The autumn wind in the southern marshlands had a way of carrying scents farther than sight could reach. Before the trio even reached the fishing village, Xu Liang felt the air thicken with the fragrance of river reeds, damp stone, and something faintly sweet — the lingering perfume of lotus petals crushed into the current. It was the kind of sweetness that should have faded with summer's passing, yet here it clung stubbornly, as if the river itself hoarded memories.
Xu Liang sat astride his horse with perfect posture, the embroidered hems of their changpao falling like spilled ink over the stirrups. The cough had been with hi, since leaving Pingzhou, but he suppressed each spasm with the precision of one who had long learned to show no weakness before strangers. His fingers, pale and long, rested against the carved handle of a talisman box strapped to the saddle — the lacquered wood polished by years of use.
Rong Yue rode slightly ahead, his silhouette framed by the pale gleam of his ceremonial hairpin. In the village, he would wear the outward armor of gongzi propriety: the measured voice, the masculine cut of his robes, the stillness of a man raised under the Son of Heaven's gaze. But Xu Liang knew that once they were alone, the mask would soften — his gestures loosening into the graceful arcs that court tutors had once tried to train out of him.
Wei Zhen followed at the rear, the ever-watchful shouwei, his hand never far from the hilt of the jian at his hip. His expression betrayed nothing, but Xu Liang could read the slight shift in his shoulders — the subtle lowering that meant he was already measuring threats, mapping exits, counting breaths.
The path dipped toward the village. Roofs of weathered gray tile emerged from the mist like the backs of sleeping beasts. Fishermen hauled nets from narrow boats moored along the bank, their voices low, glances furtive. A child darted across the path clutching a bundle of river greens, his bare feet slapping against the damp earth before disappearing behind a row of drying racks hung with silver-scaled fish.
It was not until they reached the main square that someone approached them.
She was tall for a village woman, her hair bound high with a length of indigo cloth, the ends trailing down her back like ribbons of night. There was something in her bearing — the measured way she inclined her head in greeting — that spoke of past training far from this muddy shore.
"Gongzi, shouwei," she said, her gaze settling briefly on each of them before lingering on Xu Liang, "and Dianxia, if I may address you so, though you wear no crown here. You seek the vanished brides."
Rong Yue dismounted first, returning her bow with the restrained grace befitting his station. "We do. My name is Rong Yue. These are Xu Liang and Wei Zhen. And you are…?"
"Ning Xue," she replied. "Once of the Qianye Sect. Now, merely of this village."
Xu Liang's fingers tightened slightly against the talisman box. "Qianye Sect?" His voice was soft, but it carried the weight of someone accustomed to being listened to. "You trained under Master Shen Wuwei?"
A flicker of surprise crossed Ning Xue's face. "Many years ago. Before…" She glanced toward the river, her eyes narrowing. "Before I laid down my sword and came here."
They followed her to a small tea house whose paper walls rattled faintly with each gust of wind. Inside, the air was heavy with the scent of roasted millet and damp bamboo. Ning Xue poured tea with the efficient economy of someone who had long ago stopped wasting motion on unnecessary courtesies, though she still observed the essentials of li.
She spoke of brides taken not on the road to their weddings, but the night before, when the bridal chamber was still being prepared and the marriage candles not yet lit. No sign of struggle, no footprints in the damp earth, only the faint sound of water where no water should be.
As she spoke, Xu Liang felt the subtle prickle of qi gathering low in the air. It was not the cool breath of a living river, but something heavier, as if the water carried a memory of grief.
Without warning, Rong Yue's gaze had begun to drift, not away from him, but beyond him. It was subtle at first: a soft stillness in his posture, a quieting of breath. Then Xu Liang saw it — the faint shimmer clouding Rong Yue's irises, like moonlight caught in water. His voice faltered. Something was happening.
He had never seen eyes do that. Not in the temple, not in the archives, not even in the stories passed down by the old mystics. Rong Yue's pupils widened unnaturally, as though they were drinking in a light invisible to the rest of the world. Xu Liang felt the hairs on his arms rise. This wasn't trance. It was something older, deeper and Rong Yue was slipping into it without warning.
"Dianxia?" he asked, voice low, uncertain. But Rong Yue didn't blink. His expression was serene, almost too serene, as if he had stepped out of time. Xu Liang's heart began to race. He reached out instinctively, fingers brushing the edge of Rong Yue's sleeve, needing to feel something solid, something human. The silence between them grew heavy, thick with the weight of unseen things.
Xu Liang's mind raced through possibilities. Was this a seizure? A possession? A divine calling? He had read of spiritual perception, yes — but never imagined it would look like this. Not so sudden. Not so complete. He felt helpless, watching the man he trusted become a vessel for something vast and unknowable. And yet, there was no fear in Rong Yue's face. Only surrender.
The moment stretched. Xu Liang stayed close, unwilling to leave him alone in whatever realm he had entered. He didn't understand what was unfolding, but he knew it mattered. He knew it would change things. And so he waited, heart tight with worry, eyes fixed on Rong Yue's distant gaze — praying that when he returned, he would still be the man Xu Liang knew.
And just as it started it ended. Rong Yue sagged into his chair and took a sip of his tea. Wei Zhen, ever attuned to both of them, shifted closer to Rong Yue's chair, his presence solid as stone. His gaze lingered on the faint pallor in Xu Liang's cheeks, the way his fingers hovered just above the rim of his teacup, not quite steady.
Ning Xue caught the glance, her brow furrowing. "The river's qi is not kind to those already weakened. You should not linger long near the water's edge."
Xu Liang allowed a thin smile. "If we did not linger where danger lies, guniang, we would accomplish little in our work."
But when they rose to leave, Wei Zhen was already unwinding the thick traveling cloak from his pack. Without asking, he draped it over Xu Liang's shoulders, the wool falling heavy and warm over the layered silk. The faint scent of sandalwood clung to the fabric , his scent , and for a heartbeat Xu Liang's lashes lowered, hiding the flicker of expression that passed through their eyes.
Outside, the wind had shifted. Somewhere beneath the surface of the river, something moved.
And Xu Liang knew that they were already being watched.
---
The village lay pressed against the riverbank like a supplicant bowing before a sovereign. Its lanes were narrow, slick with moisture; the wooden bridges were dark with age, their planks worn smooth by countless bare feet. Xu Liang kept their pace measured, the sleeves of his changpao gathered in one hand to keep from brushing against the grime. Even in travel-stained attire, his movements had the precision of the shangshi who had trained him, every turn of the wrist, every incline of the head, weighed and chosen.
Rong Yue matched his pace, the sun catching faintly on the gold thread of his robe's border. His public mask was firmly in place, chin high, steps decisive, yet Xu Liang saw how his fingers flexed once, twice, as if resisting the urge to trail them along the wooden railing and feel the grain.
Wei Zhen trailed half a step behind, eyes scanning alleys, eaves, and shadowed doorways. The hilt of his jian caught the light each time he shifted, the polished guard smooth from years of use. He carried himself with the economy of a man who had spent a lifetime saving his energy for when it was needed most.
They reached the river just as the sun's lower rim met the mist, painting the water with the color of burning copper. Boats bobbed lazily, their hulls etched with years of repairs. Children's laughter floated from one bank — thin, brittle, too quick to vanish.
Ning Xue halted before the largest of the mooring stones, her shadow falling across a cluster of floating lotus pods. "Here," she said simply.
Xu Liang let their gaze drift over the water. To any other eye, it was merely a river at dusk, its current sluggish, weeds curling upward from the shallows. But the threads of qi he sensed were not the soft currents of living water; these were taut, twisting — like cords wound too tight around something that struggled to breathe.
Rong Yue's breath slowed, his pupils catching faint glimmers that were not reflections of the setting sun. "There's movement beneath," he murmured, voice pitched so only they could hear. "Not fish. Not alive."
Xu Liang's cough rose suddenly, unbidden, the sound sharp in the evening stillness. Wei Zhen was beside him before the second breath, one arm firm across their back, the other drawing the cloak more snug. His palm lingered a moment longer than necessary, a quiet, grounding weight.
"I am well," Xu Liang murmured, though the words lacked conviction. Still, he straightened, smoothing the lines of their robes. "We should hear the rest."
Ning Xue's eyes, dark and steady, settled on them. "I was a cultivator once. I've seen what dwells in rivers, the hungry ones, the lonely ones. But this…" She gestured toward the water. "This is a cage. Something is bound here. And it is… calling."
At that word, a shiver ghosted along Xu Liang's spine, not entirely from the chill. Bound things had voices and they had patience.
"Calling for whom?" Wei Zhen asked.
Ning Xue's mouth tightened. "For brides."
The wind shifted, bringing with it the scent of wet silk, faint but unmistakable. Rong Yue's gaze snapped to the river, his lashes lowering as he looked deeper into what only he could see. Xu Liang watched his expression, the faint tightening at the corners of his mouth, and the smallest tremor in his fingers, and knew the vision had found him again.
Without breaking decorum, he stepped closer, he sleeve brushing his. "Later," they murmured, soft enough that the words were only for him. "Tell me later."
He gave the slightest incline of his head, an acknowledgment, a promise.
The light faded quickly in the marshlands. Villagers began shuttering their windows, their movements brisk, avoiding glances toward the river. No one wished to be outside after nightfall.
At the tea house, Ning Xue arranged for them to take the upper room. The bedding smelled faintly of cedar and river reeds, the quilts heavy enough to block the night chill. As they settled in, Xu Liang withdrew his talisman box and began arranging the tools with the care of a calligrapher preparing for the first stroke, brushes of fox-tail hair, ink stones worn smooth, sheets of yellowed fu zhi paper.
Wei Zhen lit the oil lamp and took his seat by the door, back straight, the lamplight deepening the planes of his face. He said nothing of Xu Liang's earlier cough, but his gaze lingered each time they paused in their work.
Rong Yue unfastened his outer robe and hung it neatly, moving with the effortless elegance he could allow himself in private. The soft rustle of silk was joined by the faint scent of plum blossom oil from his hair.
Ning Xue remained by the window, watching the dark line of the river through a narrow gap in the shutters. "Tomorrow," she said, "I will take you to the place where the last bride vanished. But go there with your qi shielded. She will try to make you hear her."
Xu Liang set the final brush in place, their expression unreadable. "And if we do?"
"Then she will never let you go."
Ning Xue left the room with swift steps and Silence held the room for a long moment. Outside, the river moved and if one listened too long, one might have thought it sighed.