Vivian
Vivian Li had been called many things in her twenty years of life—most of them carefully curated lies spoken through smiles.
A pearl carved in frost.
The last heir of moonlight.
Untouchable.
It had never mattered whether the titles were reverent or romantic. They always served the same purpose: distance. Polite armor. A way for others to admire her without understanding her.
She let them.
The truth, after all, had never been particularly welcome.
The crystal pulse on her wristband flickered a third time as the wind-carriage dipped below the mana clouds and banked into the private mountain ward. Unlike the Li estate, which dripped ceremony and grandeur from every flying buttress, this place was quiet—subtle stonework built into the side of a ridge, surrounded by glass-leafed trees that shimmered under moonlight.
A private clinic. One her mother hadn't sanctioned. One she didn't even know about.
Vivian stepped out the moment the door opened, her robe catching the breeze, the hem whispering over the polished obsidian tiles. A pair of healers nodded without speaking. Her face needed no introduction here.
Inside, the air was soft and warm, laced with mana-dampening spells that calmed nerves and dulled pain. She moved like water down a familiar hallway, her mind still replaying the last five minutes in the bridal suite with her new husband.
"Do what you gotta do."
No anger. No sarcasm. No pointed questions.
Just a maddening, impossible calm.
Ethan Zhou—though her pride bristled at the thought—had dismissed her absence like she was a servant gone missing, not the woman fate had tethered to his side.
Lust. Anger. Loud, righteous resentment. That was what she'd braced for. What she thought she deserved. She was, after all, one of the Four Great Beauties of the Empire. Men didn't ignore her—they lost sleep over her.
But Ethan Zhou hadn't burned. He hadn't even blinked. And it scraped across something inside her she didn't want to name.
The door at the end of the corridor opened for her before she reached it.
Jin Xun lay reclined beneath a mana-weaving canopy, bathed in a soft glow that flattered his already-too-perfect features. His silver-blue hair fell loose around his face, eyes heavy with delicate vulnerability. He looked exactly as he had the first day she met him: gentle, poised, the embodiment of quiet devotion.
And yet—something didn't quite sit right tonight. Not with him. Not with her.
"You came," he said, a small smile tugging at the edge of his lips. "I wasn't sure you would. Not after... everything."
Vivian moved to the side of the room, posture composed but not formal. Her fingers tugged once at her sleeve—not to fidget, but just to feel grounded.
"You sent a distress signal," she said. "I thought something had happened."
"It did," Jin murmured. "Just not the kind of wound a healer can see."
His gaze held hers for a beat too long.
She didn't look away. Not yet.
"You're not injured," she said softly.
"Yes, and at the same time no. I strained my mana core trying to soothe my reactions," he answered. "My heart is tired of pretending. Of watching from a distance. You know how long I've—" He paused. "You know I've always wanted better for you."
Vivian sat this time—on the edge of a polished stone bench that framed the room.
She didn't touch him, but she was closer than she meant to be.
"Marrying into the Li family was always going to be political," she said. "You knew that."
"I also knew," Jin said, voice low, "that you deserved more than a cold husband chosen by your mother."
Vivian didn't answer. Because part of her had thought that too.
But Ethan Zhou hadn't done anything wrong.
He was as much a victim of circumstance as she was.
Yes, he'd saved her mother and the cynical part of her brain whispered that he'd done it deliberately. That he'd positioned himself for the chance to marry into her family and possess her.
She was rarely wrong about these things.
But her very first interaction with him had completely shattered that expectation.
And in doing so, it had left her... unsure.
She supposed he could be lying. Playing some long game.
But in coming to that conclusion, she had the thought: Ethan Zhou and Vivian Li didn't know each other.
Not really.
And in the short interactions they had, he hadn't given her a single reason to hate him.
In a bloodbound marriage like theirs, there were expectations.
Especially for someone in her position. Especially for someone in his.
In a real marriage, bride and groom were expected to share a bed. To exchange yin and yang. To build their cultivation on intimacy—spiritually, politically, physically.
That requires intimacy including physical imtimacy. She hadn't even given him the chance to invoke his right of intimacy.
He could have.
Many would have, even against her will. And they would have regretted it.
Claiming her yin would've granted him standing, reputation, and power. He could have demanded it, legally, and forced her into a public refusal. Or worse—created a scandal she'd have no way of cleaning up without bruising both their houses.
But he didn't.
He hadn't demanded affection. Hadn't asked for physical touch. Hadn't even commented when she walked out of their shared quarters on their wedding night.
It made her feel like a ceremonial object. A bride without gravity.
But Jin Xun—he had gravity.
He always had.
He pulled at her in ways that made no sense. Even when she tried to sever the connection, it lingered—faint as perfume on silk.
And now, sitting here, hearing his voice in this place, something shimmered behind her eyes.
Not memory.
Not quite.
But close.
She blinked slowly.
"Have we... had this conversation before?" she asked, more to herself than to him.
Jin tilted his head. "What?"
"Nothing," she said quickly. "Just... déjà vu."
He smiled again, warmer this time. "Some things feel inevitable."
She didn't return the smile, but she didn't move either.
When he reached forward, brushing her sleeve with hesitant fingers, she didn't pull away.
His hand closed gently over hers.
Warm. Soft. Almost delicate.
Not surprising. Jin was a scholar, not a fighter.
They sat like that for a moment—longer than she meant to.
Until the moment passed.
He let go.
He looked disappointed.
Vivian stood.
Her goodbye was polite. Neutral.
It felt awkward.
Inappropriate.
Wrong, in a way she couldn't name.
She stepped out of the clinic with the same poise she'd entered, her robe fluttering in the moonlit breeze. The door closed behind her with a sigh that felt heavier than it should.
Jin didn't stop her.
He never did.
That had always been his strength and his weakness.
The skycarriage was already waiting.
Its runes hummed softly, reacting to her approach. The door opened without a sound.
Vivian stepped inside without looking back.
The moment the door closed and spell-silence wrapped around her like a shroud, she let herself breathe—not heavily, not shakily, but with the kind of careful exhale that let emotion leak without being obvious.
She had come looking for grounding.
For certainty. For something to justify the choice she'd already made, long before the marriage had ever been proposed.
But instead, she felt... fragmented.
Threaded through with contradictions.
You're free to do what you want.
Ethan's words echoed in her mind, calm and clinical.
He hadn't said it out of indifference.
That was what made it worse.
There had been no anger. No insecurity. No trace of the possessiveness that most men couldn't hide.
Just quiet clarity.
He wasn't giving her permission.
He was simply reminding her that he wasn't trying to stop her.
And somehow, that stung more.
Jin Xun told her what she deserved.
Ethan hadn't told her anything at all.
One tried to hold her tightly. The other let her go.
And she didn't know which made her feel more... unmoored.
The Li estate came into view through the carriage window—its towers lit by soft golden spelllight, the bridges alive with floating lanterns. The walls shimmered faintly with protective wards, breathing slow and steady like a living thing.
She'd grown up in this house.
But it rarely felt like it belonged to her.
Tonight, it felt like it belonged to someone else entirely.
She entered through the side gate—no procession, no formal reintroduction. The servants didn't speak to her. Some bowed. Most pretended not to see.
Good.
She didn't want to be seen.
Not tonight.
She moved through the west corridor, past the garden walkway, until she reached the private treasury.
The security wards recognized her instantly. The glyphs flared, then parted.
She stepped inside.
Cool air.
Stone floors.
No guards. No questions.
Just silence.
And on the center table, stacked with deliberate care, were the ceremonial gifts for her husband
Wrapped in silver silk. Sealed with his personal glyph.
She crossed the room slowly. Let her hand rest on the edge of the topmost box.
A jade pendant etched with the Li family sigil. Traditional. Elegant. Symbolically weighty. The kind of gift a well-raised son-in-law would deliver to his in-laws as a gesture of deference and strength.
Her mother had approved that one without comment.
The second case was heavier.
She opened it more slowly.
Inside, nestled in velvet as dark as night, was a sword.
Not just any sword.
A white-bladed weapon forged from starmetal—one of only two of its kind on the continent.
Indestructible. Perpetually sharp. Alive with pressure—not flame, not lightning, not ice.
Just power.
Raw and silent.
Qinglan's Silence.
The blade shimmered faintly in the low light, like it was holding its breath.
It was beautiful. It was deadly. It was a warrior's weapon—precise, balanced, merciless in its expectation.
A sword meant to be wielded by someone who understood the rhythm of mana, the weight of restraint, the flow of power through perfect momentum.
It was not a scholar's blade.
It was not Ethan Zhou's blade.
And yet… she would give it to him.
She'd chosen it.
Not out of cruelty. Not exactly. But because she had needed something that looked like trust—even if it wasn't. Ethan would carry the pressure, would weight of her, her family and the world's expectations.
He was brilliant. Everyone said so.
But brilliance didn't silence courtiers.
It didn't impress sword-hardened elders.
And it wouldn't save her from the embarrassment if he failed tomorrow during the rite.
Qinglan's Silence was a trap dressed as a gift.
And tomorrow, he would be expected to wield it.
He won't know what to do with it.
The thought should have comforted her.
But it didn't.
She closed the case gently.
If he failed, the shame would fall on him.
But the judgment?
That would land on both of them.
She stared at the sword for a long moment, then whispered—too softly for anyone else to hear:
"Prove me wrong."