The landscape changed with every passing mile.
From stone-paved roads to narrow mountain paths, from regimented shrines to half-forgotten temples carved into hillsides, the empire shifted around her. The world of Tiānjīng had faded,
replaced by something older, wilder, more silent.
And Liwei remained as unreadable as ever.
He spoke only when necessary. His voice was low, precise, and courteous. When he addressed her, it was always by title. When he rode beside her, it was without glance or gesture.
Revati began to watch him more closely—not with affection, but with curiosity.
He holds his reins too tightly.
He never eats fully.
He checks the horizon as though expecting something to go wrong.
At night, they camped beneath pine trees or beside rivers, with soldiers quietly taking posts around them. Revati was always given a separate tent—warm, protected, distant. Lord Shen's own tent was always lit last, extinguished first.
By the fifth night, they had crossed into Long Zhi.
The forests deepened. Mist hung lower. Even the birds seemed quieter.
And then, at last, the Fortress of Long Zhi came into view—stone-carved into the slope of a high ridge, flanked by cliffs and shadowed pines. It did not look like a home. It looked like a watchtower built to survive winters that the court had long forgotten.
Revati stepped down from the chariot as the gates opened before them. Inside, servants bowed in practiced silence. A steward stepped forward and said, "Welcome, The Consort of Long Zhi."
She nodded, but her heart sank.
I have not come home.
I have come to a threshold.
And he, Lord Shen… he guards its silence like a sword.
He led her inside without a word.
And so, with no family beside her, no temple bell to greet her, and no warmth to carry her through the doors, Revati crossed into the province where her marriage would truly begin—and where, unknowingly, her heart would begin to thaw.