Xing Yu froze, his breath caught mid-motion.
He'd expected many things when Jian walked up to him—resentment, maybe more scorn, another angry jab at being sidelined—but not this. Not the boy standing there, chin tilted slightly up, voice calm and full of quiet desperation. And not those eyes.
Golden.
Not just a trick of the light or some post-fight adrenaline glaze—Jian's eyes were glowing. His once-dark pupils were now a deep, molten gold, a clear shimmering halo swirling around them like a delicate flame licking the edge of his iris. It was ethereal. Unmistakable. Unnatural.
Xing Yu had seen many things in war—eyes wide in fear, dull in death, bright in battle-frenzied bloodlust—but never something like this.
And he couldn't look away.
