I woke without knowing when sleep had taken me.
The novel lay open on my chest, one page bent where my fingers had loosened their hold. The ink had bled slightly where the sunlight touched it, as if the story itself had grown tired of waiting for me to continue. I closed it gently—as if the book might protest rough handling—and sat up, rubbing at my eyes.
The room was neither warm nor cold. It held that strange midday stillness: not morning-fresh, not evening-soft. Just… paused. Like the world had inhaled and forgotten to exhale.
"She's still not back," I murmured, my gaze drifting to Heiwa's side of the room.
Her things were untouched. No discarded sash. No faint warmth lingering where she usually sat. Training days always felt longer without her—not because I missed her presence exactly, but because she made time feel intentional. Purposeful. Without her, the hours simply… existed.
Sunlight spilled into the courtyard, gold and unhurried, dust motes floating like idle thoughts. I followed it barefoot, the wood cool beneath my feet, grounding in a way my mind wasn't. I didn't know where I was going. I don't think I cared.
That, apparently, was the theme of the day.
"Heiwa's still out training?" Danpung asked.
She was already seated beside the courtyard steps, legs crossed, posture relaxed in the way of someone who had finished everything she needed to do and found the rest of the day mildly amusing. Her tail swayed in lazy arcs behind her, brushing the air like punctuation to a sentence she wasn't done writing.
"Hmm," I replied, lowering myself beside her.
She glanced at me sideways, eyes sharp despite her languid tone. "You look like someone who woke up too early for a dream and too late for ambition."
I snorted. "That obvious?"
"Painfully."
The shrine felt hollow—not lonely, just under-occupied. The difference mattered. Lonely meant something was missing. This felt more like everything had stepped away briefly, trusting the space to hold itself together.
Everyone had their own momentum now, and that was fine. Good, even. Repairs were underway. The town had settled. The dead were buried. The urgent had passed.
But peace, I was learning, was inconvenient.
The town had shrunk back into modesty, into routines and small gestures, and without chaos to wrestle against, time stretched itself thin. Too much room to think. Too much quiet for thoughts to hide in.
"Want to escort me on my errands?" Danpung offered, amusement threading her voice. "I could use company. Or muscle. Or someone to complain at."
I shook my head slowly. "I think I'll rot here a little longer."
She laughed, soft and unbothered, and reached out to rub my head as if I were a bored child refusing to go outside. "Suit yourself. There are apples in the kitchen if desperation sets in."
"Desperation is already here," I muttered.
Her tail flicked once for emphasis as she stood. "Then you're ahead of schedule."
And just like that, she was gone.
The apples were crisp. Sweet. Loud in the silence.
Each bite echoed more than it should have, juice running down my fingers, the sound of it absurdly sharp against the stillness. I leaned against a pillar, staring at nothing in particular.
"I wonder if being a cultivator is exhausting," I murmured to myself between bites. "Or if they just pretend boredom doesn't exist."
Maybe that was the trick. Maybe discipline wasn't about strength or clarity—but about never letting the mind sit idle long enough to ask uncomfortable questions.
I wandered the shrine without direction, apple in hand, feet moving on their own. The halls felt larger when empty. The air carried the faint scent of incense, old prayers lingering like ghosts who didn't know they were dead.
Almost everyone was gone now—just Dōngzhí and me, lingering like the last notes after a song had ended, unsure whether to fade or repeat.
That was how I found myself near the gate.
Dōngzhí stood speaking with a soldier, posture relaxed, ears flicking as she listened. Her expression was polite, distant—perfectly measured. The soldier spoke in low tones, stiff-backed, eyes forward. When he finished, he saluted sharply, turned, and left without another word.
"What did he want?" I asked as I approached.
"There you are," Dōngzhí said, turning to me with a smile that suggested she'd known exactly where I'd end up. "I was wondering when boredom would drive you outside."
She folded her fan with a soft click and began walking back toward the shrine, unhurried. I followed.
"He came to inform Miss Li Hua that the Marquess' son has arrived."
I blinked. "But Miss Li Hua isn't here."
"It's quite all right," she replied easily, as if that detail meant nothing at all. "No one is in a hurry. The Marquess' son is currently staying at a hotel—with his maid."
"The message can wait."
That only sharpened my confusion.
"Then why is the Duke's son here?" I asked, stopping short.
Dōngzhí paused and glanced at me, her smile widening just enough to feel dangerous—like a blade revealed by accident. "Politics," she said lightly. "Probably."
Of course.
That word always meant more than it claimed. It was the answer people used when the truth was too tangled to bother explaining.
I exhaled slowly, the weight of it settling in my chest. I found myself wishing—unexpectedly—that Heiwa would finish her training soon. At least when she was around, uncertainty felt deliberate. Sharpened. Something you prepared for.
We shared fruit beneath the open sky afterward, sitting side by side without speaking. The afternoon drifted on, clouds shifting lazily overhead. The scent of apples lingered—bright, ordinary, persistent.
The world felt paused, balanced between movement and waiting.
Peace, I realized, wasn't loud.
It didn't announce itself.
It simply made space—and dared you to sit with it.