That night, a quiet feast was held—not to celebrate, but to mark.
No speeches. No medals. Just warmth. Lanterns hung between the trees. Stew bubbled over the fire.
Songs were sung, badly, and Ji Luan recited a dramatic poem that made half the scouts groan and the other half applaud.
Drowsy curled around the edge of the orchard, head on her paws, eyes glowing faintly as she watched her strange little pack laugh beneath the plum trees.
Tian Shen sat beside the lantern tree again, watching the flames.
This time, he didn't draw.
He didn't write either.
He just sat, listening to the voices of those he'd once called subordinates—but now only thought of as companions.
Then Little Mei plopped down beside him with two bowls of soup.
"Yours has extra dumplings," she announced. "Don't tell Ji Luan. He'll accuse me of favoritism."
Tian Shen accepted the bowl.
"Thank you."
They sat in silence for a while, sipping.
Finally, Little Mei said.
