Their souls, displaced. Their memories like fragile porcelain, still intact, but at constant risk of shattering. They had wandered through realms unknown, leapt through time, only to land here—in a palace cloaked in lies, in a country rife with betrayal, under a sky where the sun rose just slightly wrong.
And in all that strangeness, she was the one thing that made sense. The only constant. The only home.
He looked down at her face again.
She was still out cold, her cheeks brushed with a hint of rose, her lashes long and still. She looked so at peace that it felt like a crime to be near her in this state, carrying as much weight as he did. He reached for the bowl of warm water Xia Lin had left and dipped the cloth in, wringing it with practiced fingers.
With soft, reverent movements, he brought the cloth to her face.
