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The writing is on the wall once the Cloud Recesses burn: Wen Ruohan is making his move, and preexisting relationships—blood or otherwise—will not stop him.
However, the Chief Cultivator is not the only member of the Qishan Wen.
Jiang Yanli goes to her parents the next morning with her heart fluttering in her chest. She greets them, makes pleasant remarks about their well-being, and feels the atmosphere around her mother grow harsh with static. Their family rarely observes this kind of formality without reason, after all, and Jiang Yanli is rarely the child who has a favor to ask of her parents. She is too well-trained into watching from the sidelines, quiet and self-contained, her heart given over to helping her brothers achieve their aims.
Today she is not here for them, save in the way that she is here for all of her family. All of her sect, really, for they would have been hers had the weakness of her meridians not dismissed her from her birthright. Jiang Yanli wraps that knowledge around herself, a cloak against the chill of her mother’s regard, and says, “I wish to marry Wen Xu.”
The debacle of her childhood betrothal’s dissolution works in her favor, for once; there is no long-held chain wrapped around her throat to pull her away from this bargain. Yu Ziyuan’s lips press into a tight line regardless, and Jiang Yanli does not wonder if it is because she wishes for her plans to succeed, if it is because Jiang Yanli has shown her spine at last, or if it is because marrying her daughter to the Qishan Wen means losing her more fully than marrying her to the Lanling Jin.
Jiang Fengmian sighs and leans on his elbow. Away from his wife, of course. “A-Li,” he says, gentle the way dandelion fluff floats on the breeze, “you have never desired this before.”
“What does that matter?” Jiang Yanli tilts her head. She knows, as she does it, that she is mirroring her mother’s looks over the dinner table, the scathing side-eye of What a silly thing to say which have accompanied so many conversations. It is effective; her father sits up straight like he’s just been shocked. Her mother’s eyes widen, then narrow thoughtfully. “I want what’s best for my family, diedie. If I marry Wen Xu…”
Yu Ziyuan’s fingers clench. “You have never met that man.”
Jiang Yanli smiles, peaceful as the lotus pools. Yu Ziyuan’s words make not a ripple upon her surface. “Many brides marry men who they know little of,” she tells her mother. “I know that Wen Xu is a handsome man with strong cultivation and he is heir to his sect. I know that an alliance with the Qishan Wen will strengthen the Yunmeng Jiang. I know that this is something only I can do for our family, and I would do it willingly.”
“Ziyuan,” her father murmurs, but it is wind blown before a storm.
“How dare you?” Yu Ziyuan snaps. She rises, Zidian sparkling on her hand, but she does not call the lightning whip, nor indeed do anything other than scowl. Jiang Yanli is her blood, her only daughter, and though Yu Ziyuan detests Jiang Yanli’s lacks she would not harm her.
Jiang Yanli uses that knowledge to keep her back reed-straight. “I dare protect my home,” she says, because that is just as impossible as standing against her mother’s ire. “Would you let me?”
Jiang Fengmian lays a hand on his wife’s arm. She shakes him off and stalks away in a fury, but she says nothing more. It is a lost cause, and she knows it, but that doesn’t soothe a tiger’s wrath.
Jiang Yanli does not move. She keeps her head bowed, waiting for her father’s verdict.
He sighs, which does nothing to clear the air, and says, “I will write a proposal.”
Jiang Yanli smiles, lifts her eyes. “Thank you, diedie.”
“A-Cheng and A-Xian will be furious,” he tells her, as if she did not know. As if that wasn’t part of why she’d come here first thing in the morning, before she saw them and they began to suspect her plan from the look on her face.
Jiang Yanli’s fingers dig into the soft fabric of her robes. “They are young.” It is true, though they are taller than her and have been for years. “They will understand, in time.”
This is her means of securing that time. Her parents both know this, though they react in different ways. Her mother’s grief comes out as thunderous rage, while her father’s is a drowning pool. Jiang Yanli wonders what hers looks like to them; the cloying humidity of high summer, perhaps, when it is too hot to act and only the droning insects and croaking frogs think to move?
If so, who will she become in the heart of the sun?
Jiang Yanli thinks on this as the days pass. As her father sends a message to the Chief Cultivator and receives no response but a bland call for hostages. As they are left to fret and worry about whether Wei Wuxian can keep his mouth shut or if Jiang Cheng will return home.
Her answer comes when Wen Xu himself arrives at their door, a lone man with no guards, dressed in Qishan Wen’s white-and-red. The only sign of his status is the fine weave of cloth and the jade rings he wears on his hands. He does not need more than this, Jiang Yanli realises when she is summoned to the great hall to meet him; his presence speaks for itself.
Wen Xu looks at her, his eyes are dark as coals. He is dangerous; that is clear from how he holds himself, from the well-used sword he carries, from the way even her mother is wary.
Jiang Yanli bows to him.
He smiles. “Yes,” he says to her father, “I will take her as my wife.”
“The auspicious dates—” her father begins to say, but Wen Xu tosses a thin scroll to him, interrupting his speech.
“I would not be here without the proper preparations.” His voice rolls over Jiang Yanli, rich and deep as the thick mud lotus are planted within. She finds she likes it, just as she likes the way he takes casual command of the room. “You have just under a month,” he tells her parents. “I will return then to take my wife home.”
“We will be ready,” Jiang Fengmian reassures him, even as Yu Ziyuan seethes.
Jiang Yanli says nothing until he stops in front of her. This close, she can see ember-bright sparks in his eyes, banked fire waiting to be set alight. He studies her, then quietly asks, “Are you afraid, little flower?”
She should be, but Jiang Yanli has lived so much of her life in fear that his curiosity is a novelty. She keeps her gaze lowered, observing him through her lashes, and murmurs, “A wife should not be afraid of her husband. We will be as one, and I do not fear myself.”
Wen Xu laughs. It vibrates through her chest, and she dares meet his eyes, see the crinkles at their corners, and it’s a heady rush to realise that she wants to hear this laugh again. That she might be able to please this man and find a place at his side. That, if she is right, he will protect her from the capriciousness of his family—and, through that, she can safeguard her family as well.
“They did not tell me your tongue was so clever.” Wen Xu clicks his tongue, but his impatience is not directed at her. “I look forward to learning what other secrets you will reveal upon our wedding night.”
Jiang Yanli heats under his frank appraisal, the unhidden desire of his gaze, the forthrightness of saying such a thing here, in front of her parents, when their betrothal has barely been sealed.
His lips curve once more. He bows to her, very properly, but makes no effort to hide the way his gaze lingers on her blushing cheeks. “I will see you next month,” he promises, and leaves the hall.
The world feels cool and dark after he exits.
Jiang Yanli presses a hand to her rapidly-beating heart and stares after him.
“Do you regret this?” her mother asks, and only a lifetime of practice allows Jiang Yanli to hear the worry beneath the sharpness.
“No,” Jiang Yanli tells her. She turns to her parents and smiles. “I’m looking forward to it.”