The city fell away behind them.

  The trio decided to make their day into a productive one. As they left the city, stone gave way to soil. Rooftiles to rustling leaves. The clamor of merchants, talismans, and rumor slipped into silence as Lian Xue, Lian Yue, and Zhen’er stepped beyond Huajing’s outer ring and into the Eastern Whisperwood.

  Here, the air was different.

  Thicker with dew.

  Richer with life.

  And free of eyes.

  The path they followed wound between pale trunked trees and flowering vines that pulsed faintly with spirit. Birds trilled overhead, their calls light and curious. Sunlight fell in golden shafts through swaying branches, warming patches of soft moss.

  Yue glanced upward, squinting at the dappled sky.

  “I’d forgotten what silence without tension felt like.”

  Xue said nothing, but her shoulders relaxed just slightly.

  Zhen’er walked behind them, her pace careful—eyes flicking from the trees to the curve of her own shadow, as if expecting trouble to leap from either at any moment.

  “Where are we going?” she asked, not quite out of fear—more like a student waiting for her first lesson.

  Yue slowed beside her.

  “To breathe,” she said simply. “And to begin.”

  ?

  They found a clearing nestled between two sloping hills. The grass grew high and soft here, feathered with blue-tipped wildflowers and ringed by low stone outcroppings that looked like forgotten shrines.

  A stream gurgled nearby, its song faint and steady.

  “This will do,” Xue said, brushing her hand across the grass. Frost danced along the blades, forming a perfect circle that shimmered and melted all at once.

  Zhen’er watched in wide-eyed silence.

  “Sit,” Xue instructed. “And breathe.”

  Zhen’er obeyed.

  The twins moved around her like twin moons orbiting a single earth. Xue stood behind, her palm hovering near the center of Zhen’er’s back, while Yue crouched in front, watching her face.

  “You have spiritual roots,” Yue said. “But no refinement. No structure.”

  “I was never taught,” Zhen’er murmured.

  “Then we’ll start where all things start.”

  Xue pressed gently against her spine.

  “Close your eyes.”

  ?

  The moment Zhen’er closed her eyes, the world fell away.

  At first, there was only the sound of her own breath.

  Then—a pulse.

  A faint warmth at her core.

  Tiny. Flickering. But real.

  Her fingers twitched.

  “I… feel something.”

  “That is your inner flame,” Xue said. “It is not fire. It is you. Feed it. Listen to it.”

  Yue’s voice came softly, like a lullaby in reverse.

  “Let your fear become breath. Let your breath become flow. Follow it inward.”

  Zhen’er exhaled slowly.

  She felt her pulse slow, her heartbeat align with something deeper.

  The pain in her limbs faded.

  The ache in her thoughts dulled.

  And for one brief, crystalline moment—she touched her center.

  It was not strong.

  It was not bright.

  But it was there.

  And it had not been there before.

  Her eyes opened, shining with faint light.

  “I felt it.”

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  Xue nodded.

  “Then you’ve already begun.”

  ?

  The rest of the day passed beneath sun-dappled trees, filled with whispered guidance, deliberate movement, and the occasional sound of Yue laughing when Zhen’er tripped over her own breathwork.

  “You’re teaching me how to sit,” Zhen’er groaned once, flushed with frustration.

  “We’re teaching you how to be,” Yue replied. “The sitting is just how it starts.”

  By late afternoon, Zhen’er could feel the difference.

  The way qi moved in her hands. The way her thoughts no longer tangled as easily. The way her spine straightened with purpose rather than fear.

  She looked at them differently now.

  Not just as saviors.

  But as something more.

  ?

  And the twins?

  They watched her too—not as a burden to be protected, but as a seed.

  One that might bloom in time.

  And fiercely.

  The sun slipped past the tree line, casting long shadows over the grass. Pale fireflies began to flicker through the clearing, weaving lazy patterns through the thickening dusk.

  Zhen’er lay on her back, staring up through the lattice of branches overhead, arms sprawled across the moss. Her chest rose and fell steadily now—no longer trembling with uncertainty, but slow, quiet, grounded.

  “I didn’t think breathing could feel like this,” she murmured.

  “Most people forget how,” Yue said, sitting nearby with one knee drawn up. A spirit peach in her hand glowed softly with ripened qi. “They spend so long surviving that they stop noticing what it means to be still.”

  Xue stood at the edge of the clearing, staring off into the forest. The last light of the sun lit her profile in cold gold.

  Zhen’er sat up slowly and tilted her head.

  “Do you two… ever rest?”

  Yue tilted her head in turn, a smile dancing on her lips.

  “We rest in pieces. In moments.”

  “We rest in each other,” Xue added, glancing back. “That is enough.”

  Zhen’er lowered her gaze, cheeks turned rose in color. Not out of shame—but out of something like reverence.

  “I’ll get there,” she said quietly. “Even if it takes my whole life.”

  “It won’t,” Xue replied. “You’ve already begun.”

  ?

  As they packed their things and prepared to return to the city before nightfall, a faint pulse of wind moved through the trees—not a natural wind, but one laced with scrying silk and intent.

  Xue paused.

  Yue did not look up.

  “They’re watching,” Xue murmured.

  “Not directly,” Yue said. “Not yet. Just… curious eyes.”

  “From the theater?”

  “Or somewhere that pretends to be behind it.”

  Zhen’er looked between them.

  “You mean someone’s waiting for you?”

  “They sent an invitation,” Yue replied, eyes narrowing slightly.

  “And they’ll get an answer,” Xue said, her voice like the edge of a blade just before it strikes.

  ?

  They turned to the path again.

  The forest no longer felt quite so still.

  Not dangerous.

  Not yet.

  But aware.

  The trees had watched them bloom.

  And the shadows were ready to see what they would become.