✧ a glimpse through the storyglass: faerie isabel. teehee.
✧ beware the thorns beneath the roses: idk the usual stuff when it comes to faes ig? mentions of hunters (bad. no.) this is a whopping 11k words which means i rambled a lot here.
✧ scribbles from the dreamweaver: yua gave me the idea. everyone say ty yua
The forest was not right.
Jing Yuan had walked its paths enough times to know how dusk usually fell here: the cicadas chirring in their hidden hollows, the rustle of leaves chased by a wandering breeze, the far-off crack of branches under the weight of deer. Tonight, none of those things greeted him. No wingbeat, no insect song, no sigh of wind. The silence pressed close, heavy and unnatural, as if the whole wood were holding its breath.
His boots sank softly into moss that glowed faintly in the failing light. The air had a charge to it—like the heartbeat of a storm hovering just out of sight—and though his hand itched for the hilt of his sword, he did not draw it. He had learned long ago that steel was not always the answer.
It was then that he noticed it: a circle carved into the forest floor, not by hand or flame, but by life itself. Mushrooms, pale as bone, stood in a perfect ring atop the moss, their caps luminous in the twilight. The closer he stepped, the more wrong the air felt, as though some invisible boundary held the world at bay.
A mushroom ring. He had heard the stories as a boy, half-remembered tales told by traveling merchants over firelight, always spoken with too much laughter to be true. A gateway. A trap. A realm not meant for mortals. Jing Yuan’s brow furrowed. His soldiers would have mocked him for superstition, but he trusted instinct more than pride. Instinct whispered: leave.
And yet, he did not.
The circle drew him in—not by force, but by some magnetic curiosity. He found himself lingering at its edge, staring at the mushrooms as if they were a painting too fine to look away from. When his boot shifted, he realized too late that it had pressed into the soil near a wildflower, crushing its fragile stem.
The air shivered.
She appeared.
The forest did not stir to announce her. One heartbeat he was alone; the next, she stood inside the ring, framed by the pale mushrooms as if the circle had conjured her whole.
She was beautiful in the way only stories dared describe: hair flowing in shades that caught moonlight, a smile as sharp as broken glass, and eyes that gleamed with a light not wholly mortal. At first glance, she might have passed for human, but Jing Yuan’s breath caught on the details—her pupils, too bright, her movements, too fluid, the faint shimmer of her skin like dew under stars.
“You’ve stepped carelessly,” she said, voice chiming like a silver bell. It was soft, musical, and yet edged with something that made the nape of his neck prickle. She crouched, her gaze falling to the flower he had trodden. “That was mine.”
Jing Yuan’s jaw tightened. “An accident.”
“There are no accidents in a fae’s ring.” Her eyes rose to meet his, gleaming with amusement. “You owe me.”
Her words slotted into place against all the old tales: debts, bargains, tricks. He kept his expression calm, though his heart shifted uneasily.
“What would you ask of me?” he said at last. He had no intention of offering his name. That much, he knew.
Her smile sharpened. “Your name, of course. A name for a flower. It is only fair.”
The weight of her gaze was a net thrown over him, but Jing Yuan did not flinch. He had commanded armies; he knew the cost of yielding ground too soon. “That is a price too steep.”
Her laugh rang, crystalline, echoing strangely through the still forest. “So careful, so cautious. Most humans blunder straight into our hands.” She tilted her head, eyes narrowing. “Very well. If not your name... then something else.”
Jing Yuan thought swiftly. A deal could not be avoided, but it could be managed. His hand brushed against the inside of his sleeve, where he had tucked away a small blossom given to him earlier by a little girl he had saved. She had pressed it into his palm with shy gratitude, and though it was simple, he had carried it with unexpected care. Now, he drew it out, its petals still unspoiled, and extended it toward her across the threshold of the mushrooms—an offering equal to the sin he committed.
“Then take this,” he said. “A flower for a flower.”
Her eyes glimmered as she considered the offering. Slowly, she reached out, slender fingers curling around the stem. The moment she touched it, the bloom shivered—and then sprouted tendrils of green, curling and twining until delicate vines wrapped her wrist. She did not look surprised. Instead, she lifted the flower to her hair, tucking it just above her ear. The vines latched into place, drinking from her as though she were soil itself.
“It will live as long as I will,” she murmured, eyes never leaving his face. “An acceptable trade.”
The silence stretched again, heavy with the hum of unseen power. Jing Yuan straightened, though he made no move to step closer. “Then our bargain is finished?”
Her lips curved in something that was neither agreement nor denial. “Perhaps. But tell me, General—” the word fell from her tongue with uncanny precision, though he had not spoken his rank—“how will you leave?”
Jing Yuan’s hand flexed at his side. “By the way I came.”
“Will you?” Her voice was mocking, playful. “The forest is not so generous. Few who stumble into our rings return unchanged.”
He did not allow her words to rattle him, though the stillness of the trees pressed tighter around his shoulders. He studied her—the glint of fangs behind her smile, the curious tilt of her head, the mischief in her eyes. She wanted him to ask. To plead.
Instead, he said evenly, “Then answer me this: will I be able to return the way I came?”
Her smile faltered, just barely. She could not lie. That was the rule. “Yes,” she said at last, each syllable chiming like truth struck against metal. “If you promise to return tomorrow.”
A promise. The most dangerous currency of all. Jing Yuan exhaled slowly. He weighed his choices: refuse, and risk the forest’s wrath—or agree, and step willingly into her snare.
His answer came steady, unhurried. “I promise.”
Something flickered in her eyes then, a flash of triumph mingled with... curiosity? She straightened, folding her hands behind her back, as though satisfied. “Then you may leave, General. Until tomorrow.”
Jing Yuan inclined his head once, neither thanks nor farewell. He turned, boots crunching over moss, and felt the forest part for him like water giving way to a ship’s hull. The weight of silence lessened with every step, though he knew it was not gone.
Behind him, her laughter rippled through the air—bright and bell-like, yet edged with something sharp enough to cut. It followed him until the trees thinned and the last of the twilight bled away.
And though caution urged him to forget the ring, to never step into that forest again, curiosity had already settled in his bones.
He would return. He had no choice, now.
And return he did.
Jing Yuan had always considered himself a man of discipline. Promises were not things to be made lightly; to him, a vow was the spine upon which nations balanced. Yet as he found his boots once more pressing into the moss-damp forest floor, he realized this was no vow made for duty, nor for empire. This one was made to a fae, whose laughter still haunted him like the echo of bells in a dream.
The forest greeted him differently tonight. Where the silence had been heavy the night before, tonight it thrummed faintly with life. A thousand fireflies floated lazily through the air, their lights pulsing in rhythm like the breathing of the woods. They gave the night the illusion of a star-strewn sky brought low to earth, a cosmos woven between trunks and branches.
And there—at its center—the mushroom ring glowed faintly, pale caps drinking in the moonlight.
She was already waiting for him.
The fae stood inside the ring as though she had never left it, her figure luminous against the shadows. Her clothes shifted like woven dusk, catching hints of colors not meant for mortal eyes. The flower he had given her the night before still bloomed in her hair, but its petals had grown longer, spiraling outward with vines trailing down to her shoulder.
Her lips curled when she saw him. “You kept your promise. How rare for a human.”
“I said I would.” Jing Yuan’s voice was calm, but his eyes narrowed at the faint gleam in hers. He had the strange sensation she’d been waiting just to see whether he would fail.
She stepped lightly closer to the edge of the ring, her bare feet barely disturbing the mushrooms. “And here you are. Which means...” Her eyes glittered. “...you are mine for the evening.”
Jing Yuan did not rise to the bait. “You enjoy twisting words.”
“It is not twisting when it is truth,” she said sweetly. “You promised to return. You did. Thus, you are mine—at least until you leave again.”
He exhaled through his nose. “And what would you have me do, then?”
Her smile sharpened. “Tell me a story.”
His brow lifted. “A story?”
“Yes.” She folded her hands behind her back, tilting her head. “A story of your world, something I have never heard. Consider it payment for safe passage once more.”
He studied her, then the mushrooms glowing faintly at his feet. This was a trap disguised as whimsy. If he agreed too easily, she’d only demand more. If he refused, she might close the way behind him. He weighed his options carefully, then said, “Stories are not without value. What will you give me in return?”
Her laugh rang out, bright and cruel. “Oh, clever man! Most would spill secrets at my feet without thinking. And yet you bargain.” She tapped her chin with a fingertip, eyes dancing. “Very well. In return, I will answer one question you ask of me tonight. But only one.”
Jing Yuan inclined his head. “Fair.”
So he told her. Not a military tale, nor some personal confession—those, he knew, would delight her too much. Instead, he spoke of a cat he had once kept as a boy, a stray that had followed him home and refused to leave. The creature had been troublesome, forever stealing fish and clawing furniture, yet loyal in its way. When he reached the part where the cat had disappeared one winter and never returned, the fae’s smile dimmed for just a flicker.
“That,” she said softly, “was not a story. That was a truth.”
“You asked for one,” Jing Yuan replied evenly. “Stories are born of truth, are they not?”
Her eyes narrowed, though amusement crept back quickly. “A careful tongue. I must take care not to slip around you.”
He allowed himself the faintest smile. “My question, then.”
Her chin lifted. “Ask.”
“Why the ring?” he asked simply. “Why are you bound to it?”
Her expression stilled. The silence stretched, broken only by the faint pulse of fireflies. For the first time, she looked less like a trickster and more like a creature standing at the edge of a cliff. Then she smiled again, sharp as glass.
“Because it is mine,” she said. “And I am it.”
Not a lie, he realized. But not an answer either.
Before he could press, she clapped her hands suddenly. “Another debt!”
He blinked. “We had agreed upon only one.”
“Yes, but you stepped too close just now.” Her grin was feline. “One more step and you would have crossed into my circle. Surely you know what that means?”
“I did not step inside.”
“No. But you considered it.” Her voice rang like bells, delighted. “And intention has weight.”
Jing Yuan folded his arms. “You wish to hold me to debts of thought?”
Her laughter cascaded like water. “Oh, I like you.” She leaned forward, eyes alight. “Very well—then give me something small. A token. A trinket. Something of yours.”
He considered, then reached into his sleeve and drew out a polished stone—smooth and gray, worn from years of being carried in his pocket. He had picked it up once during a march, for no reason at all, and it had stayed with him since. Wordlessly, he extended it to her.
She accepted, turning it over in her hands. “So plain. So ordinary.” She lifted her eyes. “And yet it is yours. Which makes it precious.” She tucked it away somewhere within her flowing attire, though he could not see where it disappeared.
Her gaze returned to him, bright and sly. “Will you step into my ring, General?”
“No.”
Her lips parted in mock offense. “So cold. Are you afraid?”
“I am cautious,” he corrected. “Only a fool steps willingly into a snare.”
“Perhaps it would not be a snare,” she whispered, her voice lilting with temptation. “Perhaps it would be a gift. The fae realm is more beautiful than your world can imagine. A hundred nights of delight in exchange for one step.”
He met her gaze steadily. “And the price?”
Her smile sharpened. “Ah. You do learn quickly.” She twirled once inside the ring, fireflies gathering about her like stars in orbit. For a heartbeat, he glimpsed it—the fae realm bleeding faintly through: trees of silver bark, flowers burning with blue flame, skies that shifted colors like silk. Impossible beauty, shimmering behind her. And then it was gone.
“Tempting,” she said, eyes glinting, “is it not?”
“It is.” Jing Yuan admitted the truth without hesitation. “But temptation is not reason.”
Her laughter rang again, but it was softer this time, less cutting. “You are unlike the others.”
“And you,” Jing Yuan said, “are exactly as the stories warned.”
She tilted her head, studying him with a strange curiosity. Then, as though deciding something, her lips curved.
“See you tomorrow.”
He turned and left the forest once more, her voice following him, lingering sharp in the night air.
But in her eyes, just before he had gone, there had been a glimmer—not of triumph, but of something far rarer.
Genuine interest.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
The forest did not change, not even by a leaf. Jing Yuan had half-expected it to—half-hoped, perhaps—that the clearing might look different under another night’s sky, that he might find the ring gone as though it had been nothing but a trick of the mind. But when he stepped through the quiet wood the next evening, the mushrooms glowed the same soft white, and she was waiting for him as though she had known all along that he would come.
She sat atop a crooked root, leaning back on her hands, her feet swinging idly like a child’s. Fireflies hovered around her like sparks caught in her hair, their lights catching on the sharpness of her cheekbones, the curve of her mouth. Her eyes lifted the moment he entered the clearing, amber catching moonlight like molten metal.
“I wondered how stubborn you would be,” she said lightly, her voice lilting, though she sounded more pleased than mocking. “And here you are again. The General of the Cloud Knights, walking into the woods with no escort, no blade drawn. How curious.”
“Do you take me for a fool?” Jing Yuan’s tone was calm, even amused.
Her lips curved. “Oh, certainly not. A fool would have never returned. A fool would have run from what he couldn’t explain. But you came back.” She leaned forward, elbows resting on her knees. “That makes you something else. Something much more interesting.”
He regarded her evenly, hands folded neatly behind his back. “Perhaps I simply enjoy a good walk.”
Her laughter was bright, rippling through the clearing, chasing the silence from between the trees. “You amuse me, General. That alone makes you dangerous.”
She hopped down from the root, skirts brushing softly against her legs. The air seemed to bend around her, faintly shimmering, like heat rising from stone. “You must know by now what it means to stand here once more. To linger near a ring.”
“I know enough.” His gaze flicked over the mushrooms that circled her like a crown of stars fallen to earth. “But I am still here. That should tell you something.”
Her grin widened. “It tells me you’re braver than most… or more reckless.” She circled him slowly, barefoot steps soundless on the grass. “Tell me, General, which are you?”
Jing Yuan’s eyes followed her, calm and steady. “That depends on who’s asking.”
The fae’s laughter rang again, a note both amused and dangerous. She stopped before him, tilting her head. “Then allow me the privilege of deciding for myself. You’re braver than most… and more foolish than you’d like to admit.”
He let a faint smirk tug at his lips. “And what title does that earn me?”
“General,” she said at once, savoring the word like honey on her tongue. “As I’ve been calling you. Stubborn, stern, full of walls no one is meant to climb. You carry the air of command even here, far from your marble halls.”
“General, is it?” He raised a brow. “You give freely what others would treat with caution. You know my station, my role, but not my name. If you insist on calling me something, I should do the same for you.”
Her amber eyes glimmered with mischief. “And what would you dare call a fae, General?”
He studied her in silence. She was both sharp and delicate, like a blade hidden in petals. The mushrooms glowed faintly brighter near her feet, as though the earth itself leaned closer to her presence. “Wildflower.”
For the first time, her mask of playfulness cracked. Her lips parted, surprise flickering in her eyes before she masked it with a grin. “Wildflower…? How charming.”
“That’s what you are—wild and stubborn, growing where you please.” He said simply. “It suits you better than any title.”
She hummed, almost reluctant, then tilted her head in concession. “Very well. I’ll accept it—for now. But remember, General, names have power. Even the little ones.”
From then on, the night turned into a game. She demanded small things—snippets of his life, fragments of memory, objects so ordinary he wondered why she wanted them at all. A pinewood whistle he had once whittled during a campaign. A description of the scent of incense that clung to his robes after long ceremonies. Even a half-forgotten childhood story told to him under lantern light.
Each time he gave her something, she tucked it away—into the folds of her skirt, into the air itself, as though gathering treasures no one else could see.
“You’re very free with your debts,” Jing Yuan remarked at one point, watching as she twirled his whistle between her fingers.
“And you’re very free with your offerings,” she countered, her eyes glinting like amber catching fire. “I haven’t even had to trick you yet.”
“Perhaps I’m humoring you.”
“Or perhaps you’re curious.” Her smile deepened, sharp as the edge of a knife. “And curiosity is the most dangerous thing of all.”
Later, she dared him to step into the ring. She stood at its edge, one hand extended toward him, the mushrooms glowing faintly at her heels. “One step, General. Just one. I promise I won’t bite.”
His gaze lingered on her hand, pale and steady in the moonlight. “I’ve no intention of belonging to anyone.”
Her grin flashed, but her voice softened almost imperceptibly. “Pity.” She let her hand fall back, though her eyes did not leave his.
The night bled on, stars scattered above, fireflies drifting lazily between them. At times, the clearing shimmered oddly, and Jing Yuan swore he saw something behind her—colors that didn’t exist in the human realm, shapes moving in the corner of his vision, the faint suggestion of wings. It faded when he blinked, but the image lingered.
When the first blush of dawn began to touch the horizon, he turned to leave. She remained in her circle, watching, fireflies gathering like a crown around her head.
“Goodnight, General,” she called, voice lilting, sharper than before.
He paused, glancing back. For the briefest instant, the mocking curve of her lips faltered. Her eyes burned with something else—not triumph, not amusement, but a spark of genuine curiosity.
He left the forest with steady steps. But long after the trees closed around him, her voice still clung to the air, and her amber gaze followed him in memory like a lantern that would not go out.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
The forest had begun to take on a rhythm.
It wasn’t the same rhythm as the city—where bells marked the hour, where soldiers marched in cadence and citizens bustled with purpose. No, the forest’s rhythm was older, slower, more insidious. Each time Jing Yuan stepped beneath its boughs, he felt it wrapping around him: the hush of moss beneath his boots, the rustle of leaves stirred by unseen currents, the distant hoot of an owl that seemed to echo longer than sound should.
And always, always, the glow.
Tonight, the mushroom ring gleamed faintly in the silver wash of the moon. A soft pulse of light ran along the edges of each cap, like a breath drawn in and let out, over and over, steady as a heartbeat.
She was waiting within it.
The fae stood at the very center of her circle, her silhouette sharp against the pale shimmer. Her gown tonight was darker than the last time, but it was threaded through with silver so fine it looked as if the night sky itself had been spun into cloth. The flower he had given her days ago still bloomed at her temple—but where before it had grown vines to wind along her shoulder, tonight tiny buds had sprouted from the stems, glowing faintly as though lit from within.
Her eyes caught him at once—amber bright, keen as a blade.
“You came again,” she said. Not with smugness, not with disbelief—simply fact.
“I did.” His voice was calm, even, though his hand brushed briefly over the hilt of his sword as he approached the edge of the circle. Not in fear. Simply in habit.
Her lips curved. “So tell me, General. Do you come because you must? Or because you wish to?”
He stopped just shy of the mushrooms. “What would you rather hear?”
She laughed softly, tilting her head back, her throat pale in the moonlight. The sound ran down his spine like cool water. “Ah, clever. You know I cannot lie, and so you bait me into answering what I did not ask.”
His mouth twitched—close to a smile, though not quite. “So then? Which is it?”
Amber eyes gleamed as she leaned forward, her bare toes brushing the glowing caps. “I think… you came of your own will. And that is far more dangerous than compulsion.”
Her words lingered, heavier than jest. He did not acknowledge them.
Instead, he inclined his head slightly. “You seem determined to see danger in everything I do.”
“Because danger is everywhere with your kind,” she replied. “Mortals are the ones who start wars, who cut down forests, who bind themselves in vows and break them the moment it suits. Dangerous creatures, you are.”
“And fae are not?”
Her smile sharpened. “Oh, we are worse. But at least we do not pretend otherwise.”
For a moment, silence hung between them. The fireflies drifted lazily in the air, weaving constellations above their heads, their glow reflected in her hair until it seemed threaded with starlight.
Then she clapped her hands suddenly, breaking the stillness. “Well! Enough seriousness. You’ve come, which means you owe me something. A debt must be paid.”
His brow arched. “What debt?”
“You’ve stolen my time,” she said, all mock solemnity, placing a hand over her heart. “Precious, valuable, irreplaceable. Surely you must repay it.”
He exhaled through his nose. “You waste your own time by waiting for me.”
“Ah, but you came,” she countered, her grin sly. “So it was not wasted, was it?”
Jing Yuan considered her for a long moment. Then, with deliberate slowness, he reached into his sleeve and withdrew a strip of parchment, folded carefully and worn soft with age.
She blinked, curious. “What is this?”
“A letter,” he said simply. “The words have long since faded. But I still remember them.”
He extended it across the boundary of the mushrooms, and she stepped forward to take it with delicate fingers. She studied the faded lines, running her thumb across the paper as though the ghost of the ink might return under her touch.
“So useless now,” she murmured. “And yet… you carried it with you all this time.”
“It was mine,” he said. “And that makes it worth something.”
Her gaze flicked up to his, sharper than before. For just a moment, her smile faltered. Then it returned, bright and dangerous. “I like this one.” She tucked it away into the folds of her gown, where it disappeared as though swallowed by mist.
“And now it is my turn,” Jing Yuan said.
Her brows arched, amusement flickering across her features. “Your turn?”
“You offered before—one question in exchange for my stories. I see no reason the rule should change.”
Her laughter rang out again, sweet and sharp. “You are relentless, General. Very well. Ask.”
He studied her for a long moment. There were so many questions—her name, her bond to the circle, the flower she wore. But he did not choose any of them. Instead, he asked quietly, “Do you grow lonely?”
The clearing stilled. Even the fireflies seemed to freeze, their glow suspended.
Her smile did not fall, but it thinned, delicate as glass. “Loneliness,” she said finally, her voice soft, “is a mortal affliction. We do not wither when left alone.”
“That,” Jing Yuan said evenly, “was not an answer.”
Her eyes narrowed, though not in anger. Slowly, her lips curved again. “Careful, General. Keep asking questions like that, and you might see something you do not wish to.”
“Or,” he replied, “exactly what I came for.”
Something shifted in her gaze—something quick, unguarded, gone as soon as it appeared.
She broke the silence first, circling along the inside of the mushrooms with the easy grace of a dancer. The air shimmered faintly where her bare feet touched the ground, like ripples spreading over still water.
“You hesitate at the edge,” she murmured, watching him from beneath lowered lashes. “As if the earth itself were sharper there. Do you fear being cut?”
“I respect boundaries,” Jing Yuan replied, his tone measured. “Especially those that hum like a drawn bowstring.”
Her laughter rang, bright and silvery. “Respect. How dreary. Where is your curiosity, General? You’ve stared into the dark and not blinked. And yet one little ring of mushrooms roots you in place.”
“I’ve seen snares dressed in softer disguises,” he said.
Her grin turned sly, and she leaned down, pressing a fingertip to the glowing line. The air shivered. For an instant, the ring did not contain her but expanded outward—the forest behind her dissolving into something impossible. Pale trees of silvered bark reached high into a violet sky, blossoms rained sparks like falling stars, and creatures of shifting shape flitted between branches. Then, with a blink, it was gone. Only the forest remained, fireflies drifting lazily.
“Just a glimpse,” she said, voice low, coaxing. “One step, and you could see all of it. Hear songs sung by rivers, taste fruits sweeter than dreams. I could make the hours pass like honey dripping from a comb.”
He met her gaze, unflinching. “A glimpse is enough.”
Her amber eyes gleamed, sharp as glass and warm as flame all at once. “You would deny yourself delight?”
“I would deny you the satisfaction of claiming me,” Jing Yuan corrected.
She tilted her head, thoughtful. Then a laugh escaped her, softer than before, edged not with mockery but with something stranger. “You are unlike the others,” she admitted, almost to herself.
They lingered like that for a long breath—her within the circle of light, him without—bound by the tension of what neither was willing to give. At last she spun away, hair catching the glow of the fireflies like strands of gold.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
The forest had changed.
Not all at once, not in ways one could mark with a soldier’s precision, but gradually—like a tide creeping farther up the shore with each passing wave. Where once the mushrooms alone had glowed, now the very air shimmered faintly when Jing Yuan passed beneath the boughs. Blossoms of pale blue unfurled along his path, sprouting from the moss as though coaxed by unseen fingers. Fireflies swarmed not at random but in careful clusters, drifting into shapes too deliberate to be chance—constellations that shifted when he tried to recognize them.
The boundary between worlds was thinning. Or perhaps it was bending.
And always, at the center of it, she waited.
The Wildflower.
Tonight her gown spilled like poured ink, catching and scattering flecks of starlight with every movement. The buds in her hair had blossomed since the last visit, tiny flowers that pulsed faintly with light whenever she laughed—as if her mirth itself gave them breath. And she did laugh, often, whenever her eyes met his.
“You walk as though the forest bends to you,” she teased, voice light as falling petals. “Yet I think it bends because of you. Look at them.” She gestured, and as if to obey, the fireflies swirled above him, arranging themselves into the outline of a sword before unraveling into sparks.
Jing Yuan’s brow lifted slightly. “Then perhaps you should scold them. They seem to prefer my company to yours.”
Her smile curved sharp and bright, but the edges softened as she tilted her head. “You jest, but you do not deny. Curious. The man who weighs every word like a miser counting coins spends them freely with me.”
“I did not realize I was spending,” he replied, tone even but gaze steady.
“That,” she murmured, “is precisely why it fascinates me.”
She circled within her ring, her steps light enough to stir the air into ripples. Each time her bare feet touched the ground, tiny blossoms sprouted, glowing faintly before sinking back into moss. She did not seem to notice the trail she left behind, but Jing Yuan did. He catalogued it as he did all things—only this time, he found himself unwilling to put it into words.
Silence stretched between them, but it was not empty. The forest had grown watchful, filled with the hush of branches bending toward them, with the wind carrying whispers just too low to decipher. His presence no longer pressed against the edges of her world; instead, it seemed to sink into it.
She broke the stillness first. “Tell me something else. Not a story, not a bargain. Just… something of you.”
Jing Yuan considered, weighing silence against honesty. At last, he said, “The forest is different now. It used to be quiet when I walked it. Now it feels incomplete without your laughter.”
Her steps faltered. For a heartbeat she stilled completely, amber eyes sharp on him. Then, as if realizing she had paused too long, she laughed again—bright, lilting, but thinner at the edges than before. And where her laughter rang, blossoms unfurled across the ring, their petals dripping faint motes of light like dew.
“You grow dangerous, General,” she said lightly, though her voice lingered on the title, softer than usual. “A mortal should not be so quick to tempt a fae.”
“I do not tempt,” Jing Yuan replied. “I state what is.”
Something flickered in her eyes. She turned her face away as if to hide it, but not quickly enough. For the first time, her smile looked unsteady—caught between mockery and something she did not wish to name.
The wind rose then, threading through the branches, carrying with it faint, dissonant whispers. He could almost make out words—half-formed phrases curling at the edge of his hearing. They felt like questions. Demands. Perhaps even warnings. He ignored them. His attention remained fixed on her.
“And if one day I did not laugh?” she asked suddenly. The playfulness was gone from her tone. Her voice was quieter, vulnerable in a way he had not yet heard. “Would you stop coming then?”
The question lodged between them like a blade.
Jing Yuan did not answer at once. His silence stretched long enough that even the forest hushed, the fireflies pausing in their dance. Finally, he said, “That day has not come.”
Her lips parted as though she meant to press further, but she stopped herself. Instead, she turned, hair glinting with firefly-light until it seemed spun from gold.
When she spoke next, her voice carried none of her earlier sharpness. “Then until tomorrow, General.”
The words followed him as he left, softer than before, gentler than she perhaps meant them to be. He glanced back once, and found her still watching, her figure haloed in fireflies, her smile too fragile for triumph.
And though he did not linger, he realized the forest now felt wrong—hollow in ways it never had before.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
The forest was no longer the same place it had been when Jing Yuan first stepped beneath its canopy.
It had learned him.
The paths did not resist his boots now; they seemed to fold open, moss softening to meet his tread. The branches whispered above as though gossiping about his persistence, their shadows curling to follow him until the clearing lay ahead, bright with its impossible glow.
And there she was—always waiting.
Tonight her gown shimmered faintly, dark as twilight but streaked with threads of starlight that caught every shift of her movement. The flower at her temple had grown again, its vine curling like a crown, petals tipped with dew that glowed as though they caught moonlight even where no moonbeam touched. She looked at him as if she had known all along the exact moment he would arrive.
“You’ve made a habit of this,” she said at last, her voice lilting, edged with something sharper than amusement. “A general who slips away each night, drawn to a fae’s ring. What would your soldiers say?”
“They would not know,” Jing Yuan replied evenly. His eyes flicked briefly across the ring of mushrooms before returning to her. “And even if they did, it changes nothing.”
Her lips curved, but slowly, as though she were weighing his answer. “So calm. So certain. Yet habits…” Her eyes narrowed faintly. “Habits bind tighter than chains.”
He did not look away. “Some chains are chosen.”
The air shifted. Her laughter rang out, light but carrying a tremor beneath it, as if a string had been plucked too hard. Blossoms erupted where her bare feet brushed the circle, tiny silver flowers unfurling only to dissolve back into the earth a moment later. Fireflies gathered above them, swirling into constellations that pulsed like living stars before scattering again.
She circled slowly, her eyes fixed on him. “Tell me, General—what is it you seek in me?”
“Perhaps nothing,” he said.
The words hung between them like a blade.
Her amber gaze sharpened, then flickered—confusion, disbelief, something softer she did not let linger. “No one comes to a fae seeking nothing.”
“You think too highly of yourself,” he replied. His voice was calm, but there was a gravity in it that made the fireflies pause mid-air. “Perhaps I return only because the forest would feel incomplete without your laughter, as I've said yesterday.”
Her smile faltered. Just a fraction. But enough.
The silence that followed was heavy, fragile. It pressed against her chest until her lips curved again, too quickly, too brightly. “Careful. You weave words as dangerously as one of us.”
“Then I take it as a compliment,” he said, his mouth twitching faintly.
She studied him for a long moment, her head tilted, her eyes unreadable. The forest shifted with her mood: petals unfurled from the grass only to vanish, branches groaned in the windless air. The shimmer of the mushrooms seemed to deepen, their glow throbbing in slow waves, as if echoing a heartbeat neither of them wanted to name.
Finally, she broke the silence with a sweep of her hand. A breeze stirred, carrying scents he had never known—flowers that grew only in stories, sharp-sweet like honey and iron all at once. Her voice dropped low, coaxing. “Be careful, General. There are storms that come without warning.”
Jing Yuan’s gaze did not waver. “Then I will see them through.”
For the briefest instant, her composure slipped—her breath caught, her eyes wide. She masked it quickly with laughter, but the sound was thinner than usual, too brittle around the edges. “Bold words. But storms do not bend for mortals.”
As if to punctuate her warning, the forest stirred violently. The wind picked up without cause, dragging leaves into a whirling spiral. The fireflies dimmed, breaking apart like scattered sparks. In the distance, thunder rolled low and deep, shaking the roots beneath the earth.
Her head snapped toward the sound. Her smile lingered, but it stretched tight, the humor gone from it. “Tomorrow may test your resolve, General.”
He studied her in silence, the weight of her words settling heavy between them.
The mushrooms at the edge of the ring dimmed under the gusting wind, their light flickering uncertainly. For the first time since their strange dance began, the clearing felt less like a meeting ground and more like a threshold, one that trembled under the pressure of something about to break.
When he finally turned to leave, her laughter followed as always—but it rang thinner now, brittle as glass. And in it, there was no triumph, no mischief. Only a thread of something he could not yet name.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
The storm came without warning.
One moment, the forest was hushed, holding the kind of brittle silence that falls after too much laughter, when joy has burned itself out and only its echo remains. The air was heavy with damp earth and the faint perfume of wildflowers, a sweetness that clung too tightly, as if the woods themselves were holding their breath. Then, in a heartbeat, it broke.
The wind screamed through the trees, bending them low until their crowns scraped one another like supplicants pressed into prayer. Branches groaned, split, and cracked, and the underbrush thrashed under an unseen fury. Leaves tore free and scattered, madly spinning, carried away in sudden spirals. The first drops of rain fell sharp as thrown pebbles, spitting against bark and stone before bursting into a downpour, a curtain of water that lashed at the ground until the forest seemed to vanish inside its own drowning breath.
Through this violence, a figure stepped into the clearing.
Jing Yuan’s boots sank into sodden earth with each measured stride, his white cloak plastered heavy to his shoulders, its edges snapping in the gale like torn banners. Lightning split the sky above him, veins of light crawling across the clouds, followed by a thunderclap so close it rattled the ground, a vibration that ran up through his legs into his bones. The sword at his hip hummed faintly, as if stirred awake by the storm.
At the clearing’s heart, the mushroom ring glowed—pale, wavering, as though each cap held a candle guttering against the rain. Its light pulsed weakly with every flash in the heavens, stuttering, almost lost.
And there, standing at the circle’s center, was her.
She did not belong to this storm, and yet it seemed born for her. Wildflower looked as though she was carved from the tempest’s hand: her gown plastered to her form in sodden folds, her hair a dark tangle whipped across her face and shoulders. The flower pinned at her temple wept rainwater until its petals bowed and curled, but the defiance in her gaze did not yield. Her eyes, golden-bright even in the dark, cut through the chaos and locked on him the moment he entered.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she called. Her voice carried sharp despite the distance, thinned and frayed by the storm but no less commanding. “This is no night for mortals.”
“And yet here I stand,” Jing Yuan replied, his tone level, even as water streamed down his face and armor. His hand rested loose upon his sword hilt, not yet tightened, though every nerve in his body was alert. “You sound more concerned than usual.”
Her lips peeled back in something between a smile and a snarl. “Fool. Do you not feel it? The forest hunts tonight.”
As if summoned by her words, the shadows between the trees thickened. Something moved there—deliberate, steady, too controlled to be mistaken for windblown branches. Jing Yuan’s eyes sharpened, following the disturbance. He caught it then: the hiss of leather sliding against steel, the unmistakable sound of a blade—or worse—being drawn.
A hunter. One that made a living out of killing faes—faes like the one standing inside the very circle in front of him.
The figure broke free of the treeline, face obscured beneath a hood soaked dark with rain. His cloak clung heavy to his form, but the bow he carried was sleek, purposeful, strung and ready. In the lightning’s flare, the arrow’s head gleamed—not with iron, but obsidian, etched with crawling runes that writhed in the flash as if alive. This was no common weapon. This was made for striking things that should not be touched by mortal hands.
And the hunter’s eyes were not on Jing Yuan. They were fixed on the circle. On her.
For the first time, he saw his Wildflower falter. A flicker of fear—or was it recognition?—crossed her sharp features, vanishing as quickly as it came. But her body betrayed her stillness, the tiniest bracing shift as the circle’s light dimmed further, sputtering under the weight of rain until the glow was little more than a dying ember.
“Stay back,” she hissed, thrusting her hands outward. Power rippled from her fingertips, curling the air like heat over flame, warping the rain as it fell. But the storm pressed hard against her efforts, tearing the spell into tatters before it could form, devouring her words before they could shape themselves into command.
The hunter loosed.
The bowstring snapped like a whip, and the arrow screamed through the air.
Without thought, Jing Yuan moved.
Steel met obsidian mid-flight with a ringing crack, sparks flaring brilliant against the storm before being drowned at once. The impact jarred up his arm, but his stance did not waver. He planted himself before the circle, broad shoulders squared, sword gleaming wet in the storm light.
The hunter’s head lifted, recognition cutting through shadow. “General.” The word was spat like venom, as though the storm itself had delivered it. “You stand with her?”
“I stand where I choose,” Jing Yuan answered. His voice was steady, but his heart thundered harder than the storm, a beat he could not explain, not even to himself. He did not turn to her. He did not need to.
The hunter sneered, spat into the mud. Another arrow was drawn, loosed in a heartbeat. Again, Jing Yuan’s blade swept it aside, the shock rattling through him, teeth clenching with the force. He advanced a step, eyes like storm light, blade angled low and deadly.
“Go back,” he warned, voice carrying even through the rain. “Leave the forest.”
For one suspended breath, the hunter hesitated. The storm howled, water hammered down, and then—with a muttered curse lost to the wind—the figure dissolved back into shadow, vanishing among the trees as though he had never been.
Silence returned, but not the silence of before. This was heavier, weighted with the storm’s endless hiss.
Jing Yuan lowered his sword at last, rain dripping steadily from the edge. He turned slowly.
She was watching him. Her amber eyes burned like struck gold, fierce and restless, but beneath the fire, something unsettled stirred. Rain traced rivulets down her cheeks, gleaming like tears, though he knew she would never claim them as such.
“You—” Her voice cracked, sharp as splintered glass, then steadied with force. She drew herself tall, spine iron-straight, as though daring the storm itself to bend her. “You acted for your own benefit. That doesn’t count.”
He said nothing. His silence weighed more than argument, and she flinched beneath it, though her chin remained lifted.
Her lips pressed thin. “Fine. Then I’ll repay you quickly, and we’ll be even. One favor. One night. Whatever you ask.”
Still, he did not answer.
Lightning illuminated her face for a breath—eyes flashing, mouth tight, expression trembling on the edge of something she would never admit. She turned her gaze aside first, shoulders drawn tight as if against an unseen weight.
“You should not have done that,” she whispered, the words nearly lost in the storm. “You’ve broken the rhythm.”
Her laugh followed, but it was wrong—empty, a hollow sound that cracked under its own weight. It shattered into silence before she blurred, her form dissolving into rain and mist, into the storm itself.
The mushrooms gave a final flicker, weak as a dying heartbeat, then went dark.
Jing Yuan remained alone in the clearing, the storm soaking him to the bone. His sword felt heavier now, dragging at his side, though he could not name the reason he had lifted it at all. He knew only this:
Tomorrow night, he would return.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
The storm had passed.
The forest bore its scars in silence: branches scattered like bones across the moss, the earth slick and dark where rain had carved rivulets into its skin. Above, the moon broke free of heavy clouds, silvering the clearing with a quiet, solemn light. The mushroom ring glowed faintly again, its light weak but steady, like a candle fighting back the night.
Jing Yuan returned as always, boots pressing into damp soil, his cloak still carrying the scent of rain. His hand brushed the hilt of his sword in idle habit, though the threat of hunters had passed. Yet it was not danger he searched for. Not tonight.
She was there.
The fae stood in the center of her circle, but the storm had left its mark upon her too. Her gown no longer shimmered with pride, but hung softer, darker, like shadow spun into cloth. The flower at her temple had shed petals to the storm, its bloom smaller, yet still luminous. And when her eyes lifted to him—amber bright, as always—they lacked their usual sharp edge.
“You came,” she said softly. No challenge, no tease. Just words.
“I did,” Jing Yuan replied, his voice even. He stopped at the edge of the ring, as he always did.
She tilted her head, studying him. For a long moment, she said nothing. The silence was not heavy but tentative, fragile as glass. Finally, she exhaled, her shoulders lowering.
“You unsettled me.”
His brows lifted, though his expression remained steady. “How so?”
Her lips curved faintly, humorless. “A debt, General. You forced one upon me.” Her hand gestured toward the mushrooms, the faint glow catching on her pale skin. “Do you understand what it means, for my kind?”
“I imagine,” Jing Yuan said, “that you do not enjoy being held by chains not of your making.”
Her laugh came quick and brittle, but not cruel. “Chains. Yes. Except this one was not iron, nor vow, nor bargain struck in jest. You saved me. And by our laws, that demands… reciprocity.” Her eyes flicked to him, sharp for a moment. “Do you know why it unsettled me?”
He waited.
“Because I am in your debt now,” she said, her voice low, almost bitter. “And debts from my kind are power. Humans know this. They twist it, exploit it, make us bend until we break. To owe you is to give you the chance to command me, to call me like a servant, to take what you please without my leave. That is what unsettles me, General—that you could.”
Her amber eyes lifted to his, sharp and searching, waiting for the cruelty she expected to find.
Jing Yuan’s expression did not waver. His voice was calm, steady, without flourish. “I will not,” he said. “Your debt does not make you my prisoner. I did not act to hold power over you. And whatever bond exists between us, I will never use it to diminish you.”
She stepped closer then, bare toes brushing the glow of the mushrooms. The air shimmered faintly, as if resisting her movement, as if the boundary itself wished to hold her back. “You gave me something I cannot repay in trinkets or games,” she said. “So I must give something equal.”
Her hand lifted, palm facing outward, fingers trembling just once before steadying. Her amber gaze did not waver. “My name.”
Jing Yuan’s eyes sharpened, the weight of those words sinking into him like iron.
“You saved my life,” she continued, her voice steadier than the hand she raised, “so I give you my soul. For that is what a name is, General. If you speak it, I must come. I will hear you, wherever I am. But it is not a chain—it is a bond. I give it only to those I…” Her lips curved, softer now. “…trust.”
The world seemed to hold its breath as she leaned closer to the ring’s edge. Her amber eyes glowed, molten in the moonlight. She swallowed once, as if forcing the word past her lips.
“My name,” the Wildflower said quietly, “is Isabel.”
The name left her like an offering, like blood spilled, like a flame lit. It filled the clearing, slipping into the hush of rain-soaked trees, settling into Jing Yuan’s chest as though it had always belonged there.
For the first time since they had met, Isabel—the fae, the trickster, the Wildflower he had named—looked breakable.
Jing Yuan bowed his head slightly, reverence in the gesture though no smile touched his lips. His voice was steady, but low. “I will not use it lightly. A name carries more weight than steel. I will hold it as such.”
Her laugh bubbled up at once, lighter than the storm’s rain, though it wavered faintly. “Always so solemn, General. Do you treat every gift as if it were a burden?”
“It is not a burden,” Jing Yuan said simply. “It is an honor.”
Something shifted in her eyes then—something warm, something almost human. She tried to hide it with another smile, but the sharp edges had dulled. The laughter she gave was softer, sweeter, closer to something she had never let him hear before.
“Perhaps you are not entirely hopeless,” she said, though her tone lacked its usual sting.
The moonlight pressed silver onto the clearing, washing over the mushrooms, over her pale skin, over the quiet between them. She lingered longer than usual tonight, as though her feet itched to cross the ring, as though the circle was more prison than shield. Her gaze traced his face as if memorizing it, her lips parting once—though she said nothing.
For the first time, Jing Yuan thought she looked as though she wished to be standing beside him, not within her circle.
But the moment passed. Her amber eyes sharpened again, her smile curling back into something familiar, if fragile. She let herself dissolve, her form breaking into pale light, into the hush of leaves stirred by moonlit wind.
The clearing fell silent. Only the mushrooms glowed faintly, silver against the dark.
And for the first time, Jing Yuan knew the forest would feel empty without her.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
The forest wore the aftermath of the storm like a half-healed wound when he came back the next day. Branches lay strewn across the moss, leaves clung damp to the earth, and the air smelled of rain and iron. Yet above it all, the moon glowed unclouded, silvering the clearing, where the mushroom ring pulsed faintly—slow, uneven, like a heart still finding its rhythm.
She was waiting.
Isabel stood at the circle’s center, her gown dimmer than before, shadow with only faint threads of light running through it. The flower at her temple had lost some of its petals, yet it still bloomed, glowing faintly like an ember refusing to die. When her eyes met his—bright amber, too sharp and too tired all at once—her lips curved, but not into her usual wicked smile.
“You’re late,” she said softly.
Jing Yuan paused at the edge of the ring, arching a brow. “I wasn’t aware we had agreed on a time.”
“We didn’t,” Isabel replied. Her tone was light, but her gaze lingered. “Still. I expected you sooner.”
That tugged faintly at him, though he gave no outward sign. “Do I strike you as someone eager to run into snares?”
Her laugh was a breath of sound, not sharp but faintly amused. “No. But you do strike me as someone who cannot stay away.”
For once, he didn’t argue. He only inclined his head in acknowledgment, and that seemed to unsettle her more than any denial would have.
Silence stretched. Then, as if shaking herself free, Isabel drew closer to the edge of the ring. “Tell me, General. Do you know what it is you’ve done to me?”
His eyes flicked to hers. “I imagine you’re about to tell me.”
“You’ve shifted the ground I stand on,” she said, her voice low. “To owe a debt, to give my name… that is not a game, not a bargain struck for amusement. You’ve made me… vulnerable.” She bit the word out as though it tasted bitter, but her gaze never wavered. “And I do not know if I hate it.”
Jing Yuan studied her. His voice, when it came, was calm as ever. “Then perhaps you don’t.”
Her lips twitched, as though at war with themselves, before she gave a quiet laugh. “Careful. If you keep answering me so plainly, I may start to believe you.”
The mushrooms glowed brighter at her laughter, their light catching on her skin. She hesitated, glancing down at the circle. Then she lifted her chin, eyes gleaming.
“Do you know,” she began, her tone musing, “that I could have crossed this circle from the start?”
His eyes narrowed faintly. “You mean to say the barrier was not unbreakable?”
“Not to me.” Her lips curved faintly, half a smirk, half something else. “But crossing requires permission. A tether, an invitation. Without it, the human realm rejects us. The air itself would tear me apart.” She looked down, toes brushing the glowing mushrooms. “So I stayed.”
Jing Yuan studied her for a long moment. Then his voice came low, steady. “You have my permission.”
Her amber gaze snapped to his, wide with surprise, and for the first time since they met she looked uncertain. “So easily?”
He allowed the faintest of smiles. “Did you expect me to hesitate?”
Isabel stared at him, then laughed—soft, breathless, a sound she seemed almost startled to hear herself make. “You are mad, General. Or foolish.”
“Perhaps,” Jing Yuan said. “But I meant it.”
The mushrooms glowed brighter, trembling as though resisting. Isabel took a single step forward, the air shivering around her. Her bare foot crossed the line. Then another. The light dimmed beneath her, not in rejection but in surrender, and suddenly she was free of the ring.
Jing Yuan’s breath caught despite himself.
The shift was immediate. Here, in the human realm, her glamour thinned—and what remained was not lesser, but truer. Her gown shimmered like starlight woven into shadow, her hair spilling like dark silk threaded with living blossoms, her eyes brighter, molten gold with no trick of magic masking their depth. She was beautiful before, but now she was devastating, as though the fae realm had only been a veil and this was the reality beneath.
He tried not to stare. He failed.
Her smile curved, sly once more, though it trembled faintly. “You look as though you’ve never seen a woman before.”
“I’ve seen many,” Jing Yuan said, his voice even though his heart betrayed him, “but none like you.”
Her laughter spilled again, softer than ever, warmer than moonlight. “Careful, General. If you flatter me so, I might forget you’re meant to be cautious.”
“Caution,” he murmured, “seems to fade when you’re near.”
She tilted her head, studying him as though the words themselves were a puzzle she hadn’t expected. Her voice lowered. “Humans say such things easily. Too easily. Words are weapons for your kind—pretty blades meant to deceive. If I believed you, I might start to wonder…” Her smile softened, flickering with something fragile. “...if you were different.”
Jing Yuan’s gaze did not falter. “Then wonder,” he said quietly.
The words hung between them, fragile as gossamer. Isabel lingered close, her form half-shadow, half-silver light, as though caught between realms. She could vanish at any moment—but she did not.
Instead, she stood there, beside him, for longer than she ever had before.
Her voice broke the silence again, softer this time. “It feels strange. To stand on your side of the circle. As if the world is holding its breath.”
“Perhaps it is,” he replied. “Perhaps it waits to see what you’ll do.”
She gave a small, rueful laugh, her gaze dropping. “What I’ll do? I haven’t decided yet.”
“Then stay undecided,” Jing Yuan said. His tone was steady, but there was something beneath it, something that urged. “There is no need to choose tonight.”
Isabel glanced at him sharply, as if to test whether he was sincere. She found only calm, only steadiness. Slowly, her shoulders eased, the tension bleeding out of her like stormwater into the soil.
“You are an impossible man,” she whispered.
“Perhaps,” he allowed, a faint glint in his eyes. “But still, I meant it.”
And for the first time, Isabel did not argue. She only stood there, closer than ever, the night folding around them both.
And when she finally dissolved into pale glow, the air where she had stood remained warmer, the clearing more alive, as though her presence still lingered.
Jing Yuan stayed where he was, breath steady, until the forest quieted again. Then he exhaled slowly, eyes on the empty circle.
He already knew he would wait for her tomorrow.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
The days after Isabel’s first crossing took on a strange rhythm.
Each evening, Jing Yuan found her waiting at the mushroom ring, her amber eyes glinting with something unspoken. And each evening, before she could step forward, she would glance at him—sometimes with open challenge, sometimes with quiet expectation—and wait.
It was only when he spoke the simple words, “You have permission,” that she crossed into the human realm. Every time, the air shivered, the mushrooms dimmed, and the world seemed to hold its breath.
She tested the boundary like a dancer testing new steps. At first she lingered just a few paces beyond the circle, her form flickering at the edges, as though afraid the human world might reject her. Then, bolder, she began to sit beside him on the moss, brushing her bare fingers against the damp earth as if memorizing its texture. Fireflies bent their paths around her like orbiting stars, and blossoms bloomed wherever her laughter fell.
One night, the forest seemed to expand to hold them both. They sat shoulder to shoulder, his presence steady, hers sharp and bright. She spoke of her realm—of rivers that sang, of thrones carved from roots, of feasts where masks hid more than faces. She never lingered long on her truths, slipping sideways into riddles, but there was a softness now, a willingness to let him see her weariness in between her words.
For Jing Yuan, it became habit to listen. To watch her gestures, the way her fingers twisted a stray petal, the way her gaze sometimes faltered when she brushed too close to honesty. Against his better judgment, he began to wait for her laughter as though it were part of the forest itself.
Tonight was no different. The storm’s wreckage still lay scattered, but the air was calm, carrying the faint perfume of mushrooms warmed by moonlight. Isabel sat close beside him, gown spilling like shadow across the moss. Their shoulders brushed, and she did not move away.
“You’re quiet tonight,” she teased, voice soft.
“Perhaps I am listening more carefully.”
She huffed a laugh, tossing him a sideways glance. “Careful. If you listen too closely, you might start hearing truths I did not mean to give.”
“Would that be so terrible?”
Her lips curved—but then, suddenly, she stilled.
Jing Yuan felt her body tense before she moved. She sat upright, amber eyes sharpened, gaze darting into the forest shadows.
“Go,” Isabel said abruptly.
He turned to her, brow furrowing. “What?”
“Leave. Now.” Her voice was no longer playful—it was edged, cold, urgent.
“Isabel—”
“Do not argue.” She snapped the words, then forced herself to soften them, her hand pressing briefly against his arm. “Danger is coming. Hunters. You cannot be here.”
The moss beneath them pulsed faintly, mushrooms dimming as though they, too, sensed the threat. The wind carried a whisper of steel, of footsteps masked by careful weight.
Jing Yuan rose, hand resting on his blade. His golden eyes searched the treeline, sharp and calculating. “So soon,” he murmured.
Isabel’s lips pressed into a hard line. “I told you before. They will not stop until they succeed.”
And then, from the shadows, they emerged.
The hunter they had faced once before stepped into the moonlight, his face scarred, his bow drawn. But this time, he was not alone. Figures flanked him, two, then three, then more, each armed, each marked with the cold resolve of those who hunted what they did not understand.
The forest fell silent around them, holding its breath. The fireflies scattered.
Jing Yuan shifted his stance, every line of his body poised. His sword gleamed faintly in the moonlight, steady in his grip.
Whatever was to come, he would not turn away.
The hunters fanned out across the clearing. Torches hissed and spat embers, their glow gnawing at the shadows as though hungry for the dark. Steel glinted in their hands, catching the moonlight in sharp flashes—fangs bared, ready to strike. The scarred man at their head raised his weapon, his voice carrying, low and sure.
“Step away from it, General. The fae are clever, but you’re not beyond saving.”
The words were bile in Jing Yuan’s ears. He drew his blade in one smooth motion, its edge singing as it cut the air, catching the pale light like a sliver of the moon itself.
Beside him, Isabel’s form brightened, her amber eyes burning like twin coals in the night. She raised her hand, fingers splayed, and the forest answered her call. Roots surged from the earth, thick and writhing, twisting around boots, snapping up ankles. Thorns jutted like spears, sinking into flesh. Fireflies erupted from the grass in a storm, their glow blinding, their wings drumming like war-drums.
The hunters cursed and staggered, slashing wildly, but they were prepared. They had come knowing what they faced. Torches swung low, searing tongues of fire biting at roots, branches, blossoms. The smell of burning bark filled the clearing, sharp and acrid, choking the air. Isabel flinched as though each flame licked her own skin, her shoulders jerking, her breath hissing through her teeth.
“There are too many,” she whispered. The words cracked like glass, brittle and thin.
Jing Yuan’s gaze snapped to her. For the first time since their paths had crossed, she wasn’t smirking, wasn’t taunting, wasn’t circling her truths like a fox around a snare. Her mask had fallen. Her gown flickered like shadow on water, unsteady, her eyes wide and too bright.
“You must leave,” she said, desperate now. “I can hold them here—but not with you. I cannot shield us both, not against fire.”
Her voice trembled. She turned to him fully, her hands shaking as they hovered, unsure whether to push him away or cling to him. “Please. Go.”
The word please cut deeper than any blade could. He had never heard it from her lips, never seen her stand before him unarmored, stripped of all her sharpness.
The hunters then pressed closer, advancing through the smoke and snapping wood. One torch flared, scattering sparks that leapt like greedy insects, eating hungrily at the moss. Isabel staggered, clutching her side, and for the first time he realized the forest’s wounds were her wounds. Each flame that scarred bark seared her flesh, each root hacked down tore through her as though she and the land were one.
“Go,” she repeated, breathless now, more plea than command. Her amber eyes gleamed wet at the corners, her throat working as though the word cost her more than magic ever had.
Jing Yuan sheathed his sword. The hunters faltered, confused, but he did not spare them a glance. He stepped forward instead, the ring of mushrooms dimming under his boots. His hand found hers, steady and warm, grounding her tremors.
“I will not leave you.”
“Fool,” she gasped, eyes widening, tears threatening to spill. “You don’t understand—”
“I do.” His voice was quiet but unyielding, carrying more weight than steel, more surety than fire. He leaned close, his golden gaze unwavering. “You gave me your name. I give you mine.”
Her breath caught.
“My name,” Jing Yuan said, low enough that only she could hear, “is Jing Yuan.”
The sound of it rippled through the clearing like a bell struck at dawn. The mushrooms flared, light bursting outward in a single wave that drowned the glow of the hunters’ torches. Isabel’s fingers clenched around his, trembling as though he had pressed a blade into her hand, as though she held something both perilous and precious.
“You—” Her voice broke, tears spilling before she could stop them. “Do you know what you’ve done?”
“Yes.” His thumb brushed her knuckles, gentle as falling rain. “Now we are equals.”
The power surged at once. It thrummed through her veins, through the ring, through the forest itself. She could feel it—his name binding, not as a chain but as a gift, a river poured into her cupped hands, too much, too vast, and yet hers to wield.
Her laughter burst out, sharp and shaking, startled from her chest like lightning cracking open the night. And with it the forest rose again.
Roots lunged higher, thicker, coiling like serpents. Branches slammed down with the weight of falling towers. Fireflies blazed brighter, not sparks now but stars, searing the hunters’ eyes. Torches sputtered and died, smothered by a storm that broke from the soil itself.
The hunters stumbled, tangled, dragged down by the living earth. They cried out, some hacking wildly, others crushed beneath roots that closed like jaws. Their shouts grew faint, swallowed by the roar of wind and the thrum of wings, until the clearing belonged to the forest once more.
And through it all, Isabel stood with his hand in hers, power burning through her like fire and water both, her tears shining in the glow.
Silence fell. The air tasted of ash, heavy with the memory of flame, but the fire was gone. The forest itself seemed to exhale, branches sagging in relief, the glow of mushrooms softening to a steady heartbeat.
Isabel’s chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths. She was trembling, every line of her body quivering with the aftermath of power spent, of terror held too long. Her fingers clutched his hand so tightly it was almost painful, as though if she let go, he too would burn away like smoke.
Her eyes lifted to his—amber, molten, brimming with something he had never seen from her before. Not mischief. Not calculation. Not veiled amusement. Tears clung to her lashes, catching the faint light like shards of glass.
“Your name,” she whispered, voice breaking on the words. Her free hand rose, hovering at his chest as if she could feel it written beneath his ribs. “I could command you. Bend you. Bind you tighter than any chain.”
Jing Yuan didn’t flinch, didn’t withdraw. He only held her hand more firmly, his thumb brushing across her knuckles in steady reassurance. His gaze was calm, golden and unwavering, his words simple but certain.
“But you won’t.”
Her lips parted as if to argue, but no sound came. Her face crumpled for the barest heartbeat, her mask stripped away until she looked unbearably young, unbearably human. Then her mouth trembled into a smile—fragile, breaking at the edges, but real.
“No,” she breathed, a tear slipping free, trailing warm against her cheek. “No. I’ll keep it safe.”
The words rang truer than any vow. The mushrooms at their feet surged brighter, their glow weaving around the two of them like threads of silver binding flesh to soul. The clearing felt alive, humming, as though the forest itself recognized the promise.
Isabel’s grip shifted, not loosening but gentling, her hand sliding into his with an intimacy more profound than any bargain. Slowly, hesitantly, she tugged him toward the ring.
“Come,” she said, voice quiet but steady now, the command softened into invitation. “With your name, I can bend the circle. It will never bind you—not if I will it so.”
At the edge, Jing Yuan paused. The world shimmered there—two realms pressed together, human and fae, a fragile seam stitched by trust. For a heartbeat, he lingered, aware that stepping forward meant more than simply crossing space. It meant surrendering to her completely.
But her hand was warm around his. And when she looked at him—tear-streaked, luminous, fierce even in her vulnerability—he did not doubt.
He stepped forward.
The world tilted. The fae realm flared into brilliance, colors too vivid to belong to any mortal sight. Blossoms burst open at their feet, scattering petals like falling stars. The air thickened with whispers—wind, laughter, secrets, names—until every breath was honey and thunder.
And Isabel stood before him, no veil between them now. Her true form unfolded in the glow: hair shimmering with threads of gold and shadow, skin luminous as moonlit water, amber eyes burning with both power and something far gentler.
Jing Yuan reached out without thought, his calloused hand brushing a tear from her cheek. She leaned into the touch, breath shuddering, as if no one had ever dared to touch her so tenderly before.
“Wildflower,” he murmured, voice soft as prayer, reverent as an oath.
Her lips parted. For a heartbeat, she only stared at him—then she closed the distance.
The kiss was not a trick, not a test, not another of her games. It was trembling, unsteady, as though she did not know how to give something so raw. But it was real, warm and fragile as the dawn.
And in that moment, the weight of names fell away. No longer debts. No longer bargains. Only a bond—equal, unbreakable, sealed beneath the glow of mushrooms and the first light of day bleeding gold into the horizon.
✧ carved names upon the storytree: @milk-violet , @lovedbykaveh , @myliefdes ♡︎ Please let me know if you'd like to be added or taken out !
@irisunderglass. do not re-upload, copy, translate, etc. my works on any form of media, do not feed my works to ai.
✧ a glimpse through the storyglass: isayuan soulmate au. i love aus can you tell
✧ beware the thorns beneath the roses: use of "xia mei", which is my self insert's name, instead of isabel ; tried a different layout of writing this time i hope it makes sense ; mei's coworkers are, in fact, my mutuals thank you for asking ; fu xuan is all of u probably ; 7.1k words
✧ scribbles from the dreamweaver: its all mari and lysa's fault.
"im tired of this grandpa. pls date already." - lysa when i was talking about this idea
"KISS KISS KISS KISS KISS RIGHT NOW I SWEAR TO GOD" - mari when she was reading the wip
"this fic is just ragebait i think." - illu, also when reading the wip
Xia Mei had grown accustomed to waking in the dim hours before dawn, tangled in sheets and breathless with the remnants of something soft, warm, and impossibly far away. But no matter how many times it happened, the first few seconds after her eyes snapped open always felt the same—like surfacing from deep water only to forget what it felt like to breathe underwater.
This time was no different.
She sat upright in one fluid, startled motion, chest rising and falling as the dream clung to her like mist: a courtyard washed in moonlight, pale stone glimmering under the glow. Lanterns swayed gently overhead. Somewhere, wind chimes whispered.
And beside her—always beside her—walked a man.
Tall. Quiet. Familiar in a way that made her heart ease and ache at the same time. He had spoken to her, voice low and warm like a lantern held close in the dark, speaking about something she couldn’t quite retrieve. Something that had made her feel… safe.
Loved, even.
Mei pressed her fingers against her forehead and exhaled a quiet, frustrated sigh.
His face.
Always his face.
She could recall the feeling of his presence: steady, comforting, like she had known him for lifetimes. She remembered the way his laughter rumbled in his chest, soft and surprised, as if she had said something only he had been waiting eternity to hear.
But every morning, without fail, his features dissolved like water slipping through her hands.
“Again…” she murmured to herself, staring at the faint patterns of early light filtering through her curtains.
She reached toward the nightstand, where a small stack of worn journals rested beneath her phone. Their spines were bent, covers faintly smudged with ink and time. The newest one sat on top, its leather still relatively crisp, though the bookmark sticking out halfway through proved that she was already filling it at a dangerous pace.
It had started simply enough—half-asleep notes typed into her phone at age eighteen, just little dream fragments: courtyard—moonlight—someone holding my hand. She had laughed about it then. A silly recurring dream. Nothing more.
But as she grew older, the dreams grew too. They stretched, lengthened, deepened. The man gained a voice. A temperament. A presence. She could sense emotions from him that didn’t feel like hers—gentle humor, quiet admiration, patience that ran deep as rivers.
And though his face remained frustratingly blank, everything else felt more real than any dream had a right to be.
By twenty, she had outgrown her phone apps entirely. Now her room was lined with journals—neatly stacked on shelves, tucked into drawers, crammed into the back of her closet. Pages and pages filled with attempts to capture the shape of a man who refused to be remembered.
As she opened today’s journal, the dream still warm in her mind, Mei let her pen rest between her fingers. She closed her eyes.
Come on… something. Anything more than last time…
Nothing.
Only the faint memory of laughter echoing like a bell at her ear.
She began writing anyway.
At the same time, across the Luofu—past the sprawling gardens, market squares, and the bustle of morning preparations—an entirely different awakening played out.
Jing Yuan stirred from sleep slowly, like a cat accustomed to taking his time. The sheets pooled around his waist as he sat up, one hand bracing behind him, the other hovering near his chest.
For a long moment, he didn’t move. He simply breathed.
Her warmth lingered still—ghostlike—against his palm. Her fingers had fit between his like a puzzle long-completed. Her voice, soft and amused, had brushed his ear in the dream like a feather compared to the heavy silence of the waking world.
He blinked at the faint rays of dawn sneaking through the window.
“…Again,” he whispered.
The General was not a stranger to dreams. Nor to the strange path fate sometimes took. But this—this recurring presence, this woman whose laughter eased something old and weary in him—had begun long before he achieved his title. Long before the Luofu became a responsibility heavy on his shoulders.
And like every morning for decades, her face escaped him the second consciousness returned.
A rustling noise behind him broke the stillness.
“You’re awake.” Yanqing’s voice was sharp with groggy irritation as he trudged into the room, hair sticking in half the wrong directions. “Finally. I thought you’d sleep until noon again.”
Jing Yuan chuckled, a low, comfortable sound that immediately worsened the boy’s scowl.
“I don’t sleep that late,” the General countered lazily, stretching his arms above his head.
“Yes, you do,” Yanqing grumbled. “And you smile in your sleep. It’s weird.”
Jing Yuan slid out of bed with a sigh and walked toward the open balcony, the cool morning air brushing against his skin like a familiar greeting. He rested his hands on the railing, gaze sweeping lazily across the majestic expanse of the ship.
“She was laughing tonight,” he murmured, half to himself and half to the sky. “I wish I could remember her features…”
Yanqing paused mid-yawn, his expression caught somewhere between bewilderment and resignation.
“…You’re doing the dream thing again, aren’t you.”
“Hm. It seems I am.” Jing Yuan’s lips curved gently. “A recurring dream. A recurring woman. A very patient mystery, wouldn’t you say?”
“A very concerning mystery,” Yanqing shot back, but his tone was more fond than annoyed.
Jing Yuan only hummed.
Behind him, the Luofu began to stir with early morning activity. But the General remained where he was, eyes drifting closed as he tried—once more, in vain—to bring back the image of the woman who felt like home.
On the other side of the Luofu, at the exact same moment, Xia Mei paused mid-sentence in her journal, her pen lifting as a sudden warmth bloomed in her chest.
As though someone, far away, had spoken her name.
As though someone was… waiting.
.
.
.
The dreams began deepening the way seasons did—slowly at first, imperceptibly shifting, then suddenly all at once, as if the world inside Mei’s sleeping mind had made a decision without consulting her.
Where once she floated through hazy moonlit courtyards with a faceless companion, she now found herself slipping into moments that felt so vividly lived she almost expected to wake with their scents on her clothes.
It was late—far past a reasonable hour—when she and the familiar-not-quite-known man wound through the lantern-lit maze of Aurumn Alley. The marketplace was alive even in her dreams: vendors shouting about fresh buns, steam rising from street pots, neon glow reflecting off glossy tiles.
They sat shoulder-to-shoulder at a cramped noodle stall.
He had ordered for her—without hesitation, without asking—as if he had known her cravings better than she did. The bowl was pressed into her hands, hot and fragrant, broth swirling with delicate slices of mushroom and soft egg.
Her dream soulmate leaned his elbow against the counter. “Try it.”
“You always say that,” Mei laughed before realizing she had no reason to know that—yet the familiarity warmed her chest.
When she lifted her chopsticks, his smile tugged wider, fond and patient, the way smiles did between people long past the awkward beginnings of affection.
She woke from that dream with the taste of broth still ghosting her tongue.
Another night, another dream.
This time they climbed cargo crates in the harbor district, high enough that workers below never looked up. They lay side by side atop the wooden boxes, backs against splintered boards, blankets wrapped around their shoulders. Above them, the sky glittered with pin-prick stars, stretching vast and clear.
She could see his silhouette, head tipped toward her as if watching her was brighter than anything overhead.
“When you’re awake,” he asked softly, “do you remember this part of me?”
Mei’s chest tightened. She nodded—though not truthfully. She remembered everything except the one thing she most wanted: his face.
He hummed, a sound full of something like longing. “Then I’m glad.”
And then there was the festival.
Dream lanterns bobbed overhead, drifting as if released by invisible hands. Fireworks erupted in bursts of color, painting streaks of crimson and gold across the sky. Music spiraled through the air, and crowds laughed and drank and danced among floating ribbons of glowing silk.
He took her hand—firm, grounding—and spun her toward him in a whirl of motion. Lanternlight brushed against her cheeks, making everything glow gold.
“Watch,” he murmured, pulling her closer as a firework bloomed directly overhead, scattering shimmering petals of light.
She felt his breath near her ear, warm against the cool festival breeze.
When he leaned in, his lips brushed her temple—a fleeting, reverent touch.
Her heart stuttered.
She turned her head, lifting her face toward him—
—and woke to the harsh morning glare stabbing through her curtains.
“NO—!” She smacked her pillow in absolute despair.
The dream was clearer than most, almost painfully so. Her fingers still tingled where he had held her. But she had been denied the one thing her sleeping self had so desperately wanted.
It was enough.
It was enough that she marched herself to a small artisan district three days later and hired an illustrator.
The woman across the table raised a brow as Mei tried explaining, gesturing helplessly as if she could sculpt his face from air alone.
“He’s… tall,” Mei began.
“Most men you meet in dreams are tall,” the artist said dryly, dipping her brush into ink.
“No, but he’s my tall. Like—exactly the height where I don’t have to break my neck to look at him, but he’s still taller by enough that it feels…” She flailed. “Nice.”
“Hm. Continue.”
“He has long hair, I think. Or at least tied hair. Maybe? It’s hard to tell because dreams are weird. And he laughs like he’s tired but happy? And his shoulders look like—well, like he’s used to carrying things. Heavy things. But warmly. Not military-grumpy carrying.”
The artist dipped her brush again. “Dream boyfriend. Got it.”
“He is not my—okay, maybe he is, but not in the way you’re thinking—”
Two hours later, she walked out with a portrait.
It was… almost him. Almost.
But the eyes weren’t quite right. The jawline too sharp. The expression wrong—too stiff, too unfamiliar.
Missing that last puzzle piece.
She sighed.
Across the Luofu, someone else was having the same problem.
Jing Yuan sat calmly in a high-backed chair while a renowned portrait artist wiped sweat from his brow.
“General, please,” the man begged, hands trembling. “I can only draw what you describe. And you have described her as—”
“Comfortable,” Jing Yuan supplied helpfully.
“Yes, but that describes a chair, a blanket, or a stew, sir.”
“She is none of those,” Jing Yuan said thoughtfully. “Though she is warm, in a way.”
The artist’s eye twitched.
“She laughs easily,” Jing Yuan continued. “Her hair… moves when she laughs.”
“That describes everyone alive, sir.”
He paused. “…Ah.”
Two sketches later, he held the finished product.
She was beautiful. Soft features. Kind eyes.
Not her.
Not even close.
He stared at the portrait with mild despair. “You’ve drawn someone wonderful… but not the woman I know.”
“In your dreams,” the artist muttered under his breath.
“Yes.”
“Right.”
Both sketches—hers and his—ended up tucked privately into drawers, each one waiting for the day they’d be corrected.
Fate, however, had already taken an interest.
Fu Xuan, who prided herself on being observant to the point of irritation, listened with one brow arched as Mei described her dream man in rare detail.
“He has long hair that’s… fluffy? Maybe white? Or very light? And he smiles like he’s fond of me.”
“Huh,” Fu Xuan said, sipping her tea slowly. “Interesting.”
“That’s it? Interesting?”
“I will not comment further.”
Mei stared. Fu Xuan did not elaborate.
Later that week, Jing Yuan attempted (and failed) to remain casual as he discussed the woman in his dreams during a routine check-in.
“She appears frequently,” he admitted. “Warm presence. Dark hair, I think. Soft-spoken. Polite. Very cute.”
Fu Xuan paused mid-breath.
“…Huh.”
“You said that earlier,” Jing Yuan noted.
“Did I?”
“Yes.”
“Hm.” Fu Xuan sipped her tea. Very loudly. “Very interesting.”
Her expression shifted into something between a grimace and an amused smirk—the look of a woman who had connected two dots she absolutely was not allowed to interfere with according to the grand tapestry of fate.
“I assume,” Jing Yuan said slowly, “…you will not elaborate.”
“Correct.”
“Ah.”
Mei’s coworkers, however, had no such restrictions.
They had found her sketches—she had foolishly left one on her desk—and erupted into delighted teasing.
“So he’s tall and handsome?”
“And appears in your bed? Every night?”
“No! Not in my bed! In my dreams!”
“Ohhh, dream boyfriend,” one sang, wiggling her brows.
“Stop calling him that,” Mei groaned, burying her heated face in her hands.
“We’ll stop when you admit he’s your husband.”
“HE’S NOT—!”
Her coworkers exchanged a look, eyes sparkling with mischief.
“He’s totally her husband,” one whispered loudly.
Mei threw her journal at them.
She still went home that night with warmth blooming behind her ribs.
Because the truth was simple. Teasing aside. Puzzles aside.
Every time she fell asleep, he was there.
And somewhere else on the Luofu—
Every time he closed his eyes, she reached for him too.
.
.
.
The problem with dreaming of someone so vividly—someone who felt so real that waking up felt like losing something precious—was that mornings became a battlefield.
And Mei was losing.
She had gone to sleep the night before still thinking about the stargazing dream, the way her dream-soulmate’s fingers had brushed her temple during the festival, the warm rasp of his laugh echoing somewhere behind her ribs. She’d fallen asleep with her journal still open, ink smudged against her wrist.
So when morning came, dragging reality back with its usual cruelty—
She slept through every alarm.
The dream dissolved the moment her eyes fluttered open, leaving only emotion behind—warmth, yearning, and the sharp sting of almost remembering the curve of his smile.
“Come on,” she groaned into her pillow. “I had him. I had him right there.”
Then she glanced at the clock.
“…Oh no.”
A beat.
“OH NO.”
What followed was not so much “getting ready for work” as it was “sprinting through her apartment in chaotic misery.” Her hair refused to cooperate. The corset of her dress somehow would not work. She almost brushed her teeth with hand cream.
By the time she did get out the door—slightly dizzy, hair a little messy without her usual accessories—her heart was pounding.
I cannot be late. Not to the Divination Commission. Fu Xuan will end me.
She practically flew through the jade doors of the Commission’s office—
—and stumbled to a halt, breathless, hair sticking to her cheek.
Today, only a few of her coworkers were around, sorting talismans and reports. They looked up as she entered.
One of them blinked. “You okay? You look like you escaped a time rift.”
“I overslept,” Mei gasped. “Don’t say it. I know. I’m a disgrace.”
Another coworker blinked slowly. “Well… you’re not late.”
Mei sagged in relief—until the first coworker added:
“Oh, by the way… General Jing Yuan was here. Like, one minute ago.”
Mei froze mid-step. “…What.”
“He was asking about updated astral-flow readings. Left just before you came in.”
She stared at them.
They stared back.
A long pause.
“Oh nooo,” she said with absolutely zero sincerity.
Inside, she fist-pumped. Not late. Ha! Take that, life!
Her coworkers exchanged a look that said, She is impossible, but said nothing.
Because anyone who worked here—especially Mei—knew that when the General bothered to visit the Divination Commission, every employee knew. His presence shifted the air like weather.
Which is precisely why, around the corner, Jing Yuan paused mid-step.
He had been leaving, hands tucked behind his back in that lazy, composed posture he loved. But something tugged at him. A voice. A flutter of warmth. He couldn't see the person speaking—but he felt her.
His brows drew together in mild confusion.
“…That’s odd,” he murmured.
Yanqing, beside him, looked up. “Don’t start with the dream stuff again.”
“I’m not,” Jing Yuan lied. Poorly.
His gaze drifted back toward the hallway Mei now stood in.
He hesitated, for just a second, as if he might turn back.
But duty tugged him forward instead.
The air settled again.
And the moment passed.
It didn’t happen only once. Or twice.
It happened often enough that Fu Xuan’s eye began to twitch on instinct.
She did not involve herself in the personal lives of her subordinates.
She did not meddle in romance.
She did not meddle in fate—especially when fate very clearly told her, Do Not Touch This One.
But heavens above, this was testing her.
She witnessed it a second time two days later:
Mei hurried down the main corridor, clutching a stack of astral-omen reports, muttering to herself about forgetting her lunch again. From the opposite end of the hall, Jing Yuan strode in her direction, reviewing a small datapad, Yanqing trailing behind complaining about “unnecessary detours.”
For three glorious seconds, their paths aligned—
And then someone called for Mei from inside an office, pulling her through the doorway.
Jing Yuan walked past the same spot not five seconds later.
Fu Xuan, observing from the balcony above, clutched the railing.
Her face contorted.
Hah… hahaha… surely this is not happening again.
It happened again.
And again.
And again.
Sometimes coworkers were around to witness the comedy of it all; sometimes Mei was alone, unaware that she had missed brushing shoulders with the General by the length of a single breath.
And every time, Fu Xuan saw it.
Because of course she saw it. This was the Divination Commission. Patterns were her curse and her talent.
By the fifth near-encounter, Mei approached Fu Xuan’s desk with reports, her hair neat, posture composed.
Fu Xuan was gripping her brush so tightly it might snap.
“…Are you okay?” Mei asked cautiously.
Fu Xuan stared at her with the wide, haunted eyes of a woman forced to witness destiny acting like a poorly written opera.
Inside, she was screaming.
Outside, she forced the most brittle smile imaginable.
“Yeah,” she said through her teeth. “Absolutely.”
Mei slowly slid the report onto the desk.
“…You don’t look fine.”
“I am.” Fu Xuan insisted, voice cracking at the end.
Mei blinked. “Okay…?”
She walked away.
The moment she was out of earshot, Fu Xuan set her forehead onto her desk and groaned into her paperwork.
“This is going to be a long year,” she muttered.
Above them, the threads of fate shimmered, amused.
Below them, Jing Yuan turned another corner at the exact moment Mei reached for a cup of tea.
Almost.
Almost.
Almost.
The universe exhaled a long, dramatic sigh.
And the dance continued.
.
.
.
Time, in the Xianzhou Luofu, did not move gently.
It swept forward like wind across sails—steady, purposeful, brisk. Days slipped past. Weeks folded into each other. And before anyone could realize it…
Months had passed.
And the dreams no longer felt like dreams.
They felt like memories.
For Mei, it began with the landscape.
She had always assumed dreamscapes were invented—soft, melted versions of places her subconscious stitched together. But that theory crumbled the morning she walked past a quiet tea pavilion near the Alchemy Commission and felt her heart lurch hard in her chest.
I know this place.
She stopped on the bridge leading to it, gripping the railing.
In her dreams, she had sat there with him—shoulder against his, steam rising from cups cradled between their hands. He had brushed her knuckles when she’d reached for the sugar packet. She had teased him about taking his tea too hot.
She had woken with her fingers tingling.
But she had never been there in real life until now.
Her breath caught, skin prickled.
“…No way.”
She walked on, legs a little unsteady, the world suddenly feeling more real—and more unreal—than it ever had.
And that wasn’t the only location.
A market stall in the Artisanship Commission where she had dream-sampled candied lotus. A quiet overlook near the docks where she had napped against his shoulder. A tucked-away path behind the Cloudford where he once lifted her onto a ledge so she could see the stars better.
She started recognizing places—dozens of them—everywhere she went.
Every time she did, her heart thrummed with a strange electricity.
As if her dreams weren’t fantasies at all.
As if she and this man weren’t imagining each other.
As if they were somehow meeting halfway.
Jing Yuan was faring no better.
Though, unlike Mei, he had the patience of a saint (or so he liked to tell himself), even he couldn’t ignore the increasing weight that settled in his chest each morning.
Because he no longer woke peacefully.
He woke aching, instead.
As if something had been ripped away too soon.
As if warmth had been resting in his arms moments before and had slipped through his fingers in the instant consciousness returned.
Some mornings he remained lying in bed with a hand pressed over his heart, breathing slow, eyes dimmed with longing he could not name.
This morning, he sat up with a quiet groan, rubbing the heel of his palm over his brow.
Yanqing, passing by his doorway with a stack of training manuals, muttered under his breath:
“Dreaming of that girl again…”
Jing Yuan’s head snapped up. “What was that?”
“Nothing!” Yanqing blurted, far too fast to be innocent. “The Cloud Knights were just… um… talking. You know. Gossip. Harmless gossip.”
Jing Yuan blinked slowly. “About?”
Yanqing’s ears turned very red. “About how the general is losing sleep because of a woman he sees in his dreams.”
“…Ah.”
Yanqing pointed at him accusingly. “And you’re proving them right.”
“I am not losing sleep,” Jing Yuan said with dignity, rising from his bed.
“You’re up before the sun every day!”
“That is standard for a general.”
“You sigh at the moon!”
“Many people sigh at the moon.”
“You reach out like you’re touching someone—"
“Yanqing.”
“—her name is probably ‘Dream Woman,’” he added dramatically, crossing his arms.
Jing Yuan groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose.
He wasn’t wrong.
And that was the problem.
Because every morning, Jing Yuan woke with a feeling pressing so deeply into his bones it hurt:
She’s real.
She exists.
And she’s waiting for me.
Even if he had no proof of that beyond dreams that grew increasingly real—far more vivid than the whims of imagination should allow.
He knew it wasn’t madness.
His heart recognized her. His soul leaned toward her like a flower to sunlight.
And yet—
He had never once seen her face clearly.
Just warmth. Soft laughter. A presence that felt like home.
Mei’s situation had devolved just as dramatically.
Her friends—who had tolerated her journaling, her dream theories, her late-night voice memos where she whispered, “I think he had broad shoulders? Or maybe I imagined that?”—finally snapped.
One day they dragged her into a teashop, sat her down, and staged an intervention.
“Mei,” one said gravely, setting down her cup, “we love you.”
“Please don’t do this,” Mei begged.
“You need to touch grass.”
“I go outside plenty!”
“We mean real grass. Not dream grass. Not astral calamity grass. Not Cloudford cargo grass.”
Another leaned forward, poking her cheek. “You are getting unhinged over this dream man.”
“A man,” the first added, “with no face.”
“He has a face,” Mei hissed, deeply offended. “My brain just can’t recall it properly.”
“Uh-huh.”
Her friends exchanged matching looks.
“You need,” one declared, raising her cup like a judge passing sentence, “to stop waiting for a dream boyfriend and talk to a real man.”
“I talk to real men!”
“You talk to vendors. And fellow Commission members. And your supervisor!”
“That counts!”
“No it does NOT.”
Mei slumped forward, groaning into her arms.
“I’m not obsessing,” she muttered.
“…Are you sure?” one asked gently.
Mei lifted her head.
And for the first time, instead of deflecting, she whispered:
“I just feel like… he’s there. Somewhere. Close.”
Her friends softened.
But still gave her matching looks of worried concern.
Across the Luofu, Jing Yuan stared at his reflection in a teacup, looking like a man questioning every life choice that led him to this moment.
Behind him, some Cloud Knights whispered:
“He looks tired.”
“He’s dreaming again.”
“Maybe it’s a premonition?”
“Maybe he’s cursed.”
“Oh no—what if he has a crush?”
“He hasn’t had a crush in two centuries!”
Jing Yuan closed his eyes.
“…Stars, save me.”
Months passed.
Dreams sharpened.
Reality blurred.
The Luofu grew smaller and smaller, folding them toward each other in spirals of near-encounters and missed chances.
And fate—mischievous, dramatic, too amused for its own good—held its breath, waiting.
Because soon…
Very soon…
Almost would become no more.
.
.
.
Fu Xuan prided herself on three things: her precision, her foresight, and her ability to not strangle destiny’s favorite idiots.
Unfortunately, the last one was being tested.
Daily.
Hourly.
Relentlessly.
By month four of this cosmic comedy, the threads of fate around Mei and Jing Yuan had grown so bright and tangled that Fu Xuan could practically hear them humming when she walked past. It was like listening to a duet that refused to resolve its final note—always swelling, never concluding.
Mei sat at her worktable, brushing fresh ink over a stack of reports. A lavender notebook—the one she reserved exclusively for dream entries—peeked out from beneath a folder, its corners soft from years of use.
Fu Xuan stood nearby with a cup of steaming tea, pretending she was only there for routine inspection. (She wasn’t.)
“…So,” Fu Xuan began casually—too casually—“your dreams have been more vivid lately?”
Mei looked up, startled. “Er—yes? I suppose. He’s been… clearer. Or trying to be.”
Fu Xuan sipped her tea to hide her twitching eye.
“And this man… the dream-soulmate.”
The title was said with genuine seriousness, as if it were a rank or celestial job posting.
Mei flushed but nodded shyly.
Fu Xuan set down her cup with a soft tap. “Has he ever mentioned—hm—” she pretended to think, “a white lion?”
Mei blinked.
“Actually… yes? Twice now. He says it follows him but won’t let me pet it.” She paused. “Is that… symbolic somehow?”
Fu Xuan fought the urge to laugh hysterically.
Symbolic? No. Painfully literal? Yes.
“I wouldn’t overthink it,” Fu Xuan lied, face perfectly straight.
“Right…” Mei muttered, unconvinced. “Sometimes I feel like my dreams are trying to tell me something.”
“Oh,” Fu Xuan murmured, “you have no idea.”
Later that day, Fu Xuan found Jing Yuan lounging in her office as if it were his personal parlor. He had brought snacks. Again.
“General,” she said sharply, “you cannot keep appearing unannounced.”
“I brought candied lotus.” He winked. “I know you like the pink ones.”
Fu Xuan glared. She took the lotus candy anyway.
“I assume this is another visit about your dreams?”
His smile softened. “I can’t help it. She feels close. Closer than ever. Last night she was reading a book before falling asleep on my shoulder.”
Fu Xuan choked on her candy, remembering Mei complaining about losing her spot in her book last night.
Jing Yuan blinked. “…Are you alright?”
“I’m—perfectly fine,” she hissed, clearing her throat. “This woman—did she say anything specific? A name? A detail?”
“Not a name.” He looked genuinely disappointed.
“But she did mention writing down her dreams since she was young. Something about filling up multiple journals.”
Fu Xuan’s expression cracked for half a second.
Then—
“General,” she said evenly, “has she ever… mentioned a lavender notebook?”
Jing Yuan nearly dropped his tea. “How did you know?”
Fu Xuan pinched the bridge of her nose, inhaling through clenched teeth.
“It was a guess,” she lied.
He looked thoughtful, even hopeful. “Do you think these dreams are leading me somewhere?”
Fu Xuan almost screamed YES directly into his soul.
Instead, she calmly set down her cup, straightened her posture, and said with serene agony:
“I think you should remain patient, General.”
He sighed, warm and wistful. “I hope she’s real.”
Fu Xuan muttered under her breath, “She is literally working two buildings away, you monumental fool.”
“What was that?” Jing Yuan asked.
“Nothing. Drink your tea.”
By the time the sun dipped beneath the Luofu’s horizon, Fu Xuan could see fate’s pattern clearer than ever:
Two souls brushing against each other in dreams,
walking the same halls,
lingering in the same spaces,
missing each other by the width of a coin.
The dreams had grown stronger, more intertwined. Their emotions were starting to leak—subtle déjà vu, phantom warmth, a pull in the chest whenever one passed where the other had just been.
To Fu Xuan, the pattern was blinding.
To everyone else, it was obvious.
To Jing Yuan and Xia Mei…?
They remained devoted servants of blissful ignorance.
Fu Xuan stood at the balcony of the Divination Commission that night, staring at the stars, hands clasped behind her back like she was praying for strength.
“If fate truly forbids me from intervening,” she whispered to the heavens, “then may the heavens have mercy on us all.”
Below her, two golden threads twisted closer, bright enough to light the night.
Almost touching.
Almost meeting.
Almost.
.
.
.
Festivals on the Xianzhou Luofu were not merely events—they were living things.
Music and lanternlight, stalls bursting with color, the hum of engines and laughter woven into one grand pulse that spread across the ship like a heartbeat.
Mei loved them.
She loved the feeling of stepping into the glow before the crowds arrived—when stalls were still setting up, lanterns half-lit, merchants stretching their arms and yawning away sleep. When the whole world was in the middle of becoming.
So she arrived early.
Sleeves brushing against paper lanterns as she passed, she drifted between stalls with a soft smile. No pushing, no noise, just the warm anticipation of what the night would become.
And yet… something tugged at her.
Like a thread tied loosely around her chest. A quiet, insistent pull.
A familiar pull.
She pressed a hand there, frowning gently. “Strange…”
Meanwhile, Jing Yuan was trying— sincerely trying— to leave on time.
But Yanqing was currently standing in front of him, sword sheathed, posture rigid, voice firm.
“General, you cannot attend a public festival in… in that.”
“It’s comfortable,” Jing Yuan said, tugging lightly at the collar of his looser, off-duty robes.
“It’s wrinkled,” Yanqing corrected with horror.
“Only slightly.”
“You’re the General of the Cloud Knights!”
Jing Yuan smiled warmly. “And I am off-duty.”
Yanqing’s exasperation only intensified. “But people will see you.”
“That is how festivals work, yes.”
Yanqing groaned. Loudly.
By the time the boy finished smoothing, straightening, adjusting, and re-adjusting, the festival had begun in earnest.
But Jing Yuan paused at the threshold anyway, frowning slightly.
There it was again.
That elusive tug in his chest, gentle but purposeful.
“She’s close today,” he murmured.
Yanqing, halfway through a rant about footwear choices, blinked. “What?”
“Nothing,” Jing Yuan said, stepping into lanternlight.
By midday, the Luofu had come alive.
Crowds thickened. Lanterns swayed overhead. Children ran through trails of confetti. A vendor shouted about discounted sugar-dusted buns.
Mei exhaled, a little overwhelmed as the peaceful morning dissolved into noise. She adjusted the simple festival mask she purchased earlier—a delicate design on a fox mask, shaped like a spreading plum blossom—and stepped deeper into the flow of people.
The pull only grew stronger.
It felt like gravity. Like déjà vu humming beneath her skin.
It felt like those dreams—those soft, impossible dreams—had cracked open into reality.
Jing Yuan walked through the streets with a subtle, searching look.
He didn’t wear a mask—he didn’t need one; his presence was enough to part crowds organically—but he moved with unusual alertness, as though chasing something he couldn’t name.
Because he was.
In his dreams, today was important. He didn’t know why. Only that he had woken with the strange certainty that he needed to be here.
And then—
A spark.
A jolt.
A tremor across his senses.
He stopped. Turned.
Someone had brushed past him.
A shoulder, soft fabric against his sleeve. Barely a touch, barely a second.
But it struck him like lightning.
Mei froze mid-step.
Her breath hitched. Her heart kicked once, hard.
She turned immediately, eyes wide behind her mask—
—but all she saw were silhouettes, masks, swirling color and motion.
No face.
But the warmth on her shoulder… She knew that warmth.
Knew it the same way she knew the first note of a song she loved.
Him?
Jing Yuan’s head snapped toward her direction at the same moment.
He felt it. Felt her. That same soft electric pull of dream-familiarity that made his chest tighten.
There—
A figure in the crowd. A plum blossom mask. Subtle, graceful movements he recognized from starlit dream courtyards.
But before he could take a step toward her—
A wave of festival-goers surged between them.
Laughing, loud, unstoppable.
Mei stumbled back, caught in the tide. Jing Yuan reached out, instinctively—
“Wait—”
But she was already drifting away, the crowd sweeping her like a current.
Mei craned her neck, searching, straining.
Through lanternlight and color, she caught only the faintest outline of a tall man turning toward her, long pale hair catching the sun.
Her heart slammed against her ribs.
It’s him.
I know it’s him.
Jing Yuan pushed forward, slow but determined, trying not to send civilians flying.
He caught the faintest scent of plum blossoms as she vanished from view.
It’s her.
I’m certain of it.
Mei finally slipped free of the crowd, pressing a hand over her racing heart.
He was here.
Not dream-here—here here.
And Jing Yuan stood alone on the other side of the square, breathing slowly, gaze scanning the shifting mass as if he could will her back into sight.
Both stood very still.
Both felt the echo of a moment that almost became more.
Both felt the ache of recognition denied.
And fate, somewhere above them, sighed in dramatic exhaustion.
.
.
.
The dreams had always been soft, vivid, and achingly real—moonlight poured like silver over courtyard stones, warm steam curling from shared bowls of noodles, fireworks blooming like flowers in the dark sky.
But now?
Everything was breaking.
The dream began the similar as always.
Mei stood beneath a lantern-lit bridge, soft dew clinging to her sleeves. She knew this place. She had met him here dozens of times. Her pulse steadied, breath warming.
“Hello?” she called gently.
Usually he answered immediately. Usually he stepped out of the shadows with that familiar, soothing presence.
Tonight, her voice fell into empty silence.
Mei frowned, taking a step forward.
The bridge flickered.
Just—flickered. Like a broken projection.
“Wait—no, no, no—”
She reached for the stone railing, but her fingers slipped through nothingness. The dream washed to white at the edges, colors dissolving like ink in water.
“Please,” she whispered, panic rising sharp in her chest, “not yet. Don’t go yet—!”
The world fragmented. Her voice echoed strangely, as though bouncing through a collapsing hallway.
And then—
She woke up.
Staring at her ceiling. Heart racing. Hand still reaching for someone who wasn’t there.
Mei curled her fingers into her blankets.
“It’s getting worse,” she whispered.
Her dream-soulmate felt like someone she’d known a lifetime. Someone she could almost name. Someone who felt more familiar than faces she saw every day.
And she was losing him. Piece by piece.
Her journal entries grew shorter. In the margins, her handwriting unsteady:
He keeps slipping out of focus.
He called my name—I think. But the sound broke.
Please, please, not yet.
Jing Yuan hadn’t slept properly in days.
The dreams were fading — not just fading, distorting.
One night, he found himself standing in mist instead of the dream courtyard.
Another, he heard her laughter but couldn’t find her anywhere.
Once, he saw only her silhouette before it shattered like glass.
Each morning, he woke with the same sharp, hollow ache in his chest.
“She’s slipping away,” he murmured to himself, running a tired hand through his hair.
Yanqing found him wandering the training grounds at dawn, gaze distant, cloak unevenly fastened— a sight so uncharacteristic Yanqing nearly drew his sword out of pure alarm.
“General, are you—ill?”
“No.” The answer was automatic.
“Yes.” The second answer slipped out without thought.
Yanqing blinked rapidly. “…Which one is it?”
Jing Yuan smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Don’t worry about it.”
But the boy worried anyway. Everyone did.
Subordinates whispered quietly:
“He’s dreaming again.”
“It’s gotten bad, hasn’t it?”
“He looks like he’s searching for someone who isn’t there.”
And they were right.
He felt like he was losing someone he hadn’t fully met.
Someone real.
Someone waiting.
Fu Xuan knew this would happen.
Threads of fate could stretch only so far before demanding the next step.
Dreams were meant to guide— not cage.
She sipped her tea slowly, eyes narrowing over the rim.
“Time’s almost up,” she muttered.
She had watched Mei lose sleep, shoulders sagging, fingers trembling whenever she opened her lavender notebook.
She had watched Jing Yuan move through hallways in a fog, mind elsewhere, missing meetings, forgetting to eat until Yanqing shoved food into his hands.
She had watched the golden threads grow thin and taut, fraying from strain.
The universe was waiting.
Hovering.
Breathing in.
Holding a moment between its teeth.
Fu Xuan set down her tea with a sharp click.
“…If they don’t meet soon,” she muttered, “the dreams will collapse entirely.”
And then where would that leave them?
Two souls who had spent years loving the echo of each other—
and nothing to anchor that love to reality.
Fu Xuan had been patient.
She had endured their misunderstandings, their narrow misses, their laughable timing.
But this?
This was the edge.
She folded her arms, letting fate’s threads hum beneath her fingertips.
“…It’s time.”
The universe felt like a door waiting to be pushed open.
And Fu Xuan— who was absolutely not allowed to intervene—
was now actively considering how to bend the rules without breaking them.
.
.
.
The morning began like any other for Mei— stacks of divination reports, ink-smudged fingers, a headache from too little sleep and too many collapsing dreams.
Nothing unusual.
Until one of her coworkers poked their head into her office with a tone that suggested both urgency and inconvenience.
“Xia Mei! We need you to deliver these to the Seat of Divine Foresight. Immediately.”
Mei blinked. “Me? Why me? I don’t usually—”
“Fu Xuan called for you, specifically. Go, go, go!”
A bundle of neatly sealed documents was shoved into her arms before she could protest. Mei barely had time to grab her journal—tucked reflexively against her side—and hurry out the door.
She didn’t know it, but fate was already moving pieces behind the scenes.
Fu Xuan had planned everything.
Not subtly or gracefully. Not even remotely within her job description.
But she was done.
She was tired.
She was one missed-encounter away from flipping destiny upside down and dragging these two together by their hair.
She gazed at her schedule, quill tapping with growing impatience.
“Xia Mei will arrive at exactly the eighth bell,” she muttered. “And General Jing Yuan will be here for his quarterly review at the exact time.”
She closed the schedule book with a decisive snap. If fate couldn’t push them together gently… she would simply shove the universe into alignment herself.
(But she would not shove them. She had rules. Unfortunately.)
The hallways of the Seat of Divine Foresight were quiet, polished, intimidating in their stillness. Mei adjusted her grip on the documents, trying not to look too out of place as she approached the main chamber.
She inhaled deeply.
It's just a standard delivery. Nothing special. Nothing to be nervous about.
Then she stepped inside.
Jing Yuan was approaching from the opposite corridor, rubbing at tired eyes. Dreams had been worse than ever—falling apart completely last night. He’d barely slept.
He wasn’t in the mood for a meeting.
But Fu Xuan had summoned him with unusual urgency, and he respected her too much to ignore it.
He opened the chamber door—
—and froze.
She stood at the center of the room. Lavender journal in hand. Soft sunlight catching in her hair.
And she—
She looked up.
Mei’s breath left her in a single, startled exhale.
The world stopped moving.
The hum of divination mirrors fell silent.
Lantern flames seemed to hold still.
Even the drifting motes of dust hung suspended between them.
Because she knew that face.
Not from the waking world— but from every dream she’d ever cherished.
Her fingers went numb. The journal slipped from her grasp, falling with a soft thud against the polished floor.
Jing Yuan’s entire body reacted before his mind did— a sharp intake of breath, a step forward that he barely halted, his heart slamming into his ribs with a force that startled him.
He had imagined this moment. Years of dreaming. A lifetime of familiarity in places he’d never been.
But the real thing—
The real her—
Hit him like a tidal wave.
He whispered, voice cracking on disbelief:
“…It’s you.”
Mei’s lips parted.
And something— old as fate, soft as starlight— rose up from somewhere deeper than thought.
It wasn’t a decision.
It wasn’t even conscious.
It was her soul recognizing his before she could breathe.
“I’ve been dreaming of you.”
Jing Yuan looked stricken, awestruck, relieved in a way so profound it made his shoulders sag, as though he’d been carrying centuries of yearning without noticing.
His eyes softened into something impossibly tender.
“So have I.”
Behind a decorative screen, where she absolutely should not have been eavesdropping, Fu Xuan clenched her fists and whispered:
“Finally.”
✧ carved names upon the storytree: @florinoir , @lysarion , @kazuinvocation , @milk-violet , @milksnake-tea & @lagenxria ♡︎ Please let me know if you'd like to be added or taken out !
@irisunderglass. do not re-upload, copy, translate, etc. my works on any form of media, do not feed my works to ai.
[ 1.27.26 ] ✧ he performs for the crowd; she fixes what the world tears — and somehow they always meet in the middle. in the quiet between acts, they choose each other every time.
a huge thank you to nick ( scarameownya ) for this adorable gift that definitely deserved it’s own post, i am still at a loss for words when looking at it /pos /aff 🥺 you are so talented and i will treasure this forever !! take a look at gummy thornlace :D
vampire au, but not the way youd think. sitcom vampire au. they're both a billion years old, theyve seen every decades styles and music and art come and go... and theyve been together for all of it. jing yuan as the vampire who never wants to leave the house- why would he? he can just sleep right here (* ´ ▽ ` *).... isa keeping up appearances in the outside world, a job, friends- but oh, my husband is calling me home! girl arent you 20? hahah.... yeah....... 20......... #shenanigans #hijinks #comedy #etc
snowghoul
annaxmalina
vaporwave
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blakekathryn
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