Work Text:
Early Spring Green Tea – Maofeng
Best brewed gently. Too much heat turns it bitter.
The courtyard is quiet in the way only Qing Jing Peak ever is – wind moving through bamboo, the faint rustle of leaves, the distant trickle of water somewhere beyond the stone paths.
Shen Jiu kneels.
He has been kneeling long enough for his legs to go numb and for the ache to settle deep into the bone. Beside him, Liu Qingge sits just as straight and unmoving as when their knees first hit the stone floor, as though this were meditation rather than punishment.
It makes Shen Jiu want to kick him, hurt him, anger him just enough to pick up where they had left off.
Several shichen earlier, his shizun had returned briefly to the courtyard, robes whispering softly against the stone path as he paused before them.
“You will remain here until you learn restraint,” he had said, voice deceivingly gentle in the way that always made it worse, in a way that suggested things would be worse later. His gaze had lingered briefly on Shen Jiu before shifting between the two of them. “When the sun reaches the western ridge, prepare tea.”
Then he had left them kneeling again.
Shen Jiu had almost laughed.
Now, as the late afternoon light stretches gold across the courtyard stones, he reaches for the kettle with stiff fingers, all mirth gone.
“What sort of punishment is this?” he mutters under his breath.
No answer comes. Of course not. Liu Qingge never bothers with things that do not concern him, and unless he is angry, he barely acknowledges Shen Jiu at all.
The brazier burns low and steady. Shen Jiu adjusts it with a practised hand, listening for the shift in sound as the water begins to heat. It is a quiet skill, one beaten into him over the years: knowing by the pitch of the simmer when the temperature is right, knowing by scent when the leaves will open. He needn't even look.
His fingers move on their own as he rinses the gaiwan, warms the cups, discards the water in a clean, controlled arc that darkens the stone at his side.
Across from him, Liu Qingge does not move, still as a stone.
How infuriating.
Shen Jiu exhales sharply through his nose to calm himself.
He selects the leaves, an early spring harvest, and lets them fall into the warmed pot. The scent rises almost immediately, faint and green, something that should be soft and gentle on the tongue if handled properly.
If.
Shen Jiu watches the steam curl from the kettle, and an idea comes to him, prompting him to act before he can change his mind. If he’s forced to serve tea to the brute, he is allowed pettiness; his shizun doesn’t need to know.
Deliberately, he does not wait. The water goes in too soon, a fraction too hot.
The leaves jolt under the heat, their edges curling tight, releasing something sharper than they should. Bitter.
Good.
It is only fitting.
Shen Jiu pours without hesitation, the liquid a clear, pale gold that betrays nothing of what it will taste like.
He sets the cup down in front of Liu Qingge with a soft click.
“Drink,” he orders.
Liu Qingge glances at the cup, then at him.
For a moment, Shen Jiu thinks – finally – that there will be a comment. A frown. Something.
There is nothing.
Liu Qingge lifts the cup. He does not inspect the colour, does not smell the steam. He simply drinks it as it is, head tilting back slightly as he empties it in one smooth motion.
Shen Jiu watches, waits, but there’s still nothing that gives him the satisfaction of a petty triumph.
Briefly, Shen Jiu wonders whether Liu Qingge had noticed after all – that the incident earlier had not been his doing. Ordinarily, he would have seized any excuse to fight him. And yet–
Liu Qingge lowers the cup and sets it aside, expression unchanged.
Shen Jiu’s grip tightens around the teapot. “Well?” he says, unable to stop himself.
Liu Qingge looks at him, brows drawing together faintly, as though the question itself is confusing. “Well what?”
“The tea,” Shen Jiu snaps. “Is it good?”
Liu Qingge considers this as though he must reach for the answer. “It is tea,” he says at last.
Shen Jiu stares at him. For a moment, something hot and ugly rises in his chest. Of course. Liu Qingge had merely found a subtler way to provoke him now that they were forbidden from fighting openly. Shen Jiu had once thought him too simple for this sort of thing.
“Then drink more,” Shen Jiu says in a tone too harsh, already pouring again before Liu Qingge can respond.
This time, he lets it steep longer, watches the colour deepen and the steam thin. Then he places the second cup down, harder than necessary, the gaiwan lid wobbling.
Liu Qingge picks it up just the same. Drinks until it’s empty, and still, his face stays impassive.
Shen Jiu has to focus on it, to search Liu Qingge’s face to spot the slight tension at the corner of Liu Qingge’s mouth. The near-imperceptible pause before he swallows.
He can taste it. It’s that he simply… says nothing.
“You do not like it. Why do you drink it?” Shen Jiu demands.
Liu Qingge sets the cup down. “It is what you asked.”
“That doesn’t mean–” Shen Jiu stops, the words catching.
Liu Qingge is already reaching for the cup again, as though expecting it to be filled. As though this is how it is meant to be.
Shen Jiu does not move. For the first time since they were made to kneel here, the silence shifts – no longer empty, but stretched thin, something unspoken caught between them.
“You’ll ruin your tongue,” Shen Jiu says finally, quieter, the fight leaving him all at once.
Liu Qingge shrugs, the motion small and careless. “It’s fine.”
Fine.
Shen Jiu looks at him. At the way he sits – unwavering. At the way he does not question nor hesitate, does not push back, not even when given something deliberately unpleasant.
It is not obedience or politeness. Those, Liu Qingge has never been. It is something else entirely.
Stubborn. Unyielding. Immovable.
Shen Jiu’s fingers loosen around the teapot. Without thinking, he reaches for the kettle again. This time, he waits, just a breath longer. The water settles, the sharp hiss easing into something gentler. When he pours, the leaves open properly, releasing something cleaner, something almost sweet.
He sets the cup down and Liu Qingge drinks, a pause stretching thin between them.
“Better,” Liu Qingge says.
Shen Jiu looks up, puzzled.
It is the first time he has said anything of his own volition. Shen Jiu isn’t sure what he’s playing at.
“You can tell the difference,” Shen Jiu says, flat, and it comes more like a petulant grumble than anything else.
Liu Qingge frowns slightly. “Of course.”
“Then why didn’t you say anything before?”
Liu Qingge looks at him as though the answer should be obvious.
“You made it as you were told,” he says, as though that explains everything.
Shen Jiu does not reply.
The wind shifts, rustling the bamboo overhead. Somewhere in the distance, a bell chimes, low and steady.
Between them, the steam from the tea curls upward, thin and fleeting.
Shen Jiu stares at the cup in Liu Qingge’s hands.
He does not understand it. Not yet, perhaps.
But for the first time, he allows himself not to.
—
Oolong – Yancha
Requires patience to reveal its full character. Its flavour deepens slowly over multiple infusions.
“Leave us.”
Shen Jiu’s voice cuts through the sound of the storm, sharp enough that the servant startles. Rain lashes endlessly against the latticed windows of the inn, wind rattling the wooden frames hard enough to make the lantern flames flicker.
The servant bows hurriedly, fist against palm. “Yes, Young Master.”
The door slides shut behind him.
Silence settles uneasily over the room after that, broken only by rainwater streaming from the roof outside and the low hiss of heating water.
When Shen Jiu turns back, Liu Qingge is already seated at the far end of the low table, hands at work.
He handles the tea set with infuriating calm, sleeves pushed back just enough to keep them from brushing the tray as he pours water into the clay pot. Steam curls pale against the dim lanternlight.
As though they had not nearly died less than an hour ago.
As though they had not walked straight into an ancient curse buried beneath a tomb older than Cang Qiong itself.
As though the thing now wrapped around their spiritual veins is not tightening further with every passing moment.
How utterly foolish of the sect to send the two of them together. How presumptuous to expect Shen Jiu to return with a Liu Qingge who is alive and unharmed.
The curse shifts beneath his skin again, yet he endures. Pain licks low along the inner walls of his meridians – not sharp enough to cripple, only enough to unsettle. A warning, perhaps, a beginning of something they don’t yet fully understand.
Shen Jiu steps closer instinctively, and the pain eases immediately.
His expression darkens.
“Give me that,” he snaps, snatching the clay teapot from Liu Qingge’s hands before he can react.
Liu Qingge simply lets him. That irritates Shen Jiu almost more than resistance would have.
The scent of roasted oolong rises with the steam as he pours – warm mineral notes, charcoal and orchid blossoms unfurling slowly beneath the heat. Yancha, perhaps. Expensive leaves, wasted on an inn halfway to nowhere.
“Why did you come back for me?” Shen Jiu demands at last. Eventually, they will have to explain how the curse sealed itself so completely. He may as well get this conversation started now.
Liu Qingge looks at him steadily across the table. “You saved me.”
“No, I didn’t.”
Liu Qingge says nothing to that. He only looks at Shen Jiu with that same unbearable steadiness, as though the answer is obvious. That the lie is, too.
Shen Jiu feels irritation spark instantly beneath his ribs.
“You hate me,” he says harshly.
Liu Qingge’s brows draw together slightly.
Shen Jiu recognises the look – the quiet refusal already gathering behind Liu Qingge’s eyes before he can even open his mouth.
He crushes it before it can fully form.
“Liu-shidi,” Shen Jiu says with a mocking emphasis, “your mind is certainly full of creative stories. I have to commend you. You appear to have written all of them yourself.”
For once, Liu Qingge bristles. The words that follow are quiet, but they hit with startling force: “Must your words always be so cruel?”
The question catches Shen Jiu off guard. Ever since Liu Qingge became strange around him, it has been happening more often.
Suddenly, he feels exhausted by it all — the mission, the curse, a Liu Qingge who no longer fights him or looks at him with scorn at every turn. The feeling twists unpleasantly beneath Shen Jiu’s ribs.
He should have left him to die.
“I am but a cruel master,” he replies coldly. “Surely Liu-shidi has known this for years.”
Liu Qingge snorts softly and reaches for the cup Shen Jiu slides toward him. “I won’t pretend I understand what’s in your head.”
The storm rages harder outside. Rainwater drums endlessly against the roof while thunder rolls somewhere deep within the mountains beyond the inn.
Neither of them speaks for a while after that.
The tea leaves unfurl slowly through the successive infusions, dark green twisting looser each time hot water floods the pot. Oolong was made for patience; the flavour deepens gradually, opening layer by layer instead of all at once.
Shen Jiu hates how fitting that feels.
Instead, he wants to poke at the leaves like a petulant child, tear the process apart before it can settle into something gentle.
Liu Qingge finishes the second cup and sets it down carefully.
“It tastes better now,” he says.
Shen Jiu scowls. “Oolong changes after multiple infusions.”
Liu Qingge does not grace that with an answer, only a mild look filled with something Shen Jiu cannot quite parse.
Infuriating.
Shen Jiu pours again anyway.
Across from him, Liu Qingge watches quietly from behind the rim of his cup.
The hold is flawless. Three fingers balanced precisely against the cheap porcelain, the other hand curved beneath in practised support. Every movement is polished smooth by a noble upbringing.
Such a perfect firstborn son, Shen Jiu thinks with derision.
Liu Qingge’s eyes remain fixed on Shen Jiu over the steam – cool grey beneath the lanternlight. The weight of that gaze settles strangely against Shen Jiu’s skin.
He is being watched – not challenged or assessed – simply observed, studied like some sort of artefact. The realisation unsettles him more than the curse does.
It could simply be the bond forcing awareness between them. The useless local doctor they had consulted had already warned them that perception would sharpen before the pain stabilised. He’s been right about something, Shen Jiu supposes.
And yet– Shen Jiu finds it difficult to ignore that this is the first time he has seen Liu Qingge look at him without a trace of judgment or disdain.
Outside, lightning flashes white beyond the paper windows.
For one brief moment, the entire room glows silver.
Neither of them looks away.
—
Black Tea – Hongcha
Strong enough to withstand boiling water. Difficult to ruin, even when oversteeped.
The rain had stopped sometime before dawn, but the scent of it still lingered in the room – damp stone, wet earth, medicinal herbs drying from the rafters. Outside, water drips lazily from the curved eaves of Qian Cao Peak, each drop striking the stone path below with maddening regularity.
Shen Jiu wants to kill someone.
Preferably Liu Qingge.
“You are foolish,” Shen Jiu snaps at him, advancing across the room. “An imbecile. You should have been thrown off Bai Zhan years ago for this sort of stupidity.” His sleeves snap with every step. “How dare you repay a debt with your life?”
Liu Qingge sits propped against the headboard, pale enough to resemble a ghost. His face is drained of colour, lips bloodless, dark hair loose over the white robes the Qian Cao disciples had changed him into. Only his eyes remain steady, storm-grey and infuriatingly calm.
“You do not mean this,” Liu Qingge says.
Shen Jiu laughs sharply. “Don’t I?”
“It’s just words.”
The incessant dripping of rainwater outside fades abruptly into the background. Shen Jiu’s fingers curl inside his sleeves.
“What am I without my words?”
Liu Qingge watches him with that same unbearable steadiness. Even half-dead, he still has the gall to look at Shen Jiu as though he understands him.
The door slides open before Shen Jiu can continue the argument.
Mu Qingfang steps inside, rainwater still darkening the hems of his robes. A young disciple trails after him, carrying a lacquered tray with a clay teapot and three cups. The sharp, malty scent of hongcha unfurls immediately through the room, rich and dark and already oversteeped.
Probably ruined, Shen Jiu thinks, despite himself, his mind hooking on the most insignificant detail within the confines of this room.
The disciple pours with steady hands. Steam coils upward in pale ribbons before vanishing into the chill air of the room. The first infusion comes out deep red-gold, almost the colour of diluted blood.
Mu Qingfang dismisses the disciple with a nod and takes one of the seats at the low table. Shen Jiu has no choice but to follow.
He wants to continue the argument he’d started earlier, but Mu Qingfang clears his throat mildly, and Shen Jiu has to suppress the urge to rebuff.
“You risking your life,” Mu Qingfang says to Liu Qingge, pouring hot water back into the pot, “has strengthened the bond considerably.”
Liu Qingge, in turn, gives a low, humourless huff of laughter.
Shen Jiu ignores him.
“Did you find a way to sever it?” he asks instead.
He already knows the answer. Mu Qingfang’s expression alone says enough.
“Shixiong,” Mu Qingfang says politely, though mild fatigue roughens the edges of his voice. “I do not need to remind you that this is an ancient Hejian nuptial binding ritual. The bond was designed specifically to persist beyond ordinary spiritual interference.”
“We are not–”
“It cannot be removed without destabilising both connected spiritual networks. At present, severance would most likely result in catastrophic meridian collapse.” Mu Qingfang lifts his cup and blows lightly across the surface of the tea, completely ignoring Shen Jiu’s attempt to protest. “Death remains the only reliably documented method.”
The scent of hongcha thickens in the silence that follows.
Shen Jiu suddenly wants to throw the teapot against the wall hard enough to watch it shatter.
Instead, he says, “How long?”
Mu Qingfang folds his sleeves neatly over one another.
“The bond appears highly reactive at present. Based on the surviving literature, acute dependency periods usually last between two and five weeks.” His gaze flicks meaningfully toward Liu Qingge. “However, Liu-shixiong aggravated the condition significantly by forcibly re-establishing the connection under severe qi depletion.”
“How reassuring,” Shen Jiu mutters.
Mu Qingfang continues as though uninterrupted, “With proper regulation, the intervals can eventually extend to several months.”
“And what determines that?” Shen Jiu asks sharply.
“Emotional stability,” Mu Qingfang replies with a smile that does not reach his eyes.
Shen Jiu knows why.
Outside, wind stirs through the tree groves below the pavilion, carrying the scent of rain and wet leaves through the open lattice windows.
“The calmer and more secure the bond,” Mu Qingfang says, “the more resilient it becomes during separation. Turbulent pairings experience higher rates of spiritual rejection, pain amplification, and qi destabilisation.”
A beat of silence passes before Liu Qingge says a simple, “Alright.”
He reaches for the tea. The movement is slow, visibly taxing. His hand trembles slightly before he steadies it against the table.
The bond reacts instantly. Pain slices through Shen Jiu’s chest. It’s sharp and hot, as though someone has threaded wire through his ribs and pulled. He refuses to react.
Across the table, Mu Qingfang raises an eyebrow at him.
Shen Jiu hates doctors; he decides there and then.
Liu Qingge drains the cup in one swallow anyway.
Idiot.
Absolute idiot.
With visible effort, Liu Qingge reaches toward the teapot to begin another infusion. The hongcha leaves unfurl fully now beneath the hot water, dark and swollen, staining the liquid a deeper crimson-brown.
The scent lingers heavily between them.
“Until Liu-shixiong recovers,” Mu Qingfang says, “Shen-shixiong will need to circulate qi with him regularly. Once his condition stabilises, treatment frequency can taper accordingly.”
“And if I refuse?”
Mu Qingfang looks genuinely puzzled by the question.
“Then his life will be at risk.”
There is no malice in it. No drama. Only clinical certainty.
Shen Jiu wants to argue. Wants to sneer. Wants to say something vicious enough to wipe that infuriating calm from Liu Qingge’s face.
Instead, he looks at him.
Liu Qingge appears almost ghostly like this, the sharpness of his features blunted by blood loss and exhaustion. His skin is pale beneath the lanternlight, his long hair spilling loose over the white robes like ink on paper. It is odd seeing someone who’s usually so striking looking so void of life.
And still, he pours the tea carefully.
Still, he reaches for Shen Jiu’s cup first.
Shen Jiu’s throat tightens unexpectedly.
He almost preferred the stubborn mule from their youth – loud, violent, impossible. Hatred had been simple. Clean. Easy to survive.
This silent acceptance unsettles him far more.
Outside, thunder rolls somewhere deep beyond the mountains.
Inside, the scent of hongcha lingers.
—
White Tea – Baihao Yinzhen
Too much heat destroys its sweetness. Requires careful hands and water cool enough not to wound it.
“Shen Qingqiu,” Liu Qingge says, looking up from the tea tray. “Sit down.”
The early spring sunlight spills gold across the room, catching on polished wood and pale silk screens. It had finally stopped raining, but outside, Bai Zhan Peak is loud with wind. The magnolia trees lining the courtyard sway gently beneath the mountain breeze. The rain will be back soon, that much is certain.
Liu Qingge looks… better.
Not fully recovered, no – there is still a lingering thinness to him, a fragility around the eyes that would have been unthinkable only months ago – but colour has returned at last to his face. Soft pink warms his cheeks and mouth. His hair, half-unbound from recovery, spills dark and glossy over his shoulders.
This is the first time Shen Jiu has set foot inside Liu Qingge’s residence. It is cleaner than expected. Less severe, too.
A few weapons line one wall in a orderly row, but beside them sit carved wooden shelves crowded with scrolls and small ceramic figurines, most of them poorly made – lopsided horses, rabbits with uneven ears, little painted humans with chipped noses and smudged faces.
A child’s drawing of what looks like a family hangs between two shelves, the brushwork clumsy and oversaturated with ink. Beside it rests a calligraphy scroll written in jagged, uneven strokes, the characters large where the writer had pressed too hard with the brush and faint where their courage had failed them midway through. Shen Jiu has not seen work so poor, even from his youngest disciples.
And yet, Liu Qingge has displayed it anyway.
The only truly exquisite object in the room is a white jade family plaque resting atop the highest shelf, carved with the Liu crest in flowing cloud motifs so fine they seem almost soft beneath the afternoon light.
Everything else in the room pales beside it. And yet, somehow, Shen Jiu’s eyes keep returning to the crooked little rabbit missing one ear.
Unsettled, he folds himself down behind the low table with deliberate grace.
Somehow, he already knows what Liu Qingge will ask.
Why did you come?
So he cuts him off before he can speak.
“Should I have simply let you die?”
The white porcelain cups click softly as Liu Qingge arranges them.
“You don’t owe me anything.”
“We’re– bonded.”
“The curse?” Liu Qingge pours hot water over the tea leaves, steam curling pale between them. “That was my fault.”
Shen Jiu nearly laughs.
As if Liu Qingge bleeding half to death to protect him had been some minor social inconvenience.
Irritation sparks sharp and immediate beneath his ribs. Again, he misses the simplicity of mutual anger, the straightforwardness of antagonising the man in front of him.
This – Liu Qingge preparing tea for him without biting words and angry eyes – is unbearable.
Outside, the magnolias are in full bloom. Their fragrance drifts through the open lattice windows, sweet and heavy in the still-damp air. Somewhere below the peak, disciples are training; the distant clang of swords rises and falls with the wind.
“My mother sent this,” Liu Qingge says, nodding toward the tea.
Shen Jiu recognises it easily – baihao yinzhen, silver needle white tea – its leaves float pale and delicate in the gaiwan. It’s an expensive tea, absurdly so, only the youngest unopened buds, harvested for a handful of days each spring.
Shen Jiu looks up despite himself.
“She said the first harvest this year was particularly good.”
Of course she did. Of course, Liu Qingge’s mother sends him rare tea while Shen Jiu still remembers winters when he’d stolen stale mantou just to stop the hunger pains.
Something ugly twists briefly in his chest, but Liu Qingge slides a cup toward him, and the feeling disperses like a dandelion under strong winds.
The tea is light, almost deceptively so – floral sweetness lingering softly beneath the fresh vegetal notes. It’s the sort of tea that punishes impatience, that Shen Jiu would have burned once upon a time, when he’d first entered the sect.
Things are different now.
“My mother wishes to meet you,” Liu Qingge says.
Shen Jiu’s fingers still against the cup.
“You told her about me?”
Liu Qingge looks genuinely confused by the question.
“Of course.”
As though there could possibly have been another option.
The curse shifts faintly beneath Shen Jiu’s ribs at the quiet certainty in his voice. After all this time, it has settled deep – roots woven through meridians and spirit alike, despite Mu Qingfang’s endless experiments, despite bitter medicines and ancient texts and careful warnings, and his own unwillingness to accept that someone could ever truly be bound to him.
Sometimes Shen Jiu can no longer tell where the curse ends and everything else begins. Somewhere along the way, feeling Liu Qingge’s steady thrum inside his own blood and breath has become comforting.
“I would like to visit home for a few days,” Liu Qingge continues. “Would you come with me?”
“How else would you go?” Shen Jiu replies immediately. “We cannot separate yet.”
Liu Qingge shrugs.
As though Shen Jiu accompanying him is the most natural thing in the world.
“You’re impossible,” Shen Jiu mutters.
Something soft touches Liu Qingge’s mouth then, not quite a smile, merely the faint upward pull of his lips.
Shen Jiu stares.
How strange is this man when he isn’t fighting anyone?
All those years, Shen Jiu had thought him little more than an arrogant brute – dense, prideful, obsessed with strength and glory. Instead, it is Liu Qingge’s loyalty that has proven most vicious. Once he decides on something, he never wavers from it again. Not even Shen Jiu’s pointed cruelty could force him back once his opinion changed.
Worse still is the quiet respect Liu Qingge now regards him with. As though Shen Jiu is someone worthy of gentleness.
How strange is life, that he finds comfort here of all places.
By the time his thoughts settle, the tea has already cooled enough for a second drink.
“My mother is eager to meet you,” Liu Qingge says again, calmer this time. “After all, you are my–”
Shen Jiu lifts a hand sharply. “Do not finish that.” The tone comes out harsher than intended.
He is not ready to hear whatever Liu Qingge was about to say.
Not yet, at least.
For a moment, neither of them moves.
Then Liu Qingge inclines his head easily, accepting the interruption without offence.
“I’ll meet your mother,” Shen Jiu says at last. “Alright?”
“Alright,” Liu Qingge replies.
This time, the smile reaches his eyes.
—
Aged Pu-erh
The older the tea, the deeper the flavour. Properly aged, even bitterness becomes warmth.
The journey to the capital takes nearly half a month by carriage.
At first, only mountain paths unfurl beneath them – narrow roads carved between cliffs and thick forests, damp with spring rain and thick with mist. Then come scattered villages tucked between rice fields and rivers, smoke curling lazily from tiled rooftops at dusk.
Further south, the roads widen, traffic thickens.
Ox carts creak beneath mountains of goods. Merchant caravans pass in short processions. Silk banners flutter outside roadside inns, bright against the pale dust of the imperial roads.
By the time the capital walls emerge on the horizon, Shen Jiu almost understands why nobles become so arrogant.
The city stretches endlessly beneath the afternoon haze, all black-tiled roofs and sweeping golden eaves. Even from a distance, the capital hums with life – shouting merchants, rattling carriage wheels, the distant ringing of bells somewhere deep within the inner districts. It’s a prosperous time, and peace has settled tentatively over the nation.
Liu Qingge, beside him, appears entirely unaffected.
The Liu estate sits within one of the wealthier districts near the inner city walls, large enough to resemble a minor palace rather than a noble residence. A massive family name plaque adorns the entrance gates. Servants move quietly through the courtyards like flowing water, making way for their young master’s return.
Shen Jiu suddenly becomes acutely aware of the dust still clinging to the hems of his robes from the journey. So irritating.
He follows Liu Qingge through a maze of covered corridors and inner courtyards until they are finally led into a receiving hall faintly scented with sandalwood and incense.
“Immortal Master Shen.”
Madam Zhao rises smoothly from her seat and gestures for them to sit.
Liu Qingge sits first.
Traitor.
“Madam Zhao,” Shen Jiu greets, inclining his head before settling carefully beside Liu Qingge.
Liu Qingge’s mother is beautiful in the severe way only noblewomen of old families seem capable of being. Silver-threaded robes fall in immaculate layers around her frame, the high collar embroidered with flower motifs in pale steel-blue silk. Her face resembles Liu Qingge’s enough to unsettle Shen Jiu immediately – the same sharp brows, the same cool eyes, the same terrifying composure.
Only older, sharper, the sort of woman who could likely silence an entire room with a glance alone.
A servant approaches quietly with tea.
He can tell by the scent alone that it’s aged pu-erh – it reaches Shen Jiu before the tea itself does, dark earth after rain, old wood, something deep and strangely warm beneath it all. The tea pours nearly black at first glance, thick amber-red where sunlight strikes the porcelain.
What a welcome.
“My son has spoken highly of you,” Madam Zhao says in lieu of any further niceties.
Shen Jiu stills almost imperceptibly.
Beside him, Liu Qingge calmly lifts his cup.
“He says you saved his life.”
Shen Jiu turns slowly toward Liu Qingge, who doesn’t even have the decency to return the look or look embarrassed.
“I merely did what was appropriate under the circumstances,” Shen Jiu says coolly. “Liu-shidi would have done the same.”
“Mn,” Liu Qingge agrees without hesitation.
Somehow, that only makes it worse.
“He also says you are skilled in the arts,” Madam Zhao continues. “My youngest, Yanfei, is scholarly. He would be delighted if you showed him a painting technique or shared some poetry with him while you stay here.”
For once in his life, Shen Jiu finds himself without words.
It is deeply unpleasant.
Shen Jiu has spent most of his life mastering composure. Unfortunately, no amount of cultivation appears capable of preparing a person for this sort of conversation.
“Your son speaks generously,” he says carefully at last.
Madam Zhao hums softly into her tea.
“Rarely.” Her expression remains composed and focused, but warmth threads steadily through every sentence she speaks. Not performative politeness nor noble obligation, but something that comes off genuine. Perhaps he should have seen the signs in Liu Qingge’s house on Bai Zhan Peak.
It unnerves him far more than hostility would have.
“He also informed us of the bond,” Madam Zhao says after a tea pause.
The curse shifts faintly beneath Shen Jiu’s ribs at the mention of it.
“We are managing it,” Shen Jiu replies.
Madam Zhao hums softly into her tea, but her expression looks– happy, almost.
How strange.
“I imagine so.”
No judgment or disgust. As though spiritual marriage curses between cultivators occur every other afternoon.
The pu-erh settles warmly in Shen Jiu’s stomach, rich and mellow. Unlike younger teas, there is no bitterness left in it. Time has worn every sharp edge smooth. He wishes it were how it worked with people, too. Then, perhaps he would have been more worthy of the woman’s company.
Across the table, Liu Qingge quietly refills Shen Jiu’s cup before his own. None of the servants move, as if they read his face alone instead of words.
Somehow, that makes it worse.
“Please continue taking care of my son,” Madam Zhao says at last.
The words land heavily in Shen Jiu’s chest.
No one has ever entrusted anything precious to him before.
Certainly not something– someone loved.
“And visit more often,” she adds. “The children have been eager to meet you.”
Shen Jiu stares silently into the dark surface of his tea.
Outside, wind stirs through the inner courtyards, carrying with it the distant sound of laughter somewhere deeper within the estate.
Acceptance, Shen Jiu realises, is a difficult thing. It is soft in ways cruelty never is. Tender as the first snow falling over autumn ground still warm from the fading sun. It should feel foreign. Instead, seated beside Liu Qingge beneath the warm lanternlight of the Liu estate, it feels strangely, terrifyingly easy.
—
Nuptial Wine – Hejin Jiu
Traditionally shared from intertwined cups. Unlike tea, wine asks nothing of patience.
Snow falls softly over the capital, muting the world beneath layers of white. The rooftops of the city disappear beneath fresh powder, dark tiles turned pale beneath the winter sky. Merchants huddle deeper into their robes as they guide carts through the slush-covered streets, their voices quieter beneath the drifting snow.
And yet the road leading toward the Liu estate burns red against the white.
Lanterns sway beneath the eaves like scattered embers. Crimson silk ribbons flutter from gate to gate, vivid even beneath the snowfall. Firecrackers crackle somewhere farther down the street, and cheers rise bright and warm through the cold air as the wedding procession rounds the final corner.
“Congratulations!”
“May the couple share a hundred years together!”
Copper coins scatter across the snow. Somewhere nearby, children shriek delightedly as they scramble after them.
Today, the eldest son of the Zhenguo Duke's household takes a spouse.
When Shen Jiu steps across the threshold of the Liu estate, he nearly falters. The fan trembles faintly where he holds it before his face, red silk stretched across carved sandalwood ribs embroidered with plum blossoms and cranes. Snowflakes melt slowly against the edges of his sleeves before vanishing into the heavy wedding silks.
Again, the same thought resurfaces: How strange is life?
Ten years.
Ten years since a curse wrapped itself around their wrists like shackles.
Ten years since bitterness steeped between them, stronger than tea.
And now– now he stands beneath the lanternlight, dressed in red beside Liu Qingge, sealing the thing that he’d once desperately tried to claw out from his own chest, like a parasite.
How strange, indeed.
For most of his life, Shen Jiu had fought against the current with teeth bared and bloodied hands, clawing desperately for every scrap of dignity the world denied him.
Yet standing here now, he feels not trapped, like a songbird in a cage, but steady. He feels free.
“Prepare for the rites!” the ceremonial announcer calls loudly.
The hall stills immediately.
Guests settle into silence beneath the warm glow of lanternlight. Snow drifts quietly beyond the open doors of the ancestral hall, pale against the dark evening sky.
Beside him, Liu Qingge’s presence thrums warm and unwavering through the bond between them.
He no longer resists it, but its presence never leaves him, constant as breath.
“First bow – to heaven and earth!”
The two of them turn together.
They bow deeply toward the open sky beyond the hall, toward the snow-covered earth below the estate, toward the ancestors and heavens alike. Toward whatever awaits them beyond.
“The second bow – to the elders!”
They turn again.
Madam Zhao sits at the head of the hall in dark crimson robes embroidered with silver thread, Lord Liu beside her, stern and dignified beneath the lanternlight. Behind them stand the ancestral tablets of the Liu clan, stretching back generations.
Shen Jiu bows.
Once, the act would have tasted bitter in his mouth. Now gratitude settles unexpectedly warm beneath his ribs.
He may have no parents left to honour; he might have lost the only person he ever cherished in flames and disappointment. Still, the kindness this family has shown him is a debt he could never fully repay in this lifetime.
“The third bow – to each other!”
For the first time that evening, Shen Jiu turns fully toward Liu Qingge.
Through the semi-sheer fan blocking his face, he sees snowlight catch against red silk and dark hair.
He can tell Liu Qingge is looking at him. The bond stirs deeply beneath Shen Jiu’s skin as they bow to one another.
Not a curse anymore, but something that has rooted itself so deeply into his soul that Shen Jiu no longer knows where it ends and he begins.
“May the newly joined couple receive the blessings of heaven and earth!” the announcer declares.
A murmur of approvals ripple through the hall.
Madam Zhao stands slowly from her seat, and the room falls silent once more.
“When the spring rivers thaw,” she says calmly, “the water flows quickly and without hesitation. But even the strongest current must one day meet stone.”
Her gaze settles briefly on Liu Qingge, then on Shen Jiu.
“Marriage is much the same. There will be winters where snow buries the road ahead and nights where even the moon hides itself from the sky. There may be hardship. There may be sorrow.”
The snowfall deepens outside, soft and endless beyond the lanternlight.
“But if one heart learns to steady another, then no storm lasts forever.”
Her voice softens slightly.
“When the heart knows where it belongs, life finally becomes whole.”
Silence follows.
Then Liu Qingge bows deeply.
“Your son will remember these words.”
Beside him, Shen Jiu lowers his head as well.
“Your son-in-law will remember them.”
“Proceed with the hair-knotting ceremony!”
Liu Mingyan steps forward first, elegant and composed in vibrant winter robes. With careful hands, she cuts a long strand of Liu Qingge’s hair.
Beside her, Liu Yanfei nearly drops the scissors in his nervousness.
He has grown taller since Shen Jiu first met him, all sharp limbs and ink-stained fingers, his childhood awkwardness settling into something clever and earnest. Shen Jiu remembers crooked calligraphy scrolls and uneven little ceramic rabbits hidden away on Liu Qingge’s shelves. Now, the boy straightens his shoulders seriously before cutting Shen Jiu’s strand with exaggerated concentration.
Liu Mingyan ties the two strands together with red silk.
Bound together until death.
“Rise!”
The hall erupts into excited chatter again, auspicious blessings rippling through.
“Bring forth the nuptial wine!”
Servants step forward carrying golden cups connected by a red cord.
Liu Qingge reaches for one immediately.
His hand is steady when he helps Shen Jiu finally lower the fan from before his face, steady when their arms intertwine.
Their sleeves brush together like flames coming together.
Up close, Liu Qingge’s gaze is soft in a way Shen Jiu once would have mistaken for weakness. Now he understands better.
This man had once been one of the sharpest pains of his youth – loud, relentless, impossible to endure. Once, Shen Jiu thinks, he could have become the beginning of his ruin. But destiny is a strange thing. Now Liu Qingge stands beside him as steady and immovable as the earth beneath Shen Jiu’s feet.
The first person Shen Jiu ever learned to trust. And perhaps even stranger still – the first person who ever made him feel like his life truly belongs to him.
“Drink!” the announcer cries joyfully.
Together, they raise the cups.
The wine burns warm as Shen Jiu swallows.
Outside, snow continues to fall softly over the capital, red lanternlight glowing gently beneath the endless white.