Late afternoon, same day
The storm had washed gullies into trenches; the supply track north of River-Fork turned to slick clay.
Halfway through a steep switch-back the lead wagon lurched, axle snapping like kindling.
While carpenters worked, Shen ordered the column to tighten—no stragglers on mud that could swallow a mare to the knee.
Lan Yue's horse, already favouring the tender ankle, mis-stepped again; the mare went down on one knee, throwing her hard against the saddle-bow.
When the animal struggled up it was limping—tendon strain, not break, but useless for miles.
Veterans offered spare mounts; the mare was small, none matched.
Shen surveyed the narrow trail—one rider double, or lose an hour roping the mare behind a wagon.
He swung his black gelding alongside before anyone else could speak.
"Up," he said, extending a hand.
Voice calm, colour high.
Protocol screamed; necessity shrugged.
The Lift
Yue hesitated half a heartbeat—every eye in earshot suddenly interested in clouds or boot-laces.
She passed her reins to Yuan, set her left foot on Shen's stirrup, and let him pull.
The motion landed her sideways across the saddle-bow; he adjusted instantly, swinging her lightly to sit behind—soldier-efficient, prince-graceful.
Her arms found his waist by reflex; his cloak, still damp from last night, smelled of cedar and horse-sweat.
He spoke over his shoulder, soft enough for her ears alone:
"Say the word and we stop."
She answered with the faintest squeeze—acknowledgment, not permission—and felt his inhale expand beneath her palms.
The Rhythm
Hoof-beats started slow, cautious on the slope.
Every step slid her chest against his back; there was no dignified gap on a war-saddle.
She tried to brace on the high cantle—but the path twisted, forcing her to follow his centre.
After the third sway she gave up pretence, settled her hands at his belt where leather was thick and stable.
His exhale misted in the cool air; she felt it skim her knuckles.
Somewhere below, her pulse matched the horse's cadence—**one-two, one-two—**and the world shrank to the warm column of his spine and the drum inside her ribs.
The Narrow Pass
Trail narrowed to a ledge: river far below, cliff face to the right, nothing to the left but sky and the echo of falling stones.
The gelding snorted, ears flicking.
Shen's hands steadied reins; unconsciously he pressed back, seeking balance—and found her there.
She slid one arm fully round his waist, palm flat to his midriff, offering counter-weight.
For a moment the horse hesitated, feeling two heartbeats instead of one; Shen murmured a command, low and certain, and the gelding stepped on.
Wind funnelled up the gorge, tugging her cloak; ends of her sash fluttered forward, brushing his thigh like pennants surrendering.
Conversation in Code
To keep the mare calm—and herself sane—she spoke, voice pitched under wind:
"Your Highness rode pillion once before?"
A soft huff that might be laughter.
"Only as a child, behind my riding-master.
He complained I talked too much."
"I will strive to be less troublesome."
Another huff, warmer.
"You could never be troublesome."
The words were almost lost in hoof-echo, yet they landed hot against her collar-bone.
She bit her lip, grateful he could not see the flush the gale failed to cool.
The Mare's Protest
Behind them the lame mare whinnied, yanking against the lead-rope tied to Yuan's saddle.
The sound spooked the gelding; it half-reared.
Shen's weight shifted; Yue's arm tightened instinctively, drawing him back into the cradle of her balance.
For one breath they hung between sky and stone—three creatures fused by gravity and trust—then hooves crashed down, found purchase, and walked on.
Neither released the tension; neither acknowledged it aloud.
Rest Stop – The Unspoken Count
At the gorge's lip the path widened to a grassy shelf.
Shen called halt to breathe the horses.
He swung down first, hands rising to lift her—but she slid off before he touched her waist, landing light despite the ache in her ankle.
For a moment they stood closer than partners at a palace ball, reins tangled between them.
His gloves rested on the saddle; her palms still held the ghost-heat of his ribs.
Around them riders dismounted, gave them space—a circle of deliberate blindness.
He cleared his throat.
"Your ankle?"
"Holding."
"And—" He gestured vaguely at the space between their chests.
"Steady," she answered, not sure whether she spoke of balance or heartbeat.
He nodded, but his eyes lingered on the sash ends that had brushed his leg, as if they might spell a promise only he could read.
Second Leg – Rear Guard
Wagons rolled; Shen assigned himself rear-guard to discourage stragglers—and to place himself beside her walking mare.
They moved knee-to-knee now, horses pacing evenly.
Conversation turned practical: patrol rotations, grain estimates, rumours of border wolves.
Yet every third sentence trailed off, unfinished, as if words were stepping-stones across a river too wide.
When her mare stumbled again he reached across without thinking, steadying the rein; his knuckles brushed her bare wrist—skin to skin, lightning without storm.
Both startled, both pretended not to; but the place he had touched glowed the rest of the afternoon, a private lantern beneath her sleeve.
Dusk – Camp on the Ridge
They made camp on high ground where wind carried scent of pine and distant snow.
Tents went up in twilight; fires crackled, grateful for dryness.
Shen detailed pickets, then found her by the horse-lines tightening the lame mare's wrap.
He carried two tin cups of honeyed grain-milk—camp luxury.
She accepted, fingers careful not to overlap his.
For a moment they leaned on the same rail, watching the mare nose her feed.
He spoke to the night, not to her:
"Thirty li tomorrow, we reach High-Post.
After that the roads widen."
She understood: no more need for shared saddles, narrow paths, accidental touches.
She answered equally quiet.
"Then we ride easy, and the mare heals."
He turned, met her gaze—something raw flickered, quickly hooded.
"And the riders?" he asked.
She smiled, small.
"Riders remember balance."
He nodded once, as if sealing a treaty, and walked off—back straight, hands clenched around a cup now empty.
Night – Separate Fires, Same Wind
She sat with archers, sharpening heads; he conferred with scouts across camp.
Distance was only a few paces, yet felt like the gorge they had crossed—wide enough to echo, narrow enough to see the other side.
When the bugle sounded second watch she banked her small fire, glanced across flames; he was already looking.
Neither waved; neither needed to.
The memory of a saddle's sway, of wind tugging sashes, of a heartbeat felt through backbone, kept vigil between them—a bridge built of almosts, waiting for one brave footstep.