Thirty-fifth day, dusk at High-Post Garrison
The fortress sat on a red granite bluff where two rivers married in a foam of jade and slate.
Local custom greeted travellers with a "Lantern Float" on the first calm evening of each moon—a plea to river spirits to carry away grievances before new journeys.
The garrison commander, delighted to host imperial princes, declared tonight the night, though the moon was only a silver thumbnail.
Every courtyard echoed with paper-rustle and boys hawking reed pens.
Invitations in Low Voices
Yuan vanished early, chasing a giggling prefect's daughter who painted lotus petals better than battle maps.
Shen, trapped in ledgers, escaped through a side door still wearing ink on his cuffs.
Lan Yue, off-duty for the first time in days, wandered the lower rampart with her unstrung bow, pretending to admire sunset while rehearsing how not to look for anyone in particular.
A junior runner found her:
"Commander Shen requests your presence at the river gate.
He said—" the boy frowned at memory, "—'bring no steel, only wishes.'"
Her stomach performed a traitor's flip.
The Paper Bridge
Below the gate, stone steps descended to a sand-bar shaped like a crescent moon.
Locals had laid parallel planks, edge lined with clay saucers; each saucer waited for a lantern, forming a fragile bridge of light across wet sand.
Shen stood at the midpoint, civilian cloak the colour of river mist, hair unbound save for a single silver pin—prince in hiding.
He held two unpainted lanterns, their rice-paper skins trembling in twilight breeze.
When he spotted her his smile started small, then spread unchecked—a secret handed from one heartbeat to the next.
Painting Wishes in Silence
They knelt on a reed mat.
Between them: inkstone, sable brush, a palette of river-water.
He offered the brush first; she shook her head—let him set the tone.
He wrote on one lantern, characters fine as flight-feathers:
"愿天下无饥."
May the realm never hunger.
Then he passed the brush.
She hesitated, then painted a single archer's arrow transecting a falling star—no words, only direction.
He watched, eyes soft.
On the second lantern he wrote nothing, only drew two overlapping circles—moon-shadows, or saddles, or something else entirely.
She took the brush again, added a faint line where the circles touched—a bow-string drawn but not loosed.
Ink bled, dried, became agreement.
The Launch
Night breeze carried voices downstream; paper bridges glowed like stepping-stones to another world.
They lifted their lanterns together, fingertips brushing rims—no gloves, no protocol, only paper thinner than excuses.
A collective count from the crowd:
"三—二—一—"
They set the saucers onto black water.
The current accepted, tugged; twin lights drifted, circles and arrow rotating slowly until distance merged meaning into pure shine.
Neither looked away until the lanterns rounded the bend and vanished—**wishes now property of the river.
The Walk Upstream
Crowd scattered along the bank.
Without consultation they moved upstream, away from torch-song, into reed shadows where firelight could not gossip.
Sand muffled steps; river hush filled the space between breaths.
He spoke first, voice pitched under water-song:
"At dawn we receive dispatches.
The northern passes are icing early.
We march in three days."
She nodded; the knowledge had weighed on both since the saddle ride.
She answered with the only truth she owned:
"Then let tonight be long enough."
He stopped walking.
The Reed Curtain
Bamboo stakes and willow saplings formed a fisherman's half-weir, long abandoned.
Moonlight filtered through slats, painting moving bars across his face.
Behind, reeds rose higher than a man on horseback—a room with no roof, no door.
He turned to her, closer than protocol, farther than longing.
"I have rehearsed apologies for the hot-spring," he said.
"And for the pillion ride.
But I find I regret nothing except the distance after."
Her throat tightened; she managed a whisper:
"Distance is regulation.
Regulation keeps you alive."
He shook his head once—slow, certain.
"Regulation keeps me titled.
You keep me alive."
The words hung like lantern-light between them, fragile, luminous.
The Almost, Again
Wind rustled reeds; water lapped stones.
He lifted a hand, paused mid-air—asking, not taking.
She closed the gap, fingers settling over his wrist, guiding palm to rest just below her collar-bone—above armour, above skin, above heartbeat.
His exhale shook.
"Tell me to stop," he said.
She answered by stepping in, forehead to his cheek, breath mingling.
For a moment they simply breathed—two lanterns learning the same current.
Then she tilted her face, not a command, not surrender—invitation.
The Kiss That Signed No Names
His lips found hers soft as paper yet warm as the lantern-flame they had released.
No clash, no conquer—a question asked and answered in the same breath.
Her hand slid to the nape of his neck, fingers threading rain-cooled hair; his arm circled her waist, pulling but not pressing, as if she might break—or he might.
Reed-shadows moved across them like calligraphy:
stroke, pause, stroke—a poem neither would ever recite aloud.
When they parted, distance was measured in heartbeats, not inches.
He rested brow to hers.
"No titles tonight," he murmured.
"Only Shen.
Only Yue."
She smiled against his mouth.
"Only this river.
Only this breath."
The Return – Footprints Half-Washed
They walked back as lanterns inside the larger glow dispersed.
Where sand was wet their tracks overlapped, single file then side-by-side, then merging where he had pulled her close.
Incoming tide licked at the edges, erasing evidence—a conspiracy of water.
At the gate stair he stopped, let distance open again, the width of two cloaks—armour re-knitting.
He spoke formally, but eyes held last ember of reed-shadow:
"Archer-Cadet Lan, thank you for escort."
She saluted, voice steady:
"Commander Shen, the river carries our wishes."
No one watching could fault the exchange; no one could hear the tremor beneath.
Night Watch – Separate Towers
She drew sentry on east parapet; he inspected west magazines.
Between them the fortress courtyard bustled with soldiers comparing lantern stories.
On the hour she leaned over the battlement, looked across at the opposite walk; he emerged into torchlight, paused, hand to wall.
Distance too far for words, perfect for memory.
He lifted two fingers to his lips—not a wave, a reminder.
She answered the same, then both turned back to duty—hearts beating loud enough to drown the river's gossip, but quiet enough to keep the night.