Chapter 66: The Demonstration

I only had three days to prepare and I didn't want to be here.

Not in this room. Not with him. Not with a basin of magical water silently judging me from the center of the floor like it knew I was a fraud with a crush on chaos and a power I never asked for.

But here I was again. Sitting on the cushion. Fingers resting lightly on the rim of the basin. Heart doing backflips against my ribs like it was trying to launch itself into another timeline.

Shen Kexian's hand hovered beside mine. Steady. Open.

An invitation that wasn't new anymore—but somehow felt more dangerous than ever.

"Ready?" he asked. I wasn't. I never was. But I nodded anyway.

He reached out. Gently. Fingertips brushing mine with a patience that made me want to scream. And then his hand closed around mine. And everything in me reacted like I'd been struck by lightning.

Heat pulsed up my arm—not fire, not pain. Just warmth. Familiar warmth. The kind that wrapped around your chest and said you're safe here. The kind that tugged at something deep in my bones.

I hated it. It felt too easy. Too known. My pulse spiked, and I tried to shut it down, to wall myself off, to focus on anything except the unbearable gentleness of his touch.

Ming Yu, Ming Yu, Ming Yu, I chanted in my head like a desperate spell.

I was his. I loved him. I chose him.

This—this instinctive pull toward someone else—wasn't mine. It couldn't be.

Beside me, Shen Kexian let out a slow breath. "You're blocking me." I didn't answer. I kept my eyes on the water. "You're holding back," he said again. "You're not letting it move."

"I'm not—" My voice came out strained.

"You are," he interrupted, voice calm, like he was stating the temperature of the room. "You're holding my hand, but you're not letting me in. You're trying to shut the door even as you open it."

I stared straight ahead, jaw clenched, every muscle in my body vibrating with tension.

"What are you afraid of?" he asked, quieter now. My voice came out flat. "Nothing."

Lie. I was afraid of everything.

Afraid of what this meant. Afraid of what my body was trying to tell me. Afraid that no matter how tightly I clung to my love for Ming Yu, something ancient and unfamiliar was unraveling me from the inside.

He looked at me for a long moment. Not smug—just quiet. His gaze was steady, like he knew exactly what I was doing and was just waiting for me to admit it.

"Let it happen," he said. "Focus. Let me in."

I wanted to scream at him.

The water still wasn't moving. Not even a ripple.

I could feel Shen Kexian getting annoyed. Not dramatically—just a slight shift in his posture, the tightening of his jaw. Then he dropped my hand and turned to face me fully.

"What's the problem here?" he asked, tone clipped.

I blinked at him, then shrugged. "You tell me. You're the mystical tutor."

He didn't respond. Just stared.

I sighed and looked away, toward the ceiling, counting the faded cracks in the plaster to avoid his face—or maybe to avoid punching it. It was hard to tell.

"I don't know," I said eventually, voice low. "I was trying."

Something shifted in his expression. The irritation didn't disappear, but it settled into something sharper. Focused.

"Mei Lin," he said, and there was nothing soft in his voice now. "Do you understand how important this is?"

I didn't answer.

"This," he continued, motioning toward the still basin, "isn't about you. Not just you. You're the Goddess of Water. That means something. That means lives. Crops. Weather. Politics. This kingdom could rise or fall based on what you can do."

I clenched my jaw, fingers twitching in my lap.

"I know it's a burden you didn't choose. I get that. But everyone has a role to play."

I turned to him slowly, narrowing my eyes. "Did you rehearse that speech, or did it just come naturally with your lifetime supply of self-righteousness?"

But the sting didn't land. Not really. Because underneath the sarcasm, I knew he was right. I hated that he was right.

That people, real people, might suffer because I was too scared to lean into something I didn't understand. That my refusal to let go could mean a drought somewhere I'd never even see.

I exhaled. Long and low. Let the fight drain out of me.

"Fine," I muttered. "Let's try again."

His eyes softened slightly. I didn't wait for more instructions. I just held out my hand.

He hesitated, then took it. The warmth came back immediately—slow, steady, coiling up my arm and into my chest like it had been waiting.

This time, I didn't push it away.

As annoyingly natural as it felt, I let it happen. I let him in. I let the warmth settle. I let my heart be pulled—gently, steadily toward something I didn't fully understand.

The basin was still for a breath.

Then another.

Then the water began to rise.

***

The day of the demonstration, the throne room was packed.

Every inch of space was occupied by ministers in ceremonial black, nobles in layers of embroidered silk, foreign envoys in their finest. The tension in the air was heavy, almost physical. No one spoke. No one dared.

The King sat at the center of it all, his expression carved from stone. The Queen sat slightly behind him, eyes calm, hands folded neatly, watching everything like a woman who already knew the outcome.

I stood beside Shen Kexian at the foot of the throne, my palms damp despite the chill in the room. Between us sat the ceremonial basin—wide, shallow, silver-rimmed, and filled to the brim with water so still it looked solid. It reflected the golden lattice of the ceiling and the curve of Shen Kexian's sleeve like a mirror laid flat.

I tried not to fidget. My hands stayed still at my sides, but I could feel the weight of the court's attention pressing down on me like an extra layer of clothing—heavy and stifling. Every breath felt too loud. Every shift of silk, every movement in the room seemed to echo off the stone walls. The silence wasn't calm; it was expectant.

The King spoke, his voice firm and final. "Begin."

Shen Kexian moved first.

He didn't say a word. No explanation, no instruction—just turned slightly toward me and extended his hand.

Simple. Calm. Expected.

But the moment lingered longer than it should have. Because I knew what that hand meant. It wasn't just a gesture for demonstration. It was trust. Invitation. A connection that didn't need to be named.

And I took it.

His fingers closed around mine—warm, steady, deliberate. The instant our skin touched, something shifted. Not dramatically. Not like lightning. But like warmth creeping in under a closed door. A slow, rising heat spread from his palm into mine, curling through my wrist and settling into my chest like it belonged there.

He didn't pull at me. He didn't push. He simply existed—anchored and unshakable. And that quiet steadiness began to draw my power forward like a tide pulled by the moon. I didn't resist it. I didn't try to control it. I didn't lead.

I followed.

The basin responded before I even realized it. A small ripple moved across the surface, barely making a sound. Then a single stream of water lifted into the air—thin and fluid, rising in a slow, deliberate arc. Another followed. Then another. Each ribbon twisted upward, curving in unison until they hovered above us in spirals that shimmered in the torchlight.

The court gasped. Audible. Unified.

Someone dropped a scroll. A woman in the back pressed a hand to her chest. Eyes widened. Fans paused mid-wave.

Because the water wasn't just reacting. It was performing.

Not wild. Not chaotic.

It moved like it understood what it was—graceful, precise, full of intention. But it wasn't the water's will. It was his. Shen Kexian led, and I followed—not because I was being directed, but because my power leaned into his without hesitation. His rhythm was instinctive, and my power adjusted around it like a current shifting to the shape of the riverbed.

It was easy. Frighteningly easy. I didn't have to think. I just moved with him.

The ache I'd carried for weeks—the tightness under my skin, the pull I couldn't name, loosened. It didn't vanish, but it shifted. Settled. Became something aligned.

And he was still holding my hand.

He didn't squeeze. Didn't speak. But I could feel him there—his presence like a steady heartbeat in the dark. Familiar. Firm. Welcoming in a way that unsettled me more than I wanted to admit.

Because part of me didn't want to pull away.

The spirals above us twisted once more, then arced outward, forming a floating ring of water that circled the basin like a crown. A nobleman leaned forward. The Queen's eyes flickered just once. Even Lan Wangji's brow creased.

Wei Wuxian shifted, arms crossed tightly.

And Ming Yu—

He didn't move. But his jaw had clenched, and his gaze was locked on our joined hands.

There was something behind his eyes I couldn't quite face. Anger, yes. But also confusion. And something else—hurt, maybe, or disbelief. Like he wasn't sure if he was watching magic or betrayal.

I faltered.

My breath hitched—shallow, uneven. The rhythm between us cracked, not shattered but skewed, like a thread pulling taut in the wrong direction. My fingers tensed against his, and something inside me recoiled. 

Above us, the water responded immediately. One of the spirals wavered mid-air, its arc stuttering, the fluid motion unraveling in slow confusion. A single stream faltered, dipping awkwardly before catching itself, as if unsure of where it was meant to go. The symmetry broke. Small, but visible.

Shen Kexian's hand tightened around mine—not with force, but with quiet insistence. A grounding weight. I glanced up, and he was already looking at me. His gaze was sharp, unwavering, not angry but crystal clear. There was no need for words. 

What are you doing? his eyes asked. This is not the time. Focus.

My throat was dry. My heart felt too big in my chest. I looked down quickly—at our hands, at the basin, at the rippling edges where the water was still suspended, waiting. The pressure of eyes on me, the memory of Ming Yu's expression, the tension in my limbs—it all pressed in at once. But I forced myself to breathe. A full inhale. Slow, deliberate. I let my shoulders drop, let my jaw unclench, let the noise fade just enough to hear the quiet hum of his power reaching toward mine, steady as a tide. And I followed it.

The waver in the water corrected itself. The sagging spiral tightened. The streams returned to form, rising slightly before beginning their descent, graceful, synchronized. They dipped back into the basin without a sound. Not a splash. Not a ripple. Just stillness, restored.

Only then did I realize I had been holding my breath. I exhaled all at once, air leaving my lungs in a slow, aching release. My chest throbbed from the strain. My body was still. The room was still.

Then the King stood, breaking the silence with a measured smile. "Well done."

Applause followed instantly. Loud and clean, echoing across the marble floor and high arches. Ministers nodded, visibly pleased. Nobles turned to each other with raised brows and murmured approval. Someone called out something in another dialect. Even the Queen gave a faint nod, the expression on her face impossible to read.

Shen Kexian dipped his head, releasing my hand at last.

The loss of contact was sudden and stark. My palm felt cold, hollow, like the echo of warmth that had once been there was retreating too fast. I resisted the urge to flex my fingers. Instead, I folded my hands together, partly to still them, partly to stop myself from reaching back. I bowed low as the court's praise filled the room, unsure whether I had passed a test or simply survived it.

The applause was still echoing when the King raised his hand for silence. It fell quickly. All eyes turned to him.

He looked past me, to Shen Kexian. "Tell me," the King said, voice even but curious, "how did you do it?"

Shen Kexian didn't hesitate. "It seems," he said carefully, "that my cultivation allows me to guide her power. To shape it—temporarily."

A sharp inhale swept through the room like wind brushing through dry grass. Gasps rose from the courtiers, even from some of the ministers who had maintained composed expressions until now.

The King's gaze sharpened.

Across the hall, a minister stood. "Does that mean," he asked slowly, voice carrying clearly across the polished floor, "you can control the power of the Goddess of Water?"

The question hung in the air, heavy and deliberate.

And suddenly the tone of the room shifted.

What had been awe became unease. Heads turned. Whispers stirred. Because if Shen Kexian could control me—could wield divine power through nothing more than a touch and a glance—then he wasn't just a skilled envoy or a mysterious noble from the west.

He was a threat.

Possibly the most powerful man in the kingdom.

I glanced at him, expecting surprise or alarm but he didn't flinch. His expression remained calm, as though he'd predicted this response days ago. He bowed his head slightly toward the King.

"Your Majesty," he said evenly, "please do not be concerned. I cannot control her. I can only guide her. If she is unwilling—if she does not open herself to me, the water will not move at all."

There was no embellishment in his tone. No dramatics. Just a quiet fact.

And I stared at him like he'd just confessed to something that would absolutely get me murdered by Ming Yu.

My mouth didn't move, but my eyes said everything: You just admitted something that sounds dangerously intimate, and now I'm going to suffer for it.

I didn't dare look at Ming Yu. I could feel him somewhere in my peripheral vision, but I couldn't bring myself to meet his eyes. Not after that.

The King sat in silence, his expression unreadable. He drummed his fingers once against the carved lion on the arm of his throne, eyes distant with thought.

Then he nodded.

"Good," he said. "Continue the training. We will see how far the two of you can go. How many miracles you both can create."

His smile didn't quite reach his eyes.

And all I could think was: I wasn't sure I wanted to find out.