The wards shimmered faintly, reacting to a sudden spike in pressure.
Ming Yue's aura—once stabilized—flared erratically. Her pulse rose. Sweat bloomed across her forehead as her body began to shiver beneath embroidered sheets.
The alchemists stirred, hands glowing. But no chant calmed her.
She was dreaming.
And the dream was not kind.
It began with rain—but not the soft kind.
This was cold, metallic, full of dread.
She was kneeling on wet stone, her arms pinned by two faceless maids, her body trembling.
Then came the slap. Sharp. Humiliating.
The eldest Gu daughter, face twisted with fury, stood over her in robes of famous brands—a symbol of status that screamed untouchable.
"How dare you?" she spat. "How dare a peasant out of nowhere vie for his attention?"
Ming Yue's cheek stung. Her ribs ached from prior punishments.
The whip descended.
Once.
Twice.
Ten times.
"You'll receive no food. No drink. Three days. You'll learn to quell my rage. You dirty pig."
The maids tightened their grip as the whip lashed again.
In the dream, Ming Yue screamed.
In reality, her body thrashed.
She gasped—her voice breaking into the open air:
"Please… don't."
"Please… stop…"
"No more."
In the hallway, Louis looked up.
But Young Master Yan was already gone.
He'd told them he was heading to the outer gardens for air—or a walk—or perhaps the toilet.
He was not.
He stood quietly inside her room now, alone. No aura flared. No dramatic entry.
Just quiet steps, a furrowed brow—and a heart that knew instinct before it knew logic.
He sat beside her trembling form, reached out, and gently touched her forehead.
His other hand brushed through her hair with tender precision, separating damp strands from her cheeks.
"Shh…" he whispered. "You're safe."
His voice was low, rhythmic—nearly musical.
"You're okay. You're loved."
Her aura slowed. The tremble faded. Her lashes relaxed. The red stone pendant pulsed evenly.
She stilled.
And in the pause that followed, Yan leaned down and placed a kiss on her forehead—soft as moonlight, slow as memory and one that lingered too long.
She didn't wake.
But her lips parted slightly—and a sigh escaped, gentle, peaceful. A faint smile lingered.
Yan watched her for a moment longer, then rose and blended back into the shadow.
"Love does not rush—it lingers like dusk on trembling skin, waiting not to be seen, only felt by the heart it remembers."