered, leaning close. “He may have your name. You may had promise his father. But you will never have him. Do you understand?”

A pause. A tremor that wasn’t fear, but blind obedience. “Yes, Your Majesty.” The marriage would not be consummated, and Huo Ying was content to never have to touch that omega.

“Good,” the emperor breathed. His thumb brushed the corner of Huo Ying’s mouth, a mockery of affection. “Because if you ever fall for him… I will burn his name from every record in this empire. I will unmake him, and you will watch.”

When Huo Ying left the chamber, the night was thick with rain. His hands shook, not from pain, but from the sickening realization that even his body was no longer his own.

And still, he remembered him in the courtyard. Shen Song, half-hidden behind his father, clutching a book to his chest like a shield, too shy to meet his eyes. A delicate, fragile creature, carved from light and silence.

For months after the wedding, Huo Ying kept his distance.

The poison made it easy, the Emperor’s scent lingering in his blood like a leash pulled tight. When it dulled, he could breathe again, when it surged, it bent him to the will of another man. Between those tides, he moved through his own house like a stranger, a silent ghost among servants.

Shen Song, meanwhile, filled the silence with small, ordinary things. He hung herbs from the beams, their green scent softening the air. He arranged scrolls in careful order, repaired a cracked vase, tended the wounded who still came seeking the omega physician. His world was one of quiet, domestic devotion, everything Huo Ying did not understand.

Sometimes, the general would pause at a doorway and watch him work. The candlelight would pool over Shen Song’s hands, steady and deft, the pale skin of his wrists marked faintly with ink. 

And always, that invisible wall between them. Thin as porcelain, but impossible to break.

It was only when they traveled to Shen Song’s family home that Huo Ying felt the wall finally cracked.

The Emperor’s poison had weakened on the journey,  its rhythm faltering, its pull uncertain. For the first time in months, Huo Ying’s head was clear. 

He saw Shen Song laughing softly with his mother, arranging flowers at the ancestral altar, his voice barely above a whisper. He saw how the light touched him, how kindness seemed to live in his very bones.

And he felt unworthy. Unwanted. Unforgiven. Broken.

When the scent of Shen Song’s heat reached him that day, Huo Ying crossed the room before he could think, before he could remember that this was the man he had sworn to protect. His hands, trained for war, had no language for gentleness.

His touch was too rough, too desperate, pure instinct, hunger, and self-loathing. Shen Song didn’t resist, but when he finished, he didn’t look at him either. He just lied there, bleeding, trembling, his pale skin streaked with red where Huo Ying’s fingers had pressed too hard.

Huo Ying stared at his hands and felt shame rise in his throat. He wanted to speak, to beg forgiveness, to say something, anything, but the words were choked off by a familiar, growing heat in his veins.

Embarrassed, he just fled the bedroom when the omega's scent began to fade.

Later, when the poison’s effects had worn off and dawn bled gray through the lattice windows, Huo Ying found himself alone. Shen Song had gone into the garden, barefoot, silent, as if his body still remembered how to endure pain without breaking.

Huo Ying watched him from the veranda, a distant figure among the dew-bright leaves. Something inside him ached to reach out, to beg to be seen again as something other than a monster. And when the poison finally loosened its hold, he tried.

He was unbearably gentle that moment.

He took Shen Song into the village, his hand steady at the omega’s waist, guiding him through the crowd. The air smelled of roasted chestnuts and sweet bean cakes. Vendors called out, their voices softening when they saw the general, and softer still when they saw the pale omega by his side.

Shen Song tasted a piece of candied plum, the sugar catching at the corner of his lips. Huo Ying couldn’t look away.

Instead, he reached for another sweetness from the vendor and placed it in Shen Song’s palm. “Eat,” he said quietly. “You’ve grown thin.”

They walked until dusk, until the sun dipped low over the tiled roofs.

Huo Ying looked at him then, truly looked, and for a brief, fragile moment, he was the husband he had sworn never to be. His mind was clear, his blood his own.

But when they returned to court, the air grew heavy again. The Emperor’s summons came before dawn, a cup of wine, a hand at the back of his neck, the soft kiss of poison in his veins.

By the time he rode home, the world had changed. The fever was back. His heart burned with someone else’s will. The Emperor’s mark returned like fire, and with it, the feverish clarity of control. It filled his lungs, turning guilt into rage. The world blurred again.

When he looked at Shen Song that night, the sweetness turned to ash.

“Get rid of him.”

The Emperor said it so lightly, so calmly, that for a moment Huo Ying thought he had misheard.

“Excuse me, Your Majesty?”

“You heard me.” The Emperor didn’t even glance up from the scroll in his hand. “Get rid of him. Shen Song. Take him somewhere quiet, a fall from a horse, a slip on the mountain road. Accidents happen when there’s snow in the valley.”

The blood drained from Huo Ying’s face. “Your Highness…”

At that, the Emperor finally looked at him. His smile was gentle. Almost kind. “Just do it, Huo Ying. And I will give you what you want—freedom in my chambers, every night. No more waiting. No more asking.”

Huo Ying’s throat tightened. “Yes, but…”

“Then show me,” the Emperor interrupted softly, leaning back in his chair. "Show me again why I chose you, Huo Ying. Show me you still belong to me.”

Huo Ying never questioned orders. Never faltered, never failed. But this time, standing in the doorway, watching Shen Song’s eyes lift toward him in quiet hope, he knew he was going to.

“Oh, there you are,” Shen Song greeted, his smile soft, the corners of his lips trembling, afraid to hope too much. He was dressed in pale blue, his hair tied back with delicate silver clips that glimmered in the lantern light.

“What?” Huo Ying asked, his voice rougher than he meant.

“The lanterns are already lit,” Shen Song said gently. “Can we go?”

Huo Ying’s brows furrowed. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Shen Song.”

The smile faded, leaving something fragile in its place. “Just for a moment,” Shen Song murmured. “I only need to take the lanterns to the river.”

He hesitated, then added, almost shyly, “We light the river lanterns so the spirits can find their way home, so they’re not lost in the dark.”

He looked down at the two paper lanterns he had made himself, painted with soft strokes of white chrysanthemums. “I made one for our child,” he said quietly. 

The words landed like a blade turned inward. Huo Ying’s throat worked, but no sound came. Shen Song’s grief was so clean, so unguarded, it made the Emperor’s command echo in his mind like a curse.

“Just a moment,” Shen Song repeated. “Then we’ll come back, Huo Ying.”

Huo Ying followed him. He didn’t remember deciding to, didn’t remember taking his cloak or the lantern Shen Song pressed into his hands. The night air bit cold against his skin, and yet the faint scent of mulled incense trailed from Shen Song’s sleeves, softening the edges of everything.

They walked in silence through the courtyard and down toward the river that cut along the valley’s edge. Snow clung to the stones, melting where their boots pressed, the hush of their steps broken only by the soft flutter of paper lanterns brushing against Shen Song’s robe.

The world was quiet, holy almost. Only the whisper of the current, the faint crackle of candles beneath paper shells. Shen Song knelt by the bank, his breath misting in the air as he lowered one lantern to the water. The flame caught and trembled, reflecting the ripples that carried it away.

Huo Ying stood behind him, the Emperor’s words echoing in his skull. 'Get rid of him'. The command had the weight of law, but here, now, it felt obscene.

“Do you believe they can see us?” Shen Song asked softly, not turning around. “The ones who’ve gone before?”

Huo Ying swallowed hard. “If they can,” he said after a long moment, “I hope they look away.”

Shen Song glanced up at him then, his tiny eyes glimmering in the light of the floating flame. “Why?”

Because he couldn’t bear for the dead to see what he’d become. Because his hands, made to protect, had been used to serve a man who had poisoned him in more ways than one. Because tonight, the same hands that steadied the lantern could have ended Shen Song’s life.

But he only said, low and hoarse, “Because they should rest in peace, not carry the weight of the living, Shen Song.”

Shen Song looked back at the river, his expression unreadable, the reflection of the lantern fire trembling in his eyes. He released the second lantern and watched it drift, two small flames disappearing into the dark.

Huo Ying’s hand twitched at his side. The command still pulsed in his blood, an accident, a fall, a body lost to the current. It would be easy. The river was deep, the night cold. No one would suspect a thing. There would be no body for several days. Not until the river returned it, bloated and disfigured.

The night would keep its secret. But Shen Song’s voice broke the thought apart.

“Do you think she would have looked like you?” he whispered, eyes on the water, the lanterns tilted, one brushing the other, flames dancing on paper, fragile and golden in the black water.

For a heartbeat, Huo Ying couldn’t breathe. That was the perfect moment, Shen Song squatting on the riverbed did not hear the general draw his sword.

The lanterns drifted farther, two stars swallowed by black water. Huo Ying stepped closer, the scent of snow and smoke thick between them...

Chapter Text

The river flowed quietly, its soft ripples the only sound in the dark night. Shen Song stood still, his throat tight as Huo Ying’s sword pressed against his skin. The blade was cold, sharp, drawing a thin line of blood that trickled down his neck. He didn’t move, didn’t  scream, only whispered, “Be quick, please.”

His voice was calm but strained, heavy with exhaustion. He was ready for it to end, here, by the river, under the cold sky. His life had been one of quiet suffering, always unseen, always alone. Now, it seemed, that loneliness would follow him to death.

Huo Ying’s hand shook, the sword nicking deeper, another drop of blood sliding down Shen Song’s collarbone. 

“Why don’t you run?” Huo Ying demanded, his voice rough with anger and pain. “Why don’t you fight, Shen Song?”

Shen Song looked up, his small eyes meeting Huo Ying’s. Tears glistened but didn’t fall. “Because I love you,” he said softly. “Even now. If this is what you need, then do it, Huo Ying.”

He reached up, pulling his long hair to one side, exposing the back of his neck. The gesture was deliberate, a silent surrender. His heart pounded, fear and grief mixing as he braced for the end. He thought of the letters he’d written, the empty bed, the child he’d lost, and the rare moments when Huo Ying had seemed to care. A quiet sob escaped him, but he shut his eyes, waiting.

The blade didn’t move.

Instead, it pulled back, clattering to the stones. Shen Song opened his eyes to see Huo Ying stumble back, his face twisted with anguish. “I can’t,” he said, his voice breaking. “I can’t do it, Shen Song.”

Shen Song’s legs nearly gave out, but he steadied himself. “Huo Ying…?”

“Go,” Huo Ying said, his voice low and desperate. “Run. Get far away from here. From me. From him.” His eyes were wet, his fists clenched. “Take what you need. Gold, anything. Just go!”

Shen Song hesitated, his chest tight with pain. “But you...”

“Go!” Huo Ying shouted, the sound carrying over the river. “Before I change my mind. Before he makes me.”

Tears streamed down Shen Song’s face. He turned and ran, his boots crunching on the frosty ground, his robes catching on branches. He didn’t look back.

Huo Ying sank to his knees by the river, his breath coming in harsh gasps. He had failed, failed the Emperor, failed himself, failed to end the one person who made him question everything. He pulled a dagger from his belt, its blade catching the moonlight. Without a word, he pressed it to his forearm, next to the scars already there. The cut was quick, blood welling up and dripping onto the stones.

He stared at the wound, the pain sharp and real, a punishment for his weakness. 

By morning, Huo Ying returned to their home, his steps heavy, his arm throbbing where he’d cut himself the night before. The dagger had bitten deep, blood crusting next to older scars. He expected an empty house, a silent confirmation that Shen Song had fled. Instead, he found Shen Song in the courtyard, kneeling by a low table, grinding herbs with a mortar and pestle. His robes were torn, streaked with dirt from the night, but his face was steady, his small eyes fixed on his work.

“You’re here,” Huo Ying said, his voice hoarse, disbelief warring with relief.

Shen Song didn’t look up. His hands moved with practiced precision, crushing dried leaves into a fine powder. “Sit down, Huo Ying.”

Huo Ying froze, his gaze dropping to the fresh cut on his forearm, the blood still seeping through the cloth he’d tied around it. “You don’t need to...”

“Sit,” Shen Song said, his voice firm, a quiet strength Huo Ying had never fully seen. Reluctantly, Huo Ying sank onto a stool, his armor creaking. Shen Song approached, carrying a bowl of salve and clean bandages. His fingers were gentle but sure as he unwrapped the cloth, revealing the raw wound. 

Huo Ying flinched, but Shen Song’s touch held him still.

“Why did you come back?” Huo Ying asked, his voice barely above a whisper. 

Shen Song paused, his hands hovering over the cut. “Because you’re my alpha,” he said simply. “Even if you don’t believe it. Even if the Emperor doesn't want me here. I won’t let you go, Huo Ying. Not without a fight.”

He applied the salve, its sharp scent filling the air, and began wrapping the wound with clean cloth. His touch was careful, a silent vow. Huo Ying watched, his chest tight with something he couldn’t name, guilt, gratitude, or perhaps the first stirrings of hope.

“You should’ve run,” Huo Ying said, but the words lacked conviction.

Shen Song tied on the bandage and finally met his eyes. “And you should’ve killed me,” he said softly. “But you didn’t. So here we are.”

Shen Song’s hands lingered on Huo Ying’s arm, a fragile bridge between them. Huo Ying didn’t pull away.

The courtyard was still in the early light, frost veining the stone paths and clinging to the plum blossoms like shards of glass. A faint trail of smoke rose from the brazier, carrying the sharp scent of balsam and crushed herbs. Beneath it, something gentler lingered, an undertone of chrysanthemum and camellia, clean and warm, rising from Shen Song’s hair as he leaned over the table to pack away the ointments and bandages.

Huo Ying sat on the low bench, his arm bare, the white linen still faintly stained with blood. He watched in silence as Shen Song tied the last jar closed, movements steady and unhurried. It struck him then—how unshaken he seemed, even after the night’s chaos, the sword pressed to his throat, the whispered order to run. Shen Song’s calm wasn’t born of ignorance,  it was the stillness of someone who had already lived through worse and survived.

“You should rest,” Huo Ying said at last, his voice roughened by fatigue.

Shen Song straightened, looking up at the paling sky. “I’m not tired,” he said simply. Then, glancing back at him, softer, “But you are. Sit with me. The cold will clear your mind."

Huo Ying obeyed without thinking. He rose and joined him beneath the eaves, the stone bench cold even through their robes. Frost glittered on the branches above them, the first sunlight turned the courtyard pale gold. For a long moment, neither spoke.

Then Shen Song shifted, and Huo Ying saw it, the thin line of blood at his neck, a remnant from where the blade had grazed him. The sight struck like a blade to the gut. Slowly, wordlessly, Huo Ying reached for a clean cloth, his hand trembled once before steadying.

“Let me,” he said.

Shen Song didn’t move as Huo Ying leaned closer. The cloth was cold where it met warm skin. Huo Ying wiped the dried blood from the curve of Shen Song’s throat, careful as if touching something sacred.  He had washed wounds before, on soldiers, on enemies, on himself, but never like this. Never with such unbearable gentleness.

As the minutes passed, the scent grew stronger, enveloping Huo Ying like a silent invitation. It wasn't overpowering, not like the heavy incense of the palace, but intimate, Shen Song's natural omega warmth mixed with the light herbal perfume he must have applied that morning.

Huo Ying took a deep breath, unintentionally, and felt a tug in his chest. He turned his head slightly, his eyes trailing back the line of Shen Song's neck, the way his hair fell loosely over one shoulder, still tangled from his nighttime run through the trees.

"Your scent... it's different," Huo Ying said, the words escaping before he could stop them. His voice was rough, almost hesitant.

Huo Ying shook his head, leaning closer without thinking. The scent filled his senses now, drawing him in, awakening something deep and instinctive, the long-ignored attraction of an alpha to his omega. His hand moved on its own, brushing a strand of hair from Shen Song's face. The touch was light, and Shen Song didn't pull away, instead turning to Huo Ying, his small eyes meeting his directly.

"Why did you stayed?" Huo Ying asked again, his voice softer this time, thick with admiration. "I held a sword to your throat. I told you to go."

Shen Song's expression didn't waver. “Because leaving you would mean giving up, on you, on what’s left of us.” He gripped Huo Ying's hand. "I've endured worse than a blade. I stayed because I know you're trapped, by duty, by whatever power he has over you. I won't let you die, Huo Ying."

Huo Ying held his breath. He'd always seen Shen Song as fragile, a silent omega, easily forgotten, bent under the weight of neglect. But there, in the cold light, with that scent enveloping him and Shen Song's words breaking through the barriers he had built, Huo Ying saw the truth. Shen Song was strong, unyielding in his quiet way, his resilience forged in silence and pain. And compelling, not just in the curve of his neck or the softness of his eyes, but in the fire that burned beneath, the kind of fire that could pull a man back from the brink of ruin.

Without a word, Huo Ying closed the distance, his hand cupping Shen Song's face. Their foreheads touched, their breaths mingling in the cool air. The scent was intoxicating now, pulling Huo Ying down, breaking through the barriers.

"You are stronger than I ever imagined," he murmured, his thumb tracing Shen Song's jaw. "And I... I don't deserve you."

Shen Song's hand rose to cover his, holding it there.

They sat like that, the cold forgotten. For the first time, Huo Ying felt as a man worthy of saving.

Chapter Text

The brazier smoke curled in thin gray strands, carrying the sweet, metallic scent of sandalwood and rage. Huo Ying knelt before him, head bowed.

“You didn’t do it,” the Emperor said at last, his voice soft, too soft to sounds safe. “He's still alive.”

Huo Ying didn’t answer. His pulse thudded behind his eyes.

The Emperor turned, lifted the porcelain wine cup from the table, and hurled it. It struck Huo Ying across the temple, shattering on impact. The sound was sharp, the pain brief but hot, blood dripping into his eye.

“You think I don’t know disobedience when I smell it?” The Emperor’s voice cut low, almost a whisper. “Do you take me for a fool, Huo Ying?”

Huo Ying bowed deeper, the metallic taste of blood at the corner of his mouth. “I'm waiting for the right moment, Your Majesty.”

The Emperor descended the dais slowly, robes whispering against the marble floor. He stopped before Huo Ying and grasped his chin, forcing his face up. His fingers were cold, the nails digging slightly into skin.

“The right moment?” His smile was thin. “The order was clear. Kill the omega, end the liability. Instead, my loyal general spares him, hides him like a...” he paused, savoring the word, “lover.”

Huo Ying’s jaw tensed. “He is close to the Sixth Prince,” he said, voice steady but low. “If Shen Song dies suddenly, it will raise questions, suspicion toward you, toward me. The court is restless as it is. A delay ensures silence.”

The Emperor’s gaze narrowed, studying him. The silence stretched, taut and suffocating. Then, with a small, amused exhale, he released him.

“Still the strategist,” he said, turning away. “Always thinking of survival. Very well. But you will not take long.”

He walked back toward the window, where the pale moon light filtered through silk screens. “The poison in your veins will remind you who you belong to. If the omega still breathes by the next full moon, I’ll let the court question which master you serve.”

Huo Ying bowed again, his forehead nearly touching the floor. “As you command.”

The Emperor’s tone softened, dangerous again. “Good. Now, come here.”

Huo Ying hesitated, but only for a breath. Then he rose, crossing the short distance between them. The Emperor’s hand brushed his cheek, fingers smearing a line of blood there like a mark of possession.

“You bleed so easily for me,” he murmured. “It’s almost poetic.”

Huo Ying didn’t flinch. He stood still, empty, until the Emperor withdrew.

When he was dismissed, Huo Ying walked through the palace corridors like a ghost. The courtiers bowed low as he passed, but he barely saw them. His wound had stopped bleeding, though each pulse brought a dull ache behind his eye. He thought of the Emperor’s touch, the cold command in his voice.

Double the poison.

He reached the outer gates, the chill of evening washing over him, and drew in a long breath.

Halfway down the path to his horse, he stopped. His hand slipped into his sleeve, fingers closing around a folded scrap of cloth. He drew it out carefully, as if afraid it might crumble.

The cloth was faintly stained with dried blood, the blood he had wiped from Shen Song’s throat that morning. He lifted it to his face.

The scent was faint now, but still there: herbs, camellia oil, and chrysanthemums beneath it. It cut through the Emperor’s poison, through the taste of blood in his mouth, through the crawling shame.

For a moment, the world stilled.

He closed his eyes and breathed it in again, deeper this time. His hands stopped shaking. The tightness in his chest eased, just a little.

When he opened his eyes, the palace was behind him, all gold and deceit. Ahead, the road wound toward the quiet compound where Shen Song waited, if he still waited.

Huo Ying mounted his horse, the cloth still clutched in his hand. He just want to go home.

The wind had turned sharp by the time Huo Ying reached the gate. Lanterns flickered low, their paper skins trembling in the night air. Frost was gathering along the edges of the courtyard stones, pale and thin, like a web the dawn would soon erase.

He dismounted without a sound. His steps were heavy, the weight of armor and blood mingled, the wound at his temple reopening with each breath. 

The house was quiet. Only one lamp still burned inside.

Shen Song was there, seated by the brazier, robe half-fallen from one shoulder, reading by the dying light. He looked up at the faint creak of the door. His small eyes softened, but the calm didn’t last. He saw the blood.

“Huo Ying?” His voice was barely above a whisper, but the question in it was sharp as a blade.

“It’s nothing,” Huo Ying said, too quickly. He closed the door behind him. “A mistake during training.”

Shen Song set the scroll aside. “Training doesn’t leave wounds like that.” He rose and crossed the room, his bare feet silent against the floorboards. “Sit down.”

“I told you, it’s nothing.”

But Shen Song was already reaching for him, fingers brushing the line of blood that streaked down from his temple. The touch was light, clinical, and yet it made Huo Ying flinch. He turned his face away.

Shen Song’s voice softened. “You don’t have to hide from me.”

Huo Ying sat at last, the movement slow. Shen Song fetched a bowl of warm water, a cloth, and the same salve he had used on him before. He worked without a word, cleaning the wound, dabbing away the blood that trailed down his jaw.

When Shen Song spoke again, it was almost to himself.  “Too shallow to kill, too cruel to be an accident.”

Huo Ying’s jaw tightened. “You read too much into things, Shen Song.”

Shen Song ignored him. He soaked the cloth again, wrung it out, and pressed it gently to the side of Huo Ying’s face. The warmth stung, and Huo Ying drew in a sharp breath.

“You saw him again,” Shen Song said quietly.

The words hung between them.

Huo Ying didn’t answer.

Shen Song set the cloth down, his fingers still on Huo Ying’s cheek, forcing him to meet his eyes. “He hurt you,” he said, more firmly now. “Did he punish you for sparing me, Huo Ying?”

The silence that followed was a confession.

Shen Song’s expression didn’t break, but his throat moved as if swallowing pain. “You should have killed me,” he whispered, the words trembling. “It would have been easier.”

Huo Ying’s breath caught. “Don’t say that.”

“Then tell me why,” Shen Song demanded, voice rising for the first time. “Why you let him do this to you. Why you let him use you like this?”

Huo Ying reached out before he could think, catching Shen Song’s wrist. The strength in his grip startled them both. His voice was low, almost broken.

“Because I had nothing else to live for.”

The truth slipped out, raw and unguarded. For a moment, they only stared at each other, both trapped, both bleeding in their own way.

Then Shen Song’s hand relaxed in his grasp. He pulled it free gently and placed it over Huo Ying’s heart, where the armor ended and the pulse beat hard beneath the thin layer of cloth.

Huo Ying closed his eyes. He could still feel the Emperor’s hand on his face, still hear the order echoing in his skull: kill him. But here, in this quiet house that smelled of herbs and clean skin, that command felt faint, almost distant.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he murmured.

“Let me help you.” Shen Song said, his voice barely a whisper.

Huo Ying didn’t answer. His hand trembled once before resting over Shen Song’s, pressing it to his chest.

For days, the fever rose and fell in waves. His body ached, his vision blurred, the Emperor’s poison working its will through his veins. He tried to hide it, but Shen Song saw everything.

The omega moved quietly through the house, as he always had, but there was something different now: a stillness sharpened by intent.

One evening, Huo Ying woke to the scent of bitter herbs boiling over a low flame. Shen Song was bent over the brazier, sleeves rolled up, eyes fixed on the mortar.

“What are you doing?” Huo Ying’s voice came hoarse, ragged.

“Saving you,” Shen Song answered simply, without looking up.

Huo Ying pushed himself up on the bedding, wincing. “You can’t...”

“I can,” Shen Song interrupted, soft but unyielding. He set the pestle down, hands steady despite the tremor in his breath. "At least, I can try, Huo Ying."

Huo Ying’s jaw tightened. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, quietly, “You shouldn’t have married me, Shen Song.”

“That's you saying or the poison?” Shen Song turned to face him then, eyes bright with something fierce and unbearably sad. “He’s killing you slowly.”

Huo Ying’s laugh was hollow. “He already has.”

Shen Song came closer, kneeling before him. “Then let me try to take it back.”

Huo Ying looked at him. At the fragile defiance in those tiny eyes, the stubborn compassion that refused to break. And something in him cracked.

“The poison,” he said quietly, his voice raw, “it isn’t always there. Sometimes it fades. Sometimes I can breathe. And in those moments…” His hand lifted, trembling, finding Shen Song’s wrist. “In those moments, I remember what it means to be myself.”

Shen Song’s breath hitched, but he did not pull away. “Then we’ll find a way to make those moments last.”

“You don’t understand,” Huo Ying whispered, shaking his head. “If he finds out...”

“He will.” Shen Song’s tone didn’t waver. “And when he does, we'll be ready.”

For a long heartbeat, the only sound was the crackle of the brazier, the soft simmer of the brew.

Then Huo Ying said, low and broken, “You’ll die for this, omega.”

Shen Song smiled faintly, his fingers brushing Huo Ying’s scarred hand. “Then let me die trying to free you, not watching you rot.”

The poison hadn’t touched him for three days.  Three days of silence that felt almost like mercy.

Shen Song’s medicine was working, or perhaps the Emperor’s leash had simply slackened. Either way, Huo Ying could breathe again, and for the first time in months, his mind was his own.

He found Shen Song in the courtyard at dusk, trimming the lantern wicks. The air was thick with the scent of wet earth and sandalwood. The omega’s hair was loose, falling like ink down his back.

“You shouldn’t be outside in the cold,” Huo Ying said.

Shen Song didn’t look up. “You shouldn’t be alive.”

The words were calm, almost conversational, but they landed with  truth.

Huo Ying stepped closer. “And yet, I'm still here.”

Shen Song finally turned. “I’ve been dosing you like a condemned man, Huo Ying.” His eyes searched Huo Ying’s face, the way a physician searches for a pulse. “Do you even remember what it feels like to be free?”

Huo Ying hesitated. His breath clouded in the cold air. “No,” he said at last. “But I remember wanting to be.”

Something in Shen Song’s expression softened, the fragile worry collapsing into something quieter. “Then remember that, if nothing else. Wanting is still human.” He reached out, carefully, as if afraid the wrong touch would wake the poison again, and pressed his palm against Huo Ying’s chest. Beneath the skin, the heartbeat was strong, uneven.

“There,” Shen Song whispered. “That’s yours. Not his.”

For a moment, Huo Ying couldn’t speak. The warmth of that touch, gentle, was unbearable.

“You shouldn’t touch me like that,” he murmured, though he made no move to pull away.

“And why not?” Shen Song asked, voice steady now. “You’ve already taken everything else.”

The words weren’t cruel. They were simply true. And that truth, more than the poison, more than the Emperor’s chains, was what hits Huo Ying deeply.

He caught Shen Song’s wrist before he could withdraw his hand. “Then let me give it back,” he said hoarsely. “Whatever I can. Whatever’s left.”

The omega’s eyes shone in the half-light. “You can’t give back what was taken. But you can stop letting him take more.”

Huo Ying bowed his head. Not like a soldier begging for forgiveness, but like a simply man.

"I want to be free," he repeated, and this time it wasn't a memory.

Shen Song gave a weak smile. The night thickened around them.

And somewhere, far away in the palace, the Emperor stirred, as if he could feel the first thread of his control beginning to fray.

Chapter Text

The summons arrived at dawn.

A messenger in uniform, mud still drying on his boots, bowed low before Huo Ying and handed him the sealed order. Shen Song watched from across the hall, a fur drawn around his shoulders against the chill.

When the messenger was dismissed, Huo Ying broke the seal, read the short command, and exhaled.

“The northern garrison,” he said. “There’s been a border dispute. His Majesty wants it resolved before it grows.”

Shen Song stood very still. “You’ll leave today?”

“Before noon.”

He nodded slowly. There was nothing to say that would change it. Huo Ying was a general, duty called, and duty was never gentle.

"I'll prepare something for you to take," Shen Song finally said.

Huo Ying looked at him. "Don't you trust what's already prepared?"

Shen Song stared at him firmly. "I trust no beyond these walls."

This made Huo Ying's mouth curve slightly, not quite a smile, but something close. "You've become more cunning, Shen Song."

"I'm tired of dying," he said softly.

They fell silent again, the distance between them smaller than ever.

When the time came, Shen Song followed him to the gate. The morning light was dim, the kind that made everything seem softer, less safe. The soldiers mounted their horses, the commander tightening his gloves.

Huo Ying turned to him before mounting. His expression was serene, as always, but his eyes lingered on Shen Song longer than usual.

"Take care," he said.

"I always do, Huo Ying."

Huo Ying hesitated, then extended his hand to Shen Song. His fingers were warm, calloused, firm. He lifted his hand slowly, without ceremony, and pressed his lips to the back of it.

Shen Song froze, surprised. The gesture wasn't passionate, nor formal, but it was real.

When Huo Ying released him, he simply said, "I'll be back soon."

Shen Song's voice was calm when he answered, though his chest thudded loudly. "I'll be here waiting."

This drew a faint smile from Huo Ying. "Then I must return quickly. I'd hate to keep you waiting any longer."

He mounted his horse, gave a brief order, and the small company rode out the gates.

Shen Song remained there for a long time, even after the sound of hooves had faded. The courtyard was silent, the air cool against his skin.

He wished the days would pass quickly.

The days after Huo Ying’s departure stretched into weeks.

Shen Song filled them with work. He spent hours at his desk, copying medical texts, mixing salves, refining tonics. It was easier to lose himself in the quiet rhythm of preparation than to face the silence that pressed in around the house.

When the evenings grew cold, he lit the lamps himself. The servants offered, but he refused. He trusted few of them now.

He told himself he was simply tired. That the dull ache behind his eyes, the tremor in his hands, the faint nausea after meals, all of it came from sleeplessness, not sickness. He drank the tonics left by his attendants, too distracted to notice the faint metallic taste beneath the sweetness.

Soon, even the act of standing grew difficult. His head spun when he bent too long over the table. He began to forget small things, words, dates, the order of his own notes. When he tried to light the lamps one night, the flame wavered in his hand, and he had to sit before he fainted.

By the time he realized something was wrong, it was already too late.

He found the residue at the bottom of a teacup, a fine, pale dust that clung to the porcelain. His heart hammered, but his limbs would not obey him. He stumbled toward the door, calling for help, but the sound that left his throat was thin, almost voiceless.

Then the world dimmed.

When Huo Ying returned, the manor was silent.

The servants bowed low when he entered, their eyes averted. The scent of sickness hung in the air.

He found Shen Song in his study, half-slumped over his desk, the ink on his sleeve smudged from where he had fallen asleep, or tried not to. His skin was pale, his lips dry, his breathing shallow.

Huo Ying froze, the color draining from his face. “Song?”

Shen Song stirred faintly, his eyes struggling to focus. “You’re back.”

“What happened?”

He tried to smile, but it came out as a wince. “I worked too much. I... must have forgotten to rest.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

The sharpness in his voice startled even himself. Huo Ying lifted him gently, feeling how light he’d grown, how frail. The scent of medicine clung to him, but beneath it was something bitter, unnatural.

Before he could speak again, footsteps sounded behind him.

Shu He’s voice cut through the silence. “You left him to rot in your own house.”

Huo Ying turned, his face hard. “Your Highness?”

“I should’ve watched them sooner,” He gestured to Shen Song, trembling faintly in Huo Ying’s arms. “This is what safety looks like under your care?”

Shen Song tried to speak, but Shu He’s anger filled the room. “Huo Ying, you follow the emperor’s orders so blindly you can’t even see when his poison walks through your own doors?”

Something flickered across Huo Ying’s face, guilt, confusion, the dawning realization of how deep the emperor’s reach had gone. Again.

“I didn’t know,” he said quietly.

“You never do,” Shu He answered, voice low now, but every word precise. “And that’s what makes you dangerous.”

Huo Ying didn’t reply. He carried Shen Song to the bed and called for hot water, his hands trembling.

When Shen Song’s eyes fluttered open again, he tried to reach for him. “You came back,” he whispered.

“I came back,” Huo Ying said, his voice unsteady.

“You shouldn’t have come in the rain, Huo Ying.”

“Who did this?” His tone was low, dangerous.

“No one,” Shen Song murmured. “Just foolishness on my part. I drank what was brought to me without thinking. I was tired.”

Huo Ying’s jaw tightened. “You promised to take care of yourself, Shen Song.”

“I did.” A fragile smile touched Shen Song’s lips. “Apparently not very well.”

For a moment, the only sound was the rain against the eaves. Then Huo Ying turned sharply toward the door. “Fetch the physician. Now.”

Shen Song’s hand lifted weakly, brushing against his wrist. “No need. I’ve purged most of it. I just need rest.”

Huo Ying looked down at that hand, small, cold, trembling, and something in his chest twisted. “You think I’ll rest knowing someone dared to poison you under my roof?”

Shen Song tried to sit up, and Huo Ying was there before he could fall, steadying him with a hand against his back. Shen Song stiffened at the contact, but did not pull away.

Huo Ying’s voice softened. “You can dismiss whoever you wish from this house. I should have said that long ago. You’re the master here as much as I am, Sen Song.”

Shen Song’s lashes lifted slightly. “Am I?”

“Yes...” He broke off, the rest caught in his throat. He sank to one knee beside the couch, his armor creaking softly. “Song’er, I cannot undo what’s been done. But from this night forward, no one will touch what’s yours without my word.”

There was something raw in his voice, not pride, not anger, but a kind of restrained desperation that made Shen Song’s heart ache.

“You should rest in your own room, Huo Ying,” Shen Song said softly, turning his face away.

“No.”

The word came too quickly, too certain. Huo Ying steadied his breath before speaking again. “I won’t leave you alone again.”

Shen Song’s eyes flicked toward him, faintly startled. 

The lamp flickered between them, light brushing across their faces. Shen Song’s expression was unreadable for a long moment. Then, finally, he said, “If you insist.”

Huo Ying rose and began removing the plates of his armor, setting them aside with care. Shen Song watched in silence, his fingers twisting lightly in the silk of his robe.

When the last of the metal was gone, Huo Ying sat on the edge of the bed. “Sleep,” he said quietly.

Shen Song turned his face toward the window, toward the slow, steady rhythm of the rain. His voice, when it came, was soft. “You sound like a man who’s afraid.”

Huo Ying’s gaze did not waver. “I am.”

There was no more to say after that.

When Shen Song finally closed his eyes, Huo Ying sat beside him, motionless, watching the rise and fall of his breath. Every so often, he reached out, not to touch, but to assure himself that the fragile rhythm continued.

Outside, the rain eased, leaving only the soft drip of water from the eaves. 

Chapter Text

The gardens were still in bloom despite the season’s turn, white lotuses scattered across the pond like lost stars, their scent faint but persistent. The air was cool, carrying the promise of rain.

Shen Song walked slowly, his steps careful along the stone path. Shu He matched his pace, hands clasped behind his back, eyes flicking now and then to his friend’s face.

“You should not be out so soon,” Shu He said at last. “Your strength would take months to return, Shen Song.”

Shen Song smiled faintly. “I have spent days lying still. If I do not walk, I shall forget how.”

“You might forget how to breathe before that,” Shu He muttered. “You grow paler each time I see you.”

“I am flattered you notice.”

“That was not a compliment.”

Shu He’s voice was sharp, but his gaze softened when Shen Song turned toward him. For a moment, neither spoke. The rustle of the reeds filled the silence between them.

Then Shu He exhaled slowly. “Tell me again what you found, Shen Song.”

Shen Song's hand brushed against the low hedge beside the path. "One of the servants, he was there when I... When I fell off the bridge, but I don't remember asking him for anything. For nights he came to bring me tea, I was focused and didn't realize..."

Shu He clenched his jaw. "Poison?"

"I can't taste it. But the smell... was wrong. Bitter, metallic. After I drank it, everything seemed... changed, Shu He."

"The emperor has become bolder than I feared." Shu He stopped walking, his expression grim. "Sending such a thing to your house isn't audacity, Shen Song. It's refined cruelty."

"Cruelty is an old habit of his," Shen Song said calmly. "He doesn't abandon what pleases him."

Shu He turned to face him head-on. "And yet you stand here, calm as if you're talking about the weather. Nothing arouses your anger anymore?"

Shen Song's lips curved, though not in amusement. "Anger, yes. But anger is for those who still believe it will change anything. I've learned better."

Shu He reached out, closing his hand briefly around Shen Song's wrist. "You speak as if you've already surrendered."

"I haven't," Shen Song replied, meeting his gaze. "But I'm learning which battles can be won, and if the son of heaven has decided he wants me dead, I don't know if I can fight that."

Shu He’s grip tightened for a moment, his fingers cold despite the late sun.

“Don’t say that,” he said quietly. “You’ve fought worse things than him.”

Shen Song gave a faint shake of his head. “No. I’ve fought my own body. But not a throne.”

The Sixth Prince was silent for a long time. He turned his gaze toward the pond, where a single lotus petal drifted away from the others. “When I was a child,” he said at last, “I thought my brother’s power was a gift. I thought he could do anything he wished because Heaven had chosen him. Now I see it’s a sickness that infects everyone around him. He breaks things simply to remind himself he can, Shen Song.”

Shen Song studied his friend’s face, the tightness in his jaw, the old weariness that had no place on someone so young. “You speak too freely,” he said softly.

“I speak because no one else dares,” Shu He replied. “If I do not, who will stand between you and him?”

“You can’t stand between the emperor and anyone,” Shen Song said. “You’re his brother, Shu He.”

Shu He’s laugh was short, bitter. “That’s the only reason I’m still alive.”

The two walked on. The wind picked up, bending the reeds at the water’s edge. Somewhere nearby, a crane took flight, its wings cutting clean through the silence.

After a while, Shen Song said, “I have dismissed most of the servants. The rest I’ve chosen myself. Still, I can’t be sure who’s loyal.”

“You should have left the capital,” Shu He said. “The emperor won’t rest while you still draw breath.”

“And where would I go? Every road leads back to him. Besides…” Shen Song hesitated, his eyes lowering to the path. “Huo Ying would never follow me.”

Shu He’s expression darkened. “He should have seen this coming. He should have protected you.”

“He protects me in his own way,” Shen Song said. “When he’s here, I can almost forget the poison.”

“That isn’t protection,” Shu He said. “That’s the emperor’s chain around both your necks.”

Shen Song smiled faintly, tiredly. “Perhaps. But even a chain can warm in the hand if you hold it long enough.”

Shu He looked at him then his anger faltered. “You’ve changed.”

“I’ve learned to survive,” Shen Song answered. “It’s not the same thing, Shu He.” 

They reached the end of the path. The sky was deepening, the first drops of rain beginning to fall. Shu He opened his sleeve and held it above Shen Song’s head, a small gesture of protection.

“Let’s go inside,” Shu He said gently. “You’re still recovering.”

Shen Song’s steps slowed. “Recovery implies there’s something to return to,” he murmured. “I’m not sure what that is anymore.”

“Yourself,” Shu He replied. His tone was soft, but certain.

Shen Song glanced back at him, the faintest curve at the corner of his lips. “If I find him, I’ll be sure to let you know.”

Shu He held his gaze for a long moment, then asked quietly, “And if he comes for you again?”

Shen Song’s eyes drifted upward, to the low gray sky pressing against the garden walls. “Then I hope you’ll remember me kindly,” he said, “and not as a man who waited to be saved.”

Something flickered in Shu He’s expression, grief, perhaps, or a kind of helpless affection. His voice, when it came, was low. “You make it very difficult for anyone to save you, Song’er.”

Shen Song’s smile was barely there, but it reached his eyes. “That’s the only way I’ve learned to stay alive.”

“You’re not alone,” Shu He said quietly. “Not while I still draw breath.”

Shen Song turned to him, the faintest flicker of warmth in his tired eyes. “Then, Shu He, you’d better live a very long time.”

The prince’s answering smile was brief but real. “I intend to.”

Huo Ying stood by the window, watching the garden beyond, two figures, walking slowly along the covered path.

Shu He’s laughter carried faintly through the rain. Shen Song’s voice answered, softer, steadier than Huo Ying remembered. Their closeness was unguarded, not improper, yet threaded with a quiet understanding that drew the eye like flame in shadow.

When the emperor’s messenger entered, Huo Ying did not turn.

“His Majesty sends his regards, General,” the man said, bowing. “He asks that you join him at the palace tonight. A matter of private counsel.”

Huo Ying’s hands clenched behind his back. “Now?”

“The emperor waits for no one,” the messenger said with a thin smile.

Huo Ying’s gaze lingered on the garden one last time. Shen Song was reaching to adjust the prince’s cloak, his hand lingering a moment too long on the silk. Shu He, as always, was too gentle for his own good.

When the messenger left, Huo Ying remained motionless, the silence pressing against his ribs.

The emperor was waiting in the inner chamber, robes unbound, a single lantern casting his face in uneven light. He looked up as Huo Ying entered, his smile sharp as a blade.

“You hesitate,” the emperor said. “Is the rain too heavy? Or the company too sweet?”

Huo Ying bowed low. “I did not expect to be summoned, Your Highness.”

“Lately, you rarely do.”

The emperor rose, crossing the room with slow, measured grace. His fingers brushed a line across Huo Ying’s cheek, the gesture soft, but his tone anything but. “My brother visits your home often, doesn’t he?”

“He comes to see Shen Song.”

“Ah. Of course.” The emperor’s smile deepened. “My dutiful, grieving little doctor, who needs a prince to comfort him.”

Huo Ying stiffened. 

“Tell me, General, does it comfort you to watch another man soothe your omega?”

Huo Ying’s breath caught, anger flickering through him, though he didn’t know why it felt so heavy crawling through his veins.

The emperor circled him, voice low, silken. “You let him keep his secrets, you let him whisper with my brother, perhaps you enjoy the humiliation. Or perhaps…” he paused, fingers resting against Huo Ying’s throat, feeling the steady pulse beneath the skin, “…you simply need reminding who commands your heart.”

Before Huo Ying could answer, the emperor’s other hand pressed something cold into his palm, a small vial, the same dull porcelain he had seen before.

“Drink,” the emperor murmured. “Your loyalty seems to fade when I leave you too long, Huo Ying.”

Huo Ying stared at it, jaw tight. 

“Devotion, in its purest form.”

“I am already loyal, Your Highness.”

The emperor’s smile softened, almost fond. “Then drink, and prove it.”

The porcelain vial was pressed into his palm. It was cool, almost damp, the faint smell of bitter herbs rising from the stopper. Huo Ying uncorked it with steady fingers. The emperor watched, his gaze sharp and intent.

Huo Ying raised the vial to his lips. The liquid touched his tongue, cold, metallic. He swallowed only enough to wet his throat, then let the rest pool behind his teeth.

The emperor smiled, pleased, and reached out to trace a thumb along his jaw. “Good. You remember who commands your heart.”

Huo Ying bowed again, the taste burning his tongue, and forced himself to murmur, “Always, Your Majesty.”

He turned and left the chamber, each step precise. Only when the heavy doors shut behind him did he move faster, slipping into a shadowed corridor lined with carved screens.

There, at last, he spat the poison into his palm and wiped it against the stone. The liquid hissed faintly as it touched the floor.

For a moment, he leaned against the wall, chest heaving. His pulse roared in his ears. He could feel the faint tremor of what he had swallowed seeping through his veins, enough to make his head swim, not enough to kill.

He needed something to stay awake, to fight it back.

With a low growl, he dragged his sleeve down and tore open the old wound along his forearm, the one that had never quite healed. The pain flared bright and hot, chasing the fog from his mind. Blood welled, dark and real, the only thing in the world that was still his own.

He stayed there until his breathing steadied. Then he straightened, binding the wound with a strip of his cloth, his face once again composed, cold, loyal.

When he stepped back into the night, the rain had begun to fall. He tilted his face to it, letting it wash the bitterness from his mouth.

He would not be the emperor’s dog forever.

Chapter Text

The rain had followed Huo Ying all the way from the palace, soaking through his cloak, chilling him to the bone. He had ridden hard, faster than reason allowed, the taste of the emperor’s potion still faint on his tongue. By the time he dismounted, the world seemed steadier, or perhaps it was only his determination that kept him upright.

He pushed open the door to the east wing without calling for servants. The house was silent, the lamps guttering low. The air carried the faint musk of cedarwood and the bite of rain-soaked leather clinging to him.

Shen Song’s room was half-lit, a single lantern burning near the window. The air inside smelled faintly of oil, perhaps, from the one Shen Song used in his hair. It curled into Huo Ying’s senses, stirring a warmth that battled the cold in his bones.

He paused at the threshold, his breath catching.

Shen Song stood by the bed, his long dark hair unbound, falling past his shoulders in soft waves. He wore only a thin under-robe, a deep indigo, clung to his frame, the fabric tracing the lean lines of his body, his narrow waist, the subtle curve of his hips. He’d been reaching for his hanfu when the door opened, his hand froze, fingers curling into the silk.

Huo Ying stepped inside, shutting the door with a soft click. His wet boots left dark trails on the floor, the lantern light caught the faint tremble in his hands, and the way his cloak dripped with rain.

Shen Song didn’t move away, though every instinct told him to. He held the robe close, fingers tightening around the fabric.

“Huo Ying,” he said softly, his voice steady only because it had to be. “You should change before you fall ill.”

“I will,” Huo Ying murmured, but his gaze lingered on Shen Song, tracing the rise and fall of his chest, the quickening pulse at his throat, the way his lips parted slightly. “You were sleeping?”

“Writing,” Shen Song said, gesturing to the desk where papers lay scattered, ink smudged, a lamp burning low beside an unfinished page. “I must have drifted off.”

Huo Ying crossed the room slowly, the damp fabric of his cloak brushing against his thighs. The scent of rain clung to him, sharp and cold, mingling with the softer scent that filled the room.

“You shouldn’t be awake so late, omega.” Huo Ying said, his voice low, rough with something more than exhaustion. His fingers twitched, aching to reach out.

"I waited for you." Shen Song replied, his eyes meeting Huo Ying’s, soft but unflinching, a spark of defiance.

Huo Ying’s breath hitched. He lifted a hand, slow and careful, brushing a stray lock of hair from Shen Song’s cheek. His fingers lingered, grazing the warm silk of his skin, the contact sending a shiver through them both. 

Shen Song’s eyes fluttered, but he didn’t pull away, his breath catching audibly now, a sound that stirred something deep in Huo Ying’s chest.

“Why did you take so long?” Shen Song asked, his voice quieter, almost a whisper. “The emperor…?”

“I’m here now,” Huo Ying said, his thumb brushing the edge of Shen Song’s jaw, tracing the line where warmth met shadow. He dropped his hand abruptly, as if the heat of Shen Song’s skin seared him, but his eyes never left him. “You’re pale,” he murmured, stepping closer, his voice dropping to a near-growl. “And your pulse… I can feel it, Shen Song.”

Shen Song’s lips curved, a fragile attempt at a smile. “It still beats, alpha. Isn’t that enough?”

“No,” Huo Ying said, he closed the last inch between them, his damp cloak brushing against Shen Song’s robe. His hands hovered, not quite touching, as if afraid to break the delicate tension between them.

Their eyes met, and for a moment, neither could speak. There was no distance between them now, only a thin layer of air, trembling, waiting.

Shen Song’s voice broke it first, softer than the rain. “You shouldn’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I might vanish.”

Huo Ying’s throat tightened, a sound caught there, half a groan. He reached for Shen Song again, his hand settling on his shoulder, fingers splaying to feel the warmth beneath the thin fabric, the fragile strength of him. “You almost slipped away,” he said, voice breaking. “And I wasn’t here to hold you.”

“It wasn’t your fault.” Shen Song said, but his voice wavered, his composure fraying under Huo Ying’s touch.

“It was.” Huo Ying insisted, his fingers tightening briefly, then softening, sliding down to rest at the curve of Shen Song’s arm, where the robe had slipped to reveal more skin, smooth and pale.

Shen Song’s breath hitched, and he reached up, his fingers brushing the damp edge of Huo Ying’s collar, the cold fabric clinging to his broad shoulders. “You’re soaked,” he said, his touch lingering, exploring the unfamiliar planes of his husband’s chest through the wet cloth. “Change, Huo Ying. Please.”

“I will,” Huo Ying murmured, but he didn’t move, caught in the warmth of Shen Song’s fingers, the way they hesitated, then pressed more firmly, as if mapping him anew.

Shen Song sighed, a sound laced with surrender and desire, and turned to sit on the edge of the bed. The lamplight traced the curve of his shoulders, the way the robe clung to his thighs, leaving little to the imagination. Huo Ying’s gaze followed, hungry, memorizing every line, every shadow.

Slowly, Huo Ying knelt before him, his hands resting lightly on Shen Song’s knees, the thin fabric no barrier to the heat of his skin. 

Shen Song’s breath caught, his thighs tensing under the touch. “Don’t,” he whispered, but there was no force behind it, only a plea laced with want.

“I won’t bow,” Huo Ying said, his voice low, reverent, his thumbs tracing slow circles on Shen Song’s knees, feeling the tremor there. “I only need to be close, Shen Song. To know it's real.”

Shen Song looked down at him, his eyes soft and unguarded, and lifted a hand to thread through Huo Ying’s damp hair. His fingers lingered, tracing the line of his temple, the curve of his ear, the touch light but electric, sending a shiver down Huo Ying’s spine. 

“I’m here,” Shen Song said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Huo Ying closed his eyes, leaning into the touch, the scent of oil and herbs enveloping him, grounding him. “For how long?” he asked, his voice vulnerable.

Shen Song’s answer came after a pause. “As long as you keep coming back to me, Huo Ying. I’ll wait.”

Outside, the rain softened to a drizzle. The lamp flickered once, then steadied, bathing them both in gold.

Shen Song’s hand remained on Huo Ying’s hair until sleep began to pull at the edges of his thoughts. And Huo Ying stayed there, still, grounded, the world itself could not move him from that place.

The morning was bright and still damp from last night’s rain. Drops clung to the leaves in the courtyard, glittering whenever the sun slipped through the clouds.

Shen Song stood on the flagstones, sleeves rolled to his elbows, his expression somewhere between doubt and resignation.

“I still don’t understand why I must learn to fight,” he said. “That’s what you’re for.”

Huo Ying smiled, a rare, honest one that reached his eyes. “So that if I’m not here, you can still make someone regret underestimating you, Shen Song.”

Shen Song frowned faintly, but there was no real protest in it. “I prefer medicine to swords.”

“Then think of it as learning how not to become a patient again,” Huo Ying replied.

That earned him a quiet laugh. Shen Song’s hair was tied loosely, a few strands slipping free against his cheek as he moved. Huo Ying watched him fumble with the wooden practice staff he’d given him, his stance too elegant to be practical.

“No,” Huo Ying said, stepping closer. “Your feet, shoulder-width apart. You’re not walking through a garden, you’re standing your ground.”

“I am standing,” Shen Song muttered. 

Huo Ying’s laugh rumbled low in his chest. “Grace won’t stop a blow.”

“Then perhaps you should teach me how to look frightening,” Shen Song said. “You seem to do that quite naturally.”

“Do I?”

Huo Ying’s smile softened, and before Shen Song could answer, he moved behind him, placing his hands lightly on the omega’s waist.

“Relax,” he said quietly.

Shen Song stiffened. “That’s contradictory.”

“Try anyway.”

Huo Ying’s fingers slid down his hips, guiding them into position. Shen Song could feel the warmth of him even through the thin linen of his cloth, the steady rhythm of his breathing against his back.

“Hold it like this,” Huo Ying murmured, adjusting his grip on the staff. “Not too tight, your hands should move with it.”

Shen Song tried, but the staff wobbled uncertainly.

“You’re not listening, Shen Song.” Huo Ying teased. “Let me show you.”

Before he could object, Huo Ying’s arms came around him fully, his hands covering Shen Song’s, his chest pressing lightly against his back as he guided the movement.

“This?” Shen Song said breathlessly. “This doesn’t feel like fighting.”

“It’s the first lesson,” Huo Ying said. “Balance.”

“Balance,” Shen Song repeated, trying not to notice how steady and warm Huo Ying’s hands felt. “I think you’re making this up, Huo Ying.”

“Maybe,” Huo Ying said, his voice low near his ear. “But you’re learning.”

He moved Shen Song’s hands again, slower this time, until their rhythm matched, a shared breath, a shared movement. The courtyard was quiet but for the rustle of their clothes, the thud of bare feet on stone, the faint sound of Shen Song’s laughter breaking through his focus.

When he stumbled, Huo Ying caught him easily, one arm wrapping around his body.

“Careful,” he said, his tone half amusement, half concern.

“I’m beginning to suspect this lesson was designed for your entertainment.”

“Only partly.”

Shen Song turned in his arms, the movement unguarded, his hair brushing Huo Ying’s chin. For a moment, they were close, too close. The laughter faded, leaving only the quiet rush of their breathing.

Huo Ying didn’t move. His hand was still at Shen Song’s waist, his thumb unconsciously tracing the line of fabric there.

Shen Song’s voice came out soft, uncertain. “You’re staring.”

“I know.”

A faint color rose to Shen Song’s cheeks. “Then stop.”

“I can’t.”

The silence between them grew warmer, gentler. Huo Ying hesitated , a soldier, undone by the simple nearness of the one man who could make him forget every order he’d ever obeyed.

Then Shen Song said quietly, almost as if to break the spell, “You’re terrible at teaching.”

Huo Ying smiled, and before he could think, before Shen Song could retreat, he leaned forward and kissed him.

It was sof. Shen Song froze, then exhaled, his hand lifting instinctively to rest against Huo Ying’s chest.

For a heartbeat, the courtyard, the world, the sound of dripping leaves, all of it stopped.

When they finally drew apart, Shen Song’s eyes were bright, his voice faint but steady. “Was that… part of the lesson too?”

Huo Ying’s smile deepened. “The next step, perhaps.”

Shen Song’s lips curved. Huo Ying drew him in again, not for another kiss this time, but simply to hold him.

Chapter Text

The sun was high, though winter still clung to the air. The courtyard snow was thinning, the stones dark and wet. Huo Ying remained in his room, a half-read report before him, but his eyes remained attentive to the movements in the corridor outside.

Hearing the old midwife's footsteps coming from Shen Song's room, with his arms full of folded sheets, he stood up and walked quickly towards her.

“Is Shen Song sleeping?”

She paused, bowing slightly. "Yes, my lord. I convinced him to put the scrolls aside and rest, he hasn't been sleeping well lately."

Huo Ying nodded. “And his strength?”

“The poison weakened him greatly,” she said softly. “He hides it well, but there are still days his breathing falters.”

He hesitated. “And his heat cycle? Any signs?”

Her eyes flicked to his face. “Soon, perhaps. He is taking medicine to delay it, and that could be dangerous, Sir."

"Dangerous? How?"

"It cools the body too deeply, slows the blood. He takes it often, too often. His pulse weakens each time, and it takes longer for his scent to return to normal."

"What would happen if he continues?"

"The body forgets its rhythm. The glands become unresponsive. He could lose his cycles altogether… or when they return, the fever might strike too hard for his strength to bear."

"And you let him take it?"

"He said he couldn’t risk another heat. He said... He’d rather poison himself quietly than face it again, Sir."

The midwife departed, leaving only the bitter scent of herbs in the hall. Huo Ying stood for a long while, unmoving, a soldier without a battle, staring at the closed door of Shen Song’s chambers.

That evening, he found Shen Song in the garden, crouched by the low stone bench, arranging dried herbs into neat bundles. The wind stirred bare branches, sending soft rustles across the air. His hair fell forward, ends brushing the fabric of his robe, dark against the pale dusk.

“You’ll make yourself sick out here,” Huo Ying said quietly.

“I’m used to it,” Shen Song murmured, not looking up. “Cold air keeps the herbs from spoiling too soon.”

Huo Ying stood a few steps away, watching the careful motion of his fingers tying twine. Something in the silence felt taut, brittle.

“You’ve been taking medicine, Shen Song?” he said after a moment.

Shen Song’s hands faltered. “Who told you?”

“I asked first,” Huo Ying said simply.

“You shouldn’t worry, Huo Ying.”

“I will anyway. But tell me… You're voluntarily delaying your heat, can I... Can I at least know why you're doing this, Shen Song?"

A breath of silence stretched between them.

Huo Ying stepped closer, his voice lowering, roughened by restraint. “Are you afraid you won’t be able to bear an heat?”

Shen Song tied the knot slowly, precisely. “To bear it,” he said at last, “is what I’ve always done, Huo Ying.”

The words struck him hard, the general’s hands curled into fists, leather creaking faintly against his palms.

“That’s not an answer, Shen Song.”

Shen Song’s eyes lifted then, calm, almost defiant, but beneath the calm was something fragile, as ice over water.

“Then tell me,” he said softly, “what answer you want, alpha?”

Huo Ying took a slow breath, the air thick in his chest. For a heartbeat, he looked as if he might step forward, close the small space that still held them apart. But instead, he said quietly, the words heavier than any command he had ever given.

"You'd rather poison yourself than sleep with me, I understand that now."

Shen Song’s fingers stilled over the herbs. The twine slipped from his grasp, falling soundlessly into the snow-damp earth. He did not answer. His lashes trembled, his shoulders rising in a slow, uneven breath.

Between them, the air smelled of crushed chrysanthemum and melting frost, sharp, clean, aching with the memory of things both ruined and waiting to be mended.

The next morning, the air was clear enough to see the mountains. Frost still clung to the pines, but the sky had softened to a pale blue that promised thaw.

Shen Song found Huo Ying waiting near the gate, two horses saddled and steaming faintly in the cold.

“Where are we going, Huo Ying?” he asked.

“To the hill,” Huo Ying said, tightening the strap of his saddle. “You said you wanted to visit it.”

Shen Song hesitated, lowering his gaze. “It’s a long climb.”

“I remember what I promised,” Huo Ying said simply. “If you can’t walk, I’ll carry you, Shen Song.”

The road wound through pine trees heavy with melting snow. Water dripped steadily from the branches. Shen Song rode in silence for most of the way, the fur collar of his cloak drawn close around his neck, his eyes distant.

When the trail grew too steep for horses, Huo Ying dismounted and came to his side.

“Here,” he said, offering his hand. “It’s slippery.”

“I can do it,” Shen Song replied quietly.

“Let me, just this once.”

Their hands met, his fingers slender and cold, Huo Ying’s steady and warm.

When they reached the top, the world opened around them in silence. The tomb lay beneath an old pine, marked by a low stone and a single carved flower. The wind smelled faintly of pine resin and smoke from distant hearths.

Shen Song knelt, brushing the snow from the inscription with slow, deliberate motions.

“She would have been one this spring,” he said softly.

Huo Ying stood behind him, his hands flexing at his sides, wanting to touch, to steady, but unsure how.

Shen Song’s voice trembled slightly. “I used to wonder what she looked like. Sometimes I think she might have had your eyes.”

“She did,” Huo Ying said quietly.

Shen Song turned, startled. “You saw her?”

He nodded. “For a moment. Before…” His voice faltered. “She looked peaceful.”

Shen Song’s hand lingered on the carved flower. “I failed her,” he said quietly. “I was supposed to protect her, but I couldn’t even keep her alive.”

“You didn’t fail her,” Huo Ying said, his tone low, certain. “It wasn’t your fault, Shen Song. It was an accident...”

“We both know it wasn’t,” Shen Song interrupted softly. His shoulders tensed, then fell. "Huo Ying."

For a moment, neither spoke. The wind shifted through the trees around them.

Huo Ying took a slow step closer. “Shen Song,” he said, his voice quiet but firm. “If you can’t bear children again, it changes nothing.”

Shen Song looked up at him, tiny eyes wide, disbelieving. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do. I don’t need an heir.”

Shen Song stared at him for a long time, then gave a small, bitter laugh, not mocking, but full of ache. “You think that’s what frightens me? That I’ll disappoint you by not giving you another child?”

Huo Ying frowned, a shadow crossing his face. “Then why…?”

Shen Song’s voice caught, trembling. “It’s your eyes, Huo Ying. That night.”

Huo Ying froze, the words striking him sharper than any blade.

“I wasn’t afraid of the heat,” Shen Song continued, each word faltering against the wind, “or of the pain… but of you. The way you looked at me. As if I’d become something lesser, something unworthy of your touch. 'Damned' you said before... That’s what I see whenever I think of it. That’s why I’ve been delaying, because I couldn’t bear to feel that again.”

The confession hung between them, fragile and raw, more jagged than the snow-laden branches above.

Huo Ying’s stomach twisting with a shame that had never touched him before. The memory, so long buried beneath duty and distance, came back in a rush.

“Shen Song,” he said, his voice roughened by remorse. “Look at me.”

Shen Song didn’t move.

Huo Ying stepped closer, lowering himself until he was level with him. “Look at me,” he said again, more gently this time.

When Shen Song finally lifted his eyes, Huo Ying’s gaze held no command, only pain. For the first time, Huo Ying understood fully, not just the fear, but the heartbreak he had etched into the omega’s soul that night. And for the first time, he felt the weight of the love he had failed to honor.

“It will never happen again,” Huo Ying said, each word steady. “I swear to you. I was a coward that night. I will not be that man again. I promise you.”

Shen Song’s breath caught, the cold air sharp in his lungs. “And if you lose control again? If I get hurts...?"

“Then I will stay,” Huo Ying said simply. “And I will not run away this time.”

Shen Song looked down at the small grave again, his lips trembling into something that was almost a smile. “You always know what to say when it’s already too late, Huo Ying.”

Huo Ying reached out, brushing the snow from his sleeve. “Then let me say it until it isn’t to late.”

They stayed there until the sun began to sink behind the ridge. Before leaving, Huo Ying reached out, brushing the frost gently from Shen Song’s cloak, his hand lingering in the fabric’s fold.

As they descended, Shen Song’s steps faltered on the narrow path. Huo Ying turned without a word and lifted him into his arms.

“I told you I’d carry you,” he murmured, voice low and steady.

Shen Song’s head rested lightly against his shoulder. “Do you always keep your promises, Huo Ying?”

“Only the ones that matter.”

Snow began to fall again, slowly, and their footprints faded behind them as they made their way down the mountain.

Chapter Text

The manor had grown hushed beneath the weight of the last days. Snow gathered on the eaves, soft and unbroken yet, the ponds sealed beneath a thin skin of ice. Even sound seemed to move slower, the wind a faint murmur, the bells at the gate barely stirring.

Shen Song rose early, lighting the brazier before dawn. He ground herbs at his desk, the steam from his tea curling faintly toward the pale mist creeping through the window. Yet beneath that quiet routine, something had changed, not in his habits, but in the air between them.

Huo Ying, unaccustomed to idleness, had taken to accompanying him.

Every morning, when Shen Song descended the stairs, he found the general already there, sleeves rolled, brow furrowed, pretending to inspect some corner of the courtyard that clearly needed no inspection.

“This banister’s loose,” Huo Ying would say solemnly, tapping it with two fingers. “Wouldn’t want you to fall.”

The next day, it was, “This door hinge squeaks. Dangerous.”

Then, “The paving stones here, uneven. I’ll have them replaced.”

And, “Your tea’s too hot.”

“Your sleeves, too long, you’ll trip, Shen Song.”

“This cat looks suspicious.”

By the end of the week, Shen Song didn’t even look up from his tea. “Is something wrong again, General?”

Huo Ying stood straighter, clearing his throat. “I’m merely ensuring the manor’s safety.”

“You’re following me,” Shen Song said, tone flat.

“I’m inspecting,” Huo Ying corrected with absolute seriousness.

“Everywhere I go?”

“You move unpredictably, Shen Song.” Huo Ying muttered.

A small silence, then the faintest sound of amusement, soft, barely there, but real. Shen Song finally glanced up, eyes glinting like thawing ice. “Then carry on. I wouldn’t want to disrupt your… military vigilance, Huo Ying.”

Huo Ying tried, and failed, not to smile.

Wherever Shen Song went, Huo Ying was never far behind, not enough to be called watchful, but always close enough that his shadow touched the edge of Shen Song’s sleeve.

In the mornings, when Shen Song crossed the veranda with a tray of fresh herbs, he would find Huo Ying already in the courtyard,  inspecting something. The moment Shen Song set down the tray, the general would appear beside him, gloved hand reaching for the teapot.

“Who poured this?” he would ask, sniffing the steam with unnecessary seriousness.

“I did it,” Shen Song would answer without looking up.

“I’ll taste it first.”

“You think I’d poison myself, Huo Ying?”

“Not intentionally,” Huo Ying said, frowning slightly as he sipped, only to hide the faint curve of a smile when Shen Song frows. "But if you're drinking it, so am I, Shen Song."

"Don't be silly, it's just white tea."

"My favorite."

In the afternoons, when Shen Song withdrew to his study, Huo Ying followed under the pretext of reviewing reports from the border, however, the scrolls lay untouched at his elbow.

Across the low table, Shen Song bent over his work, the soft scratch of the brush filling the stillness between them. Each stroke was precise, the movement of someone who found calm in order.

Huo Ying sat opposite him, one arm resting lazily on the table’s edge, his chin balanced in his hand. His eyes followed the slow, graceful motion of the brush, the way Shen Song paused to blow gently on the fresh ink, how his lashes lowered in concentration.

The quiet stretched, unbroken, save for the faint creak of the window lattice and the steady rhythm of breath.

The general’s scrolls remained unopened, forgotten. He only watched, as if the act of seeing Shen Song write, the play of ink, the curve of wrist, the calm that softened his face, was its own form of study.

Small things began to appear around Shen Song’s room, a box of rare ink from the market, a folded charm for luck, a handful of roasted chestnuts wrapped in paper still faintly warm. Huo Ying never mentioned them, nor did he stay to see them received. Shen Song never spoke of them either, but each one found its place among his belongings: the ink by his brush stand, the charm tied to the window latch, the chestnuts in a small porcelain bowl.

Huo Ying had begun spending more nights in Shen Song’s room too. Not on the bed, more often by the low table or near the window,  but his presence had become as constant as the faint scent of herbs and ink that filled the space. 

Shen Song never asked why he stayed, Huo Ying never offered a reason. Yet both had grown used to the quiet company, the unspoken rhythm of two sleepless souls sharing the same air.

Shen Song often worked long into the night. He would grind herbs, mix powders, copy notes from the old medical texts stacked at his elbow, the faint scratch of the brush marking the passing hours. Huo Ying watched him, the lines of his face half-hidden by the candle lights, his hands still as stone on his knees.

“You haven’t slept again,” he said one night, voice low.

“I will,” Shen Song murmured, not looking up. “Soon.”

“You said that yesterday, Shen Song.”

The omega’s brush paused midstroke. “There’s still work left, Huo Ying.”

“You said that yesterday too.”

When Shen Song didn’t answer, Huo Ying rose from his place by the window. His footsteps quiet, heavy. He came to stand behind him, close enough that the warmth of his body softened the cold air between them.

“You’ll make yourself sick again,” he said gently. “Your hands are trembling.”

Shen Song looked down, they were, faintly. He set the brush aside, meaning to speak, but Huo Ying reached out first, covering Shen Song’s hand with his own. His palm was rough, but the touch careful.

“Enough for tonight,” Huo Ying said, voice a command softened by concern. “Please.”

Something in the word 'please' undid him. Shen Song exhaled, the fight leaving his shoulders. 

“You don’t have to keep watch, Huo Ying.”

“I know,” Huo Ying said. “But I will anyway.”

He guided Shen Song toward the bed, his hand steady on his arm. The gesture was so gentle that it almost didn’t feel like guidance at all. Shen Song lay down reluctantly, his lashes half-lowered, the exhaustion he’d tried to hide settling into his bones.

Huo Ying pulled the blanket over him, smoothing it once at the edge, fingers brushing lightly against the soft fall of hair at Shen Song’s temple.

“Rest, omega.” he murmured.

Shen Song’s lips curved faintly, a soundless protest on his breath. “And you?”

“I’ll stay until you sleep.”

He sat down on the floor beside the bed, back to the wooden frame, close enough that he could hear Shen Song’s breathing grow slow and even. For a while, he simply watched, the rise and fall of the blanket, the faint furrow between his brows easing by degrees.

When he was certain Shen Song was truly asleep, Huo Ying leaned forward, brushing a stray lock of hair from his face. His hand lingered. Then, almost without thought, he bent and pressed a quiet kiss to Shen Song’s forehead, light, reverent, afraid the touch itself might wake him.

He settled back onto the floor, the room was silent save for the soft rhythm of Shen Song’s breathing. In the half-light, he reached out once more, letting his fingers curl around a single strand of the omega’s hair, catching softly between his calloused fingers.

Only then did he close his eyes.

By dawn, he was still there, a soldier asleep on the floor beside his omega’s bed, his hand still tangled in that thin, fragile thread of black silk, as if holding on to it might keep the night from ending.

The sky hung heavy, the color of lead. Shen Song found him in the garden, kneeling by the withered flower beds, brushing snow from the roots of a half-dead chrysanthemum, clung stubbornly to the earth. Huo Ying’s hands were bare, his fingers red and raw, as though he could will the roots to survive simply by touching them.

Shen Song stopped a few paces away. “You’ll hurt yourself, Huo Ying.”

“I’ve had worse,” Huo Ying murmured without looking up.

“That isn’t the point,” Shen Song said quietly, stepping closer. “You can’t save what winter has already claimed. It won’t bloom again until next season,” Shen Song said, stepping closer. “You’ll only freeze your hands.”

“Then I’ll wait for it,” The general looked up then, his eyes the color of stormlight, snow clung to his hair, to his lashes. Shen Song exhaled softly and extended a hand.

“Come inside, Huo Ying.”

For a heartbeat, Huo Ying didn’t move. Then, with the smallest nod, he follow Shen Song back toward the house.

Inside, Shen Song led him to the low table by the brazier and filled a basin with steaming water. The sound of it, the gentle pour, the hiss as steam rose, filled the silence between them.

“Give me your hands,” Shen Song said.

Huo Ying hesitated, as if unused to being cared for, then held them out. Shen Song took them without a word.

The skin was cold, almost bloodless. Shen Song submerged them slowly, the heat making both men flinch at once, one from the burn, the other from the closeness.

Shen Song’s fingers brushed lightly across the back of Huo Ying’s hands, tracing the scars and calluses, the ridges of old wounds. 

“You’ve ruined it,” Shen Song said softly.

Huo Ying's gaze lifted to his face. "I'm trying to fix it, you know that, don't you, Shen Song?"

Outside, snow whispered against the shutters. Shen Song wrung a cloth and pressed it gently against the other’s skin, the gesture as careful as if he were tending a wound. He didn’t look up.

"Can you even look at me, Shen Song?" Huo Ying voice was low, almost harsh.

"Why?"

"Because when you look at me, I feel like I'm on the right path."

Shen Song's hand stilled. Then, very slowly, he set the cloth aside and turned the general's hand, palm up, into his. Their fingers brushed lightly as he raised his gaze to the alpha's face.

"You are, Huo Ying," Shen Song said softly.