Chapter 67: From Wine to Wounds

The palace, in its infinite wisdom, decided that nearly flooding the throne room with magical water ribbons was cause for celebration. A formal banquet was announced. Lanterns were strung. Musicians were summoned. The royal kitchens went into a frenzy. And I—who had merely not drowned anyone in front of the court—was now the guest of honor.

The Great Hall had been transformed into something between an imperial banquet and a carefully veiled ambush. Silk drapes in pale blue and silver flowed from the ceiling beams, catching the candlelight like moonlight on water. Low tables gleamed with lacquered trays and porcelain dishes, each sweet so intricate it looked like the kitchen staff wept over every fold. In the corner, a small court ensemble played softly—flutes, guqin, and pipa—setting the tone for what could only be described as a high-stakes evening disguised as polite celebration.

And in the middle of it all stood Shen Kexian.

Surrounded.

If power was an aphrodisiac, then apparently so was quiet spiritual compatibility, because noblewomen had descended upon him like he was the last peach blossom in spring. Every time I looked over, someone new was offering him a cup of wine with both hands, fluttering her lashes like she was trying to create a wind tunnel.

"He's been offered six different drinks and four marriage proposals in the last twenty minutes," I muttered into my tea.

Yuling leaned against the banquet table beside me, eyeing the crowd with the expression of someone watching a slow-moving avalanche. "Seven drinks. That lady in the red sleeves just tried to toast his future children."

"Which ones?" I asked. "She looked about twelve."

"No, no, she was just short. The one over there—see? Yufei's behind her."

I followed her gaze and winced.

Yufei stood at the edge of the group like a predator calculating wind direction. She wore a deep violet gown with sleeves so long they practically needed their own escort. Her eyes were locked on Shen Kexian like she'd already claimed him by divine right.

"Oh no," I whispered. "Isn't she technically married?"

"Would that stop her?"

I nodded solemnly. "Most likely not."

A very familiar, very smug voice.

"Well, well. If it isn't the palace's favorite water deity."

I turned slowly.

Wei Wuxian stood a few paces away, holding a wine cup with the casual arrogance of someone who had never once entered a room quietly. His robes were slightly rumpled, his hair was perfect, and his grin was the kind that made me immediately suspicious.

Lan Wangji trailed a step behind him, silent and regal as always. But even he looked like he was trying not to smirk.

"Oh no," I said aloud. "No, no, no, don't start."

"Start what?" Wei Wuxian asked innocently. "We just came to pay our respects. Offer congratulations. Praise your deeply moving water performance."

"I'm leaving."

"You're not."

"I could be."

"I'll float you out myself," he said, wiggling his fingers in a fake casting motion. "Just give me the signal."

Lan Wangji cleared his throat quietly. "You performed well."

I blinked. "Wait. Was that a compliment?"

Wei Wuxian gasped. "Did you just… praise her in public? Are you feeling alright?"

Lan Wangji gave him a long look. "You told me to be supportive."

"Yes, but I didn't mean emotionally articulate. You're scaring the nobles."

I sighed and rubbed my forehead. "Why are you two even here? Shouldn't you be at the important tables?"

Wei Wuxian sipped his wine. "We were. It got boring. A minister tried to explain tax reform to me. So we decided to visit you, the shining star of the evening."

I popped the entire dumpling into my mouth like it might soak up my spiraling emotions.

Then I frowned. "Where's Ming Yu?"

Wei Wuxian arched a brow. "Ah… likely somewhere nursing the wound of having watched a divine performance he was not part of."

I blinked. "What?"

Lan Wangji, beside him, spoke evenly. "He departed before the hall quieted. Without a word."

Wei Wuxian sighed theatrically. "Poor lad. He is probably sulking beneath a moonlit archway. Or composing tragic poetry near the koi pond. That sort of thing."

I stared at him.

He sipped from his cup. "Do not look at me so. You conjured water into the air with another man's hand in yours. The ministers wept. It was practically a wedding."

"It was training," I hissed.

"Mm," Wei Wuxian hummed, amused. "Then may all lessons be taught with such devotion."

I exhaled. My stomach twisted. Setting my teacup down with more force than necessary, I adjusted my sleeves. "I'm going to look for him."

Wei Wuxian waved a hand. "Do convey our greetings. And tell him he may brood as long as he does not set fire to the scroll archives."

I didn't respond.

The sounds of the banquet faded behind me as I slipped into the corridor, leaving behind the clink of wine cups and the scrape of fans. The light was lower here—lanterns flickering quietly against carved pillars, shadows stretching long across the tiled floors. It smelled like wax and incense, the faintest trace of plum wine still clinging to my sleeves.

I found him in the garden.

Not the part trimmed for guests, where lanterns floated and music spilled through lacquered windows—but in the quiet, neglected corner near the old stone wall. The grass was uneven here. The air was colder. Shadows stretched long beneath a crooked pine tree.

Ming Yu sat on a flat rock, hunched slightly forward, a large wine jug resting in one hand like it had become part of him. His robes were loosened, collar open, hair slightly mussed. I'd never seen him like this—unkempt, untethered. His cheeks were flushed, not from laughter, but from drink. His eyes, usually so sharp and clear, were glassy. Dull. Like the light had been pulled out of them.

He looked like a man losing something he didn't know how to hold onto.

I stepped toward him without a word and lowered myself beside him, careful not to touch.

"Why aren't you at the party?" I asked, gently.

He turned his head. And when he saw me, he smiled.

A small, crooked, devastating smile.

"There you are," he murmured. "The powerful Goddess of Water."

The way he said it—half wonder, half ache—made my throat close up.

"You made quite a show today."

It wasn't a mockery. That somehow made it worse.

I forced a breath. "Ming Yu… is everything alright?"

He didn't answer. Just tilted his head back and stared at the stars, like they might have something kinder to offer than I could.

The silence stretched between us, heavy and fragile.

And I knew. This was it.

The conversation I had tried to avoid. The unraveling I had felt creeping toward us, soft and patient, now finally standing in the open.

I took a breath that felt too loud. "About the demonstration—"

But his voice cut through mine.

"I don't want to hear it."

I froze.

He didn't look at me. Just closed his eyes like the very mention of it was too much.

When he opened them again, they were shining. "Mei Lin," he said softly. "I don't know what to do anymore. Or how to feel."

I didn't move. Didn't blink. Just listened.

"I understand what this is," he said. "What you're going through. I know you didn't choose this. I know you didn't ask for him to be the one who—who brings out your power."

He swallowed. His voice cracked—barely, but I heard it.

"I know all of that."

He looked up at the sky again, but his voice didn't follow. It fell.

"But knowing doesn't make it hurt less."

He turned back to me.

And there were tears in his eyes.

Actual tears.

And seeing them—seeing him, the strongest person I knew, unraveling piece by piece under the weight of something he couldn't fight—felt like something inside me shattered.

"It hurts," he whispered. "Watching it. Standing there while you reach for someone else. Feeling like I'm already losing you—even when you're still right here."

A sob rose in my chest and caught in my throat.

I wanted to say something. Anything.

But what words could fix this?

He looked away. Down at his hands. The wine jug. The grass.

Then his voice came, quiet, nearly broken.

"Could I be alone tonight?" he asked. "Please. I don't want to say something cruel. I don't trust myself not to."

I stared at him, helpless.

Because I couldn't argue with that. Because I didn't trust myself not to beg.

My lips parted, but no sound came. The only thing I managed was a whisper. Fragile and cracked.

"I'll… I'll catch up with you later."

He nodded, eyes still turned away.

And I stood. My knees felt weak. My chest felt hollow. Each step away felt like dragging a blade behind my ribs. But I walked. Slowly. One foot in front of the other, down the stone path and out of that dark little corner of the garden.

I didn't look back.

Because if I did, I was afraid I'd fall to pieces. Right there. At his feet. And he deserved more than that.

He deserved someone who didn't make him cry.

***

I didn't go back to the party.

There was nothing for me there—just music I couldn't hear, food I couldn't taste, and people I didn't want to face. If I returned, I knew exactly what would happen: I'd cry in front of everyone like a madwoman. And not the elegant, single-tear type of crying. No. I'd collapse into a mess of blotchy skin and broken sentences, and someone would try to hand me a napkin with embroidered phoenixes on it while I sobbed about trust and elemental synchronization.

So instead, I went back to my room.

The halls were quiet now. Servants had withdrawn. The echoes of celebration faded the deeper I went, until all I could hear was the faint rustle of my sleeves and the too-loud beating of my own heart.

I sat on the edge of my bed, robe still perfectly arranged, crown hairpins still in place. But inside?

I was wrecked.

It hurt more than I expected—seeing Ming Yu like that. That broken smile. The tears in his eyes. The way he couldn't look at me when he asked to be alone.

And the worst part? I understood him.

God, I understood him. Because if our positions had been reversed, if I'd been the one standing in the corner watching him touch another woman, move in perfect harmony with her like they shared a breath, a heartbeat, a history—I would've shattered too.

In a perfect world, you trust the one you love. But I don't live in a perfect world. I live here in this mess. In a palace full of secrets and eyes and silk and power and people who smile while they plan your destruction. 

I live in a body that isn't wholly mine, with a past that doesn't belong to me and a destiny I never asked for. So how can I ask Ming Yu to be perfect when everything around us isn't?

Could I blame him for not trusting me?

For looking at that demonstration and seeing what everyone else saw?

No. I couldn't.

Because my reaction wasn't subtle. My expression wasn't neutral. I didn't resist the warmth of Shen Kexian's hand—not in the moment that mattered. I let the power move me. Let it soften me. Let it feel… right.

Even though it wasn't. Not the right person. Not the right feeling.

I know my heart. I know who it beats for.

But in that hall, under that light, in that current—I betrayed myself. And in doing so, I betrayed him.

Ming Yu.

The one who's always been steady. Always been mine.

And now, I don't know how to fix this. I don't know how to mend a wound I helped carve open with my own silence.

How do I prove something that already looks like betrayal?

How do you solve a problem when you are the problem?