The chamber was quiet, save for the echo of breath and the slow, rhythmic beat of two hearts standing far too close. "I’m still here," Shao Han had whispered, barely trusting his voice to hold under the weight of the moment. Shao gently Touched Lord's Hand. the air between them trembled.

  Lord Ling’s eyes flicked to his—those storm-dark eyes, always so controlled—and for once, they looked bare. Vulnerable. Like he was searching for something he no longer believed he had the right to want—but wanted anyway.

  "You don’t know what you’re offering," Lord Ling said, voice hushed and hoarse, like it had been dragged out of him against his will.

  "Don’t I?"

  Shao Han stepped forward, pulse roaring in his ears.

  "You think I haven’t felt it? Every time you look at me like I’m the edge of a cliff you’re too afraid to fall from?"

  Silence cracked open between them, hot and charged. The flickering firelight threw shifting shadows across their faces, catching the lines of tension in Lord Ling’s jaw, the softness of Shao Han’s parted lips. The world beyond the chamber faded—no politics, no war, no cursed pasts or buried names. Just them, caught in a moment too fragile to last.

  "I never wanted to need anyone," Shao Han said, quieter now, like confession. "But gods help me, I need you." Something inside Lord Ling broke. He reached for him like a man drowning—desperate, rough, shaking. His fingers tangled in Shao Han’s hair, pulling him into a kiss that shattered whatever restraint they had left. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t perfect. It was hungry. Frantic. Like it had been burning in both of them for lifetimes.

  They fell together like flame meeting oil. Armor discarded. Wounds bared. The tension of months—no, years—unwound beneath their hands. Fingertips brushed across old scars, learned the stories written into skin.

  Shao Han gasped as Lord Ling’s lips trailed the line of his throat, reverent and greedy all at once. His back arched into the touch, surrendering with a shudder. The firelight painted them in gold and shadow—muscle and breath, desire and ache. The floor beneath the furs felt like the only real thing in a world that was constantly shifting. Lord Ling kissed like he was memorizing him. Shao Han touched like he was remembering something he hadn’t realized he’d lost. And in that stolen hour, there were no lies. No curses. No weight of kingdoms or curses. Only warmth. Only want. Only them.

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  When it was over, they lay side by side, bodies tangled, sweat cooling on their skin. Shao Han’s brow was damp, hair sticking to his forehead, and their hands were still clasped between them as if neither could bear to let go.

  "I never thought I’d survive long enough to feel something like this," he murmured, voice thick with exhaustion and something dangerously close to peace. Lord Ling looked at him, something unguarded—almost tender—glimmering in his gaze. "Then live," he said, so softly it felt like a vow. "Live. With me." For one fragile heartbeat, Shao Han believed it might be possible. But then—

  The firelight flickered. Not like a log shifting in the hearth. Like something had moved through it. The warmth in the room shifted, became sharp and wrong. The scent of sandalwood and sweat twisted with something acrid—spice and smoke—but not the right kind. It was like the world had inhaled something poisonous. Shao Han sat up, heart kicking against his ribs.

  "Do you smell that?" Lord Ling was already rising, naked but unflinching, eyes scanning the room. He reached for his blade with the instinct of a man who had lived too many battles, who had learned never to let his guard down even in love. He didn’t have to wait long. There—leaning in the doorway, arms folded, shirt open to the waist, a cocky grin stretched across his mouth—stood a stranger. Or maybe not quite a stranger.

  His eyes were golden. Not gold like coin. Gold like fire. Gold like danger. Dust clung to his boots like he’d walked through dimensions to get here. "Hope I’m not interrupting," he drawled. Shao Han scrambled for the nearest robe, yanking it over his shoulders.

  "Who the hell are you?"

  The man’s grin deepened.

  "Ashan," he said simply, like it was a name everyone should know.

  "The one who just broke the Reaper’s rules—and came to collect you before she does."

  Lord Ling stepped in front of Shao Han instinctively. "She?"

  Ashan leaned against the doorframe, rolling a shoulder like this was all just mildly inconvenient for him.

  "The Reaper who’s been watching this moment like it’s the final scene of a tragedy she wrote herself."

  He snapped his fingers. Behind him, a ripple of darkness split the air like thunder cracking open the world.

  It pulsed once—like a heartbeat, like a drumbeat at a funeral—and held.

  A wind swept into the chamber, even though there were no windows. The candles guttered.

  Lord Ling raised his blade. "What do you want?"

  Ashan tilted his head. "Not me, love. He. I just thought I’d get to you first." Shao Han’s blood ran cold.

  "Why?" he asked. Ashan’s grin turned sharp. Wicked. Pained.

  "Because I’ve been where you are. And I know what it costs to wait too long."

  He stepped aside from the doorway, gesturing toward the void behind him, where something moved just out of sight—slow and patient and inevitable.

  “Come on, lovebirds,” Ashan said

  "Let the mirror wait—why shatter your soul now, when you’ve only just begun to remember what you were willing to burn for?"