Gu Yan Chen had always viewed festivals with a soldier's detachment—decorated distractions designed to placate the restless and amuse the powerful. Duty rarely allowed time for frivolity, and even when it did, he remained wary of the ease such nights offered to enemies. Joy, he had found, often dulled the blade of vigilance.
But this year was different.
It wasn't the music or the glowing lanterns or the spiced plum wine passed by silver trays. It was her.
Mu Lian.
Gu Yan Chen stood at the pavilion's edge, a silent sentinel among silk and song. His bearing was at ease, yet his gaze cut through the lantern-lit crowd with the precision of a blade. Nobles meandered like painted figures on a scroll, all practiced laughter and careful steps. Perfumed courtiers whispered between sips of plum wine, their words as fleeting as the fireflies that flickered beneath the plum trees.
The estate shimmered in crimson and gold, its reflection quivering in the pond below like a vision about to dissolve.
He made no move to join the gathering. Instead, he stood apart—hands loosely clasped behind his back, posture relaxed only by design. His presence was noted, never invited. He had long learned that distance was easier to maintain than affection.
"Are you planning to glower through the entire evening?" Gu Xue's voice was light, her fan hiding half a smile as she approached. She offered him a candied lotus seed. "At least look like you belong."
"I am precisely where I belong," he said, declining the treat with a glance. "The festivities will survive without my enthusiasm."
"They always do." Her tone was breezy, but her eyes were sharp. "Still, people talk."
"They always do," he echoed.
She tilted her head. "Then let them talk about how the young master of the Gu family isn't entirely made of stone."
He said nothing.
But his gaze shifted—again—to the figure standing by the musicians.
Mu Lian.
She wore pale rose silk, the color soft against the firmness of her stance. Her sleeves brushed the ground as she shifted her weight, ever wary of her surroundings. Even dressed for celebration, she seemed... out of step. Not clumsy, never that—but distant from the pageantry, as if her attention were tuned to some quieter, harsher rhythm beyond the music and lanterns.
Gu Yan Chen studied her without indulgence. There was no softness in his regard—only the awareness of something tempered, unyielding. Like a blade yet unpolished.
"She doesn't belong here either," Gu Xue murmured, watching him more than Mu Lian now.
"She adapts," he said simply.
"You sound impressed."
"I am observant."
Xue closed her fan with a soft snap. "Observant men fall too, you know. They just don't see it coming until the ground's at their back."
He looked at her then, and for a moment, something almost like amusement flickered in his eyes. "Fortunately, I don't intend to fall."
"Mm," she hummed, unconvinced. "Neither did Father."
She walked off, vanishing into the crowd like smoke.
He turned his gaze forward again.
Mu Lian had moved. She was now beside the lantern bridge, speaking quietly to a servant girl. The music swelled. The laughter grew louder. But she stood still, watchful.
And he watched her—silent, unreadable, and still entirely unwilling to look away.
A new group of guests arrived—wealthy merchants, local officials, their silks heavy with embroidery and their laughter louder than necessary. Gu Yan Chen's eyes narrowed.
Mu Lian hadn't realized how exhausting standing still could be.
She had endured hours of weapon drills, cold camps, and blood-streaked nights without complaint—but tonight, the constant smiling, the delicate steps, the hollow compliments… it was another kind of battlefield. One where silk weighed heavier than armor.
A young lord tried to strike conversation—some smug-eyed son of a minor governor, slurring metaphors about blossoms and jade. She excused herself with a bow that was just short of polite and made her way toward the edge of the west courtyard, where the music dimmed and the crowd thinned.
She needed air. Space. Distance.
"Mu Lian."
The voice came from behind her—firm, low. She turned.
Gu Yan Chen.
He was alone. No attendants. No guards. Just him, standing half in shadow beneath the curve of a red lantern.
"Do you always walk off in the middle of ceremony?" he asked.
"Only when cornered by drunk poets," she replied.
Something tugged at the corner of his mouth—not quite a smile. "Your instincts serve you well."
She studied him, tilting her head slightly. "You're tense."
"I don't like masks."
"Then tonight must be miserable."
His eyes flicked to the crowd again, narrowing. "Keep your senses sharp. If anything feels wrong—say nothing. Move to the upper balcony in the west wing. There's a vantage point above the koi pond."
Her pulse quickened. "You expect an attack?"
"No. But I prepare for one."
Mu Lian followed his gaze. The crowd moved like a painting—but yes, beneath the color and movement, there was something else. A rhythm off by a beat. A smile too wide. A guest who didn't match the invitation list.
"I'll watch from the garden," she said.
He nodded, and then, uncharacteristically, hesitated.
"You're different from the others," he said. "You don't pretend to belong."
"Because I don't."
"That may be why I trust you."
Their eyes met—his sharp and cool, hers steady and unreadable. Then she bowed, turned, and disappeared toward the shadows of the lantern-lit path.
Gu Yan Chen watched her go, one hand resting on the hilt at his side.
In the trees above, an owl stirred.
The night deepened.