“Your roommate must be very brotherly to you,” Situ Jin murmured, his eyelids growing heavier, his voice faint. “That’s nice. All my brothers are dead.” He looked at the corpses scattered on the ground. Their blood soaked into the dark-brown earth, dyeing it a deep crimson. Though they might not have considered him family, he’d always believed that those who fought side by side and faced life and death together were brothers.
Dew from the flowering vines dripped onto his cheek, cold and penetrating, as if seeping into his heart. Spring in the capital is so cold, he thought hazily. His grip on the saber was slipping.
Shen Jue’s eyes were calm and somber as he said softly, “Yes. In the whole wide world, he’s the one who cares most for me.”
“Then go back quickly. The Fourth Qianxi Courtyard isn’t far. Avoid the shadows and stick to the light. The shadows hold assassins...and the Garuda.”
Situ Jin couldn’t hold on any longer. His hand dropped from his saber, and he fell face-first to the ground. His face was half-buried in the dirt, his body covered in bloodstains and grime.
Shen Jue was taken aback. Stepping closer, he asked, “What did you say? The Garuda? Was that woman just now the Garuda?”
But Situ Jin could no longer answer.
Shen Jue frowned. After a moment’s silence, he turned and left.
Shen Jue returned to his room to find Xiahou Lian still unconscious. He put his hand to Xiahou Lian’s forehead—it didn’t feel any hotter. Then he removed the other boy’s clothing and applied the golden wound medicine from the imperial physicians’ office. That would be far better than the crude herbs he’d used earlier. Sprinkled over Xiahou Lian’s swollen wounds, the fine powder cooled his flesh, alleviating the prickling heat. Xiahou Lian’s breathing eased slightly.
After brewing more medicine and feeding it to Xiahou Lian, Shen Jue waited an hour, then checked his temperature again. The fever had subsided. Heaving a sigh of relief, Shen Jue pushed open the window. Night was giving way to dawn, painting the vast, towering skies deep blue. Palaces stretched out one after another, seeming to reach all the way to the morning light on the horizon.
Xiahou Lian awoke. Squinting sleepily, he sat up, his messy hair a tangled pile of straw.
Shen Jue carried over a basin of water and handed him a damp cloth. Xiahou Lian closed his eyes and wiped his face haphazardly. The charcoal had burned out, so Shen Jue fetched more, using tongs to place each piece in the brazier.
“Xiahou Lian.” Shen Jue suddenly spoke up. “I saw the Ga—”
“Saw the what?” Xiahou Lian interrupted, still half-asleep. He shook his head vigorously.
Shen Jue paused as he replaced the charcoal, eyes downcast.
The poorer a person had been before securing wealth, the more they dreaded poverty. Shen Jue remembered sweeping snow alone in the bitter cold during his first year in the palace. Later, he’d finally secured a position in the Duanning Palace, only for a concubine to slap him hard for delivering a meal a moment late. Then there was Sixi, whom Shen Jue had killed himself. The memory of Sixi’s greasy hand touching him still turned his stomach.
The palace was like an endless sea with no shore in sight. Though the Fourth Qianxi Courtyard was peaceful, it wasn’t a place where one could rise above their station. In general, the maids and eunuchs below Shen Jue spent most of their days resting in bed, waiting for the day they would breathe their last breath and a thin coffin lid would seal their fate.
Shen Jue couldn’t waste his life here—he had to find a way out. But the Forbidden City was a prison he would never escape. Finally, though, he’d found someone to drift in this sea with him. That was like a first taste of sugar after a lifetime of bitterness. How could he let Xiahou Lian go?
His eyes darkened. In the end, he shook his head. “It’s nothing.”