Chapter Text
Oh Siming, the cruelty of hands,
Too large for the fragile bones they crush,
Do you see their monstrous faces masked,
By soft smiles and courtly grace?
Make them bleed, I beg you—make them pay.
“I’d…” he hesitated, then forced himself to go on. “I’d crawled under that wall. After my cousin—Prince Jin—had decided my face would be a useful asset. He sent me as a… gift, to some noble’s quarters. I was supposed to smile, be useful, be silent. And when I finally crawled away, what was left of me…” His voice faltered briefly, and he looked away, his jaw tightening. “It was less than a man. Like some stray cat, searching for a quiet place to die.”
He heard the slight tremor in his own words and hated it, but he pushed on. “She found me here, and she… made it a place where I could reclaim some part of myself.” He swallowed, a muscle tensing in his jaw. “She gave me something to hold on to. I suppose… that’s why I thought it could work for them too.”
Silence settled between them, heavy and rigid. Zhou Zishu didn’t need to turn to know Wen Kexing was there, his presence unwavering, the faint rustle of fabric behind him the only sign of movement. When Wen Kexing finally spoke, his voice was low and deadly calm, the edges soft and coaxing. “Lady Yu… do you suppose there’s a way to resurrect that prince of yours?”
The words hung in the air, sharp and deliberate. Wen Kexing shifted slightly, his voice taking on an unnerving, playful precision. “Because I would dearly like to kill him again—only slower this time. With a precision that would be… satisfying.”
A faint, grim smile tugged at Zhou Zishu’s lips. There was a strange kind of comfort in Wen Kexing’s dark humor, a fierce, almost absurd loyalty that felt like a shield against the sharp edges of his own memories. It wasn’t something he’d expected, but he let himself lean into it, just enough to ease the weight pressing against his chest.
Zhou Zishu exhaled slowly, letting the name form on his tongue before he spoke, each syllable heavy and tangled. “Then there’s Maimei,” he said, his voice rougher than he’d intended. “She was… different. The first time I saw her, she was just this small, half-broken thing hiding beneath what was left of her family. She looked like she could shatter if anyone so much as touched her, but…” He gave a short, humorless laugh. “She looked right at me. No fear. Like she’d already measured the world’s worst and refused to let anyone dictate her life.”
His fingers tightened around the cup, the pressure grounding him as he leaned back slightly, pushing into the steady warmth behind him without conscious thought. Wen Kexing’s presence, quiet but unshakable, anchored him in ways he didn’t know he needed.
“So, I brought her here,” Zhou Zishu continued, his words emerging slowly, as though each one was drawn up from some reluctant, shadowed corner. “Figured that if anyone could give her a reason to live, it would be Grandmother.”
He paused, listening to the faint sounds of Wen Kexing shifting behind him, the tension softening just enough to let him speak again. “The Empress Dowager took her in,” he added, his tone quieter now, though a bitter edge slipped in despite himself. “Gave her safety. Gave her what I never could. She found her own way here, stubborn thing that she is. Her own way to keep herself whole.”
There was a moment’s pause before he added, his voice dropping, “You’ve seen her hair—cut short, stubbornly so. She used to have long hair once; her sister loved it.” He glanced down, the faintest hint of something bitter and self-deprecating pulling at his mouth. “But after everything, she couldn’t keep it. Too much of a reminder. And no one, not even the Empress, can convince her otherwise. She clings to this place… won’t leave because here, at least, no one will try to make her forget. Or make her act like anything other than what she is.”
Zhou Zishu felt Wen Kexing’s fingers curl slightly around his shoulder, a grounding presence, steady and real. The silence between them was thick with something he couldn’t quite name, and he let himself lean back, pressing further into Wen Kexing’s warmth without meaning to, half-lost in the memory. “And here she found A Li,” he murmured finally, the name bringing something softer, almost reluctant, to his voice. “Another one who fits nowhere else. Someone she’s decided is worth saving.”
Wen Kexing gave a quiet huff, his voice laced with a gentleness that was almost mocking. “You know,” he murmured near Zhou Zishu’s ear, his voice low, “for someone who’s supposedly heartless, you’ve got a great deal of trouble letting broken things go.”
Zhou Zishu huffed in response, a bitter smile tugging at his mouth. “Perhaps,” he said quietly, “I just know what it’s like to be left in pieces.”
Zhou Zishu took a slow, steady breath, feeling the weight of A Li’s name before he even spoke. “A Li,” he began again, voice quiet but laced with resignation. “Poor little A Li.” He let the name hang in the air, feeling the old bitterness tighten his chest. “I found her… or, if I’m honest, she was left there. It was during a job in Jiangzhou, at a brothel that stank of perfumes and rot—a place where no one’s meant to look too closely.”
Wen Kexing, ever quick to lighten the darkness, shifted slightly behind Zhou Zishu, his presence steady but his tone teasing. “Oh, I can imagine it now—the infamous Chief of the Window of Heaven, sweeping into the brothel. All those pretty girls swooning, hoping for a look from such a rare and deadly creature.” His voice carried a quiet smile, soft and deliberate, each word brushing against the lingering tension in the room.
Zhou Zishu let out a faint, sardonic huff, his lips twitching into the shadow of a smile. “Swooning?” he echoed, his tone dry. “There wasn’t much of that going on. But then…” He paused, his voice dipping into a wry, sharper note. “It was never among the list of services I offered. Maybe some of the girls managed it.”
He set his cup down with measured precision, letting the pause stretch before continuing. “You have a strange idea about brothels, Wen Kexing. From what I remember, the most distinct feeling was…” He stopped, his voice sharpening just slightly, though the faint humor remained. “It felt like being chased by a pack of wild dogs in heat.”
Zhou Zishu leaned back again, his fingers curling loosely over the edge of the cushions. “Then again,” he added with a flicker of self-deprecation, “maybe I was just this good. What can I say? I’m a man of many talents.”
Wen Kexing’s playfulness vanished, the amusement draining from him as the words settled between them. Without a word, he wrapped himself around Zhou Zishu, pressing his face against his neck, the warmth of his breath tracing along Zhou Zishu’s skin. Zhou Zishu felt Wen Kexing’s fingers tighten at his shoulder, the grip firm, protective. “Monsters,” Wen Kexing muttered, his voice low, fury seething beneath the calm. “Everywhere you look—monsters.”
Zhou Zishu took a breath, allowing himself to relax, feeling Wen Kexing’s solid warmth at his back, a strange comfort grounding him as he continued. “A Li was young. She didn’t belong there. Someone took her, left her to rot in that place.” He stopped, feeling his throat tighten. “By the time I saw her, she was barely more than an empty shell. She just… watched me, as if waiting to see how much worse it would get.”
His voice dropped, bitter and rough, his words laced with something sharp. “No one lifted a finger when I took her out of there. They barely noticed. She didn’t say a word; she just… measured me, like she was weighing what else she’d have to survive.” He huffed, his lips twisting into a grim, humorless smile. “Believe me, I understood the irony. I was the last person who should’ve been in the business of saving anyone.”
Wen Kexing’s fingers curled slightly, his hold unwavering as he pressed his nose against Zhou Zishu’s neck, his arm tightening, as though he could shelter him from something already past. Zhou Zishu allowed himself a moment to lean into the warmth, feeling it settle into the rough edges of his memories. “I brought her here. She was… a small, broken thing—barely clinging to herself. And from the moment Maimei saw her, she… wouldn’t let go.” A faint, reluctant warmth softened his voice. “Maimei stayed by her side for weeks, even when A Li wouldn’t speak, wouldn’t react. She worked with the healers, learned from them, studied everything she could. She was relentless.”
He paused, a faint, bittersweet smile ghosting over his lips. “Maimei decided she’d become a healer herself. Just so she could understand every way there was to help the girl who wouldn’t speak. Somehow, in all that, they… saved each other.”
Zhou Zishu exhaled slowly, his voice softening. “A Li found a place here, a place she wouldn’t have survived without. They’re an odd pair, but somehow, they’ve made it work. Maimei won’t let anyone too close, but A Li slipped through those walls.” He let out a rough huff, feeling a strange, reluctant pride. “If anyone can protect her, it’ll be Maimei.”
Wen Kexing’s voice was a low, dangerous whisper, but steady. “If the world even thinks of touching her again, it’ll answer to me,” he said, his words threaded with a dark promise.
A faint warmth tugged at Zhou Zishu’s chest despite himself, and he huffed, feeling the strangest sense of relief—a quiet, unexpected comfort he hadn’t thought possible. Wen Kexing’s fierce loyalty felt like a shield, one that he hadn’t expected but somehow, strangely, welcomed. He allowed himself to lean back into it, letting the silence settle thickly around them.
Wen Kexing exhaled, a faint huff of humor slipping into his voice as he shifted, his head still nestled against Zhou Zishu’s neck. “Is there at least one story,” he murmured, “that won’t make me add names to my list of people to kill and places to burn?”
The question drew a small, unexpected laugh from Zhou Zishu, easing some of the heaviness lingering between them. “Ah, yes,” he replied, a hint of warmth creeping into his voice. “There is one, actually. That would be the twins.”
Wen Kexing lifted his head, curiosity emanating from his posture. Zhou Zishu gave a slight nod, letting the memory form before he spoke. “It was years back. I was traveling north to meet with some chieftain—someone important enough, though the specifics hardly matter now. It was on the steppe, out there on that endless sweep of grassy plains. That’s where I came across them. Two little girls, alone and wild, fierce as wolves.”
He paused, a faint, fond smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “They were daughters of a clan chief, you see. Two warrior princesses. The chieftain had remarried, taken a new wife with her own plans, her own heirs in mind. So, the girls were… inconvenient. Disposable. Left to fend for themselves.” He shook his head, a hint of bitterness creeping in. “There was no place for them in the chieftain’s new family, not with a wife determined to clear a path for her own children.”
Wen Kexing listened quietly, his fingers tracing a light pattern along Zhou Zishu’s shoulder, a silent encouragement to continue. “I took them with me,” Zhou Zishu went on, voice softening. “Brought them here to Grandmother. And they were… wild things. Too fierce to be bent into anyone’s idea of what a lady should be, too untamed to be molded into courtly decorum.”
He let out a small, amused huff. “Grandmother gave them what they needed. She protected them, let them learn, let them shape themselves. They became her blades, sharp and loyal, crafted by their own hands. She allowed them to find their place here. And, well, I trained them.” His voice held a note of pride, the faintest hint of satisfaction in the memory of guiding their raw skill into something honed, precise.
Wen Kexing’s voice softened, the shift in his tone brushing close to Zhou Zishu’s ear as he curled behind him, his arms resting lightly around Zhou Zishu’s waist. “It’s hard to imagine them as those wild little things now, with their perfectly poised smiles,” he murmured, the words laced with quiet admiration. “No one would ever guess.”
Zhou Zishu huffed, though there was a trace of warmth in it. “No, they wouldn’t. Those courtly smiles hide sharpness that no one sees coming.” His voice grew quieter, thoughtful. “They’re loyal to Grandmother. Utterly. And they hold their place here because she made a space where even two wild girls could carve out something of their own.”
For a moment, silence settled between them, easy and comfortable, and Zhou Zishu felt the faint weight of pride mingling with an odd, lingering warmth. These memories of the twins, of Maimei, of A Li—they weren’t just ghosts but threads that bound them all to a life he’d once thought was beyond him.
Wen Kexing shifted behind him. “You know,” he began, his tone light but carrying the edge of genuine interest, “there’s still something I don’t understand. The place the girls mentioned—the one Grandmother disappeared to, the one tied to this plan you keep hinting at. Where is it, exactly? And how does it fit?”
Zhou Zishu felt a pang of guilt, the instinct to share tugging against years of a hard-won caution. He knew, that his answer would leave him feeling cut out, kept at arm’s length. But even here, in what should have been the safest room in the palace, old habits whispered, reminding him that the smallest risk could quickly become the fatal one.
“There are things I can’t say just yet,” he replied slowly, “not here.”
Wen Kexing’s voice carried a faint edge of impatience, though there was a reluctant understanding threading through it. “Not here? Even in a place like this?”
Zhou Zishu let out a small, self-aware chuckle, the sound dry but steady. “Yes. Even here. I know it may sound absurd, but long years have made me… cautious. Perhaps overly so.” He shifted slightly, the movement deliberate but unhurried. “But this is a court, Wen Kexing. Even here, words have a way of reaching ears they were never meant for.”
Behind him, Wen Kexing gave a quiet sigh, the faint exhale brushing against Zhou Zishu’s shoulder. “So I’m to know nothing, then?”
“Not yet,” Zhou Zishu replied, his voice low but firm. “But very soon. A meeting’s planned, and once we’re there, you’ll know everything. All of it.” He softened slightly, his words carrying a quiet sincerity. “If I could tell you now, believe me, I would.”
For a moment, Wen Kexing said nothing. Then he murmured, “I suppose that’ll have to do.” He leaned closer, his hand lifting to rest gently against Zhou Zishu’s chest, fingers lingering near where he knew the iron nail lay beneath the skin, a touch as warm as it was steady. “Just tell me this, A Xu,” he said, his voice barely a whisper, “there is really a plan?”
Zhou Zishu’s lips quirked into a faint, self-deprecating smile, the humor brittle and sharp. “A plan?” he replied, his tone almost mocking. “Wen Kexing, do you really believe an assassin as experienced as me would set a trap without a way to escape it, if there were even the smallest chance I might stumble into it myself one day?”
The words slipped out smoothly, practiced and deliberate. But beneath the ease of the lie, a quiet discomfort twisted. There was a plan now, a solution carved out through sacrifice and blood—but at the start, there had been nothing. Only the blind faith of a foolish child, too naïve to see the darkness in the people he trusted, and the pit it would drag him into.
Wen Kexing let out a quiet laugh, his hand pressing more firmly against Zhou Zishu’s chest, his gaze warm and filled with a rare understanding. “It’s good to know,” he murmured, his tone lighter now, “that I haven’t thrown in my lot with a fool.”
Wen Kexing’s voice, low and insistent, broke the quiet yet again, his curiosity as relentless as his hold. “So tell me,” he murmured, fingers tracing slow patterns along Zhou Zishu’s shoulder, “if you’ve always known how to fix this, then why all the trouble with the ‘old monster’? Why go searching if you already had the answer?”
Zhou Zishu’s patience thinned further, and he felt his eyes grow heavy with the dull weight of exhaustion. It wasn’t evening, but Maimei had been right—he needed rest, and even his muscles seemed to pull him down, each reminder of the wounds hidden beneath the layers of clothing adding to the haze of weariness. But Wen Kexing was like a dog with a bone, determined to pick this puzzle apart until he understood every angle.
“Unless,” Wen Kexing continued, voice quieter, as if he were piecing it together himself, “the answer was always here. The one place you would never choose to return to. A solution terrible enough that you’d take your own end over ever coming back.” Wen Kexing’s hand tightened almost protectively where it rested, though his gaze grew sharper. “If Prince Jin hadn’t decided to ‘kidnap’ you back, would you have come here at all?”
Zhou Zishu let out a faint huff of laughter, his mouth curving into a small, self-aware smile despite himself. Behind him, he could feel the slight shift of Wen Kexing’s presence, the air carrying a quiet note of suspicion as Wen Kexing murmured, “And how does this grand plan fit into that?”
A sigh escaped Zhou Zishu, low and deliberate, as he lifted a finger to Wen Kexing’s lips, pressing gently to silence him. The movement stilled Wen Kexing, the warmth of his breath brushing against Zhou Zishu’s knuckles as the quiet settled between them. Then, with a deliberate slowness that bordered on predatory, Wen Kexing’s lips parted, lightly grazing the tip of Zhou Zishu’s finger with a playful, sharp bite.
Zhou Zishu almost laughed, an odd warmth tugging at his chest despite himself. Wen Kexing shifted behind him, settling closer with a quiet hum, one arm wrapping around him with an ease that spoke of casual possessiveness. “Alright, alright,” Wen Kexing murmured, his tone laced with soft mischief. “We’ll get some rest for your sake. But I’m staying right here.”
Zhou Zishu let himself sink deeper into Wen Kexing’s warmth, feeling the weight of his presence steady and unexpected. He hadn’t imagined he’d find any sense of safety in this place, but here, pressed against Wen Kexing’s solid warmth, he felt something close to peace. Strange, that comfort could exist here, in this dangerous, familiar hall.
His eyes drifted shut, his weariness settling over him like a thick fog, and he allowed himself to relax fully, slipping into sleep with the knowledge that, for now, he wasn’t alone.