Shen Rui dreamed.
At first, she did not realize it was a dream. The mind has a cruel way of mending what the soul has long since accepted as broken.
The air was warm—unseasonably so for Qinghe Sect. Sunlight filtered through open windows, pale and steady, dust motes drifting lazily in its wake.
The sound of wind chimes echoed faintly, not sharp enough to demand attention. It was the scent of sun-dried herbs and peace—a fragrance that had long since vanished from the peaks.
She was smaller.
Her sleeves were too long, slipping past her wrists when she moved. The sword at her side felt unfamiliar in its weight, heavy in a way she had not yet learned to compensate for. It was a weight she carried with pride then, not the grim duty it had become.
"Again."
The voice was calm. Not commanding. Not cold.
Shen Rui turned.
Lin Yue stood a short distance away, robes light-colored and loose, hair tied low, a faint smile resting at the corner of her lips. She held her sword casually, as though it were an extension of her arm rather than a weapon.
She looked like a woman who held the world in the palm of her hand and found it light.
"You're thinking too much," Lin Yue said. "Let your body move first."
Shen Rui frowned—young, unguarded, frustration clear on her face. "If I don't think, I'll make mistakes."
Lin Yue laughed softly. The sound was a melody Shen Rui had forgotten she knew by heart.
"Mistakes are how you learn."
She stepped forward, adjusting Shen Rui's grip with gentle precision. Her hand was warm. Steady. A grounding force in a world that had not yet started to tilt.
Shen Rui's breath hitched.
"Like this," Lin Yue murmured. "Trust yourself."
They moved together then—slow, deliberate. Shen Rui followed instinct rather than instruction, her form imperfect but earnest. When she faltered, Lin Yue was already there, correcting without rebuke.
"Well done," Lin Yue said after.
The words settled deep, heavier than praise should have been. They were an anchor, pinning Shen Rui to a future she thought was certain.
They sat on the steps afterward, sharing tea that had long since gone lukewarm. Shen Rui swung her legs idly, watching the clouds drift past the peaks.
"Master," she said suddenly, the word light on her tongue, unburdened. It was a name then, not a scar.
Lin Yue glanced at her. "Yes?"
"Will things always stay like this?"
The question was innocent. Hopeful. The kind of question only someone who has never known loss would dare to ask.
Lin Yue did not answer immediately.
She looked out at the sky, eyes thoughtful, expression unreadable in a way Shen Rui had not yet learned to fear. A shadow passed over her gaze—the first hint of a storm Shen Rui was too young to see.
"Nothing stays the same forever," Lin Yue said gently. "But that doesn't mean it has to end badly."
Shen Rui nodded, satisfied with that answer.
She leaned closer without realizing it, shoulder brushing Lin Yue's sleeve.
The bell rang.
The sound was wrong—too loud, too sharp, echoing unnaturally as the world fractured around it. The sunlight dimmed, shadows stretching and twisting across the courtyard. The warmth drained from the air. The tea in her cup turned to ice.
Lin Yue stood.
"Go," she said.
Her voice was different now—distant, restrained. The warmth was gone, replaced by the hollow resonance of a tomb.
"Master?" Shen Rui reached out.
Lin Yue did not take her hand. She was already becoming mist, already retreating into a silence that would last for years.
The bell rang again.
Shen Rui woke abruptly.
Darkness pressed in on all sides, cold seeping into her skin. Her breath came steady, controlled, though her chest felt tight, as if something had lodged itself there. A piece of the dream, perhaps, refusing to dissolve.
The dream dissolved quickly, leaving only fragments behind—sunlight, warmth, a voice that no longer belonged to the present.
She sat up, hair perfectly in place despite sleep, expression already smoothing into composure. The room was silent save for the faint rustle of curtains stirred by the night wind. The silence was an old friend; they had kept each other company for a long time.
Shen Rui swung her legs over the edge of the bed.
The Northern Wing was quiet at this hour.
She did not look toward it.
Some dreams were not meant to be examined. They were meant to be buried, like the woman who inspired them.
She stood, straightened her robes, and reached for her sword. The weight was familiar now—balanced, obedient. But for a split second, it felt as heavy as it had when she was a child.
Outside, the night bell rang once more, distant and cold.
Shen Rui paused.
For a brief moment—no longer than a breath—her fingers tightened around the hilt. The jade ring on her finger felt like an accusation.
Then she released it.
The past had no place here.
And yet, as she stepped into the darkness, the warmth of that dream lingered just long enough to remind her of what she no longer allowed herself to want. The mountain was still standing, but the foundation was starting to tremble.