Chapter 4: Fever in the Frost

Night clung to the mountain trail like a hungry beast. Somewhere in the barren trees, wolves howled at the half-moon.

The exiled Li family huddled around a pitiful cluster of smothered embers — the Imperial Guards had allowed a single hidden fire, grudgingly, only for the children and women on the brink of collapse.

Yan Qingling knelt by the weakest group — the youngest sister-in-law, Lady Ruo, lay unconscious on a straw mat, her baby crying weakly at her side. The air stank of sour sweat and sickly warmth — the sure scent of fever spreading through bodies too fragile for winter's bite.

Xiaoyu, Qingling's loyal maid, hovered close, voice cracking.

"Madam, Lady Ruo's skin is burning. And two children are coughing blood…"

Qingling touched Lady Ruo's clammy forehead. Her eyes sharpened with a surgeon's cold focus — the same calm that once guided her hands through bullet wounds and earthquake rubble.

"She needs fresh water, herbs to purge heat, and food to keep her strength."

Xiaoyu's eyes darted to the shadows where a guard leaned against a tree, half-dozing but clutching a spear.

"Madam… if we ask for water or more firewood, they'll refuse. Or worse, accuse us of hoarding!"

Qingling's lips curved into a bitter smile.

"Then we won't ask."

She pulled her cloak tighter and slipped into the woods, Xiaoyu at her heels like a ghost. They moved silently between trees, dodging snapping branches and startled night birds. When she was certain no guard followed, Qingling dropped to her knees in the clearing.

Closing her eyes, she sank into the warmth of her hidden world — the Evergreen Pavilion. There, under moonlit illusion, neat rows of spirit herbs thrived: honeysuckle to cool fever, dried ginger to warm the lungs, and pure spring water bubbling clear and sweet.

She filled a bamboo flask, stuffed pouches with powdered herbs, and hid them deep in her cloak folds.

When she returned to camp, Lady Ruo still burned with fevered delirium, whispering for her dead husband in the half-language of dreams.

Qingling brushed sweat-soaked hair from her sister-in-law's brow, whispering back:

"Live, Ruo. Live for your son. Live to see this road end in hope, not a grave."

She mixed a warm decoction behind a battered wagon, where the guards couldn't see. One by one, she pressed bitter spoonfuls between Lady Ruo's cracked lips.

She worked through the night, moving among the sick: a child's rattling cough eased by herbal vapor, a boy's swollen joints soothed by gentle poultices from her secret store.

By dawn, the wind still cut like knives — but the cries of the children softened to raspy sleep. Lady Ruo's breathing steadied, her forehead damp but no longer burning.

When Qingling finally sank onto a tree stump to rest, exhaustion washed over her in waves. But before sleep could claim her, a shadow loomed — blocking the first pale strands of morning light.

Li Zeyan stood over her, one hand on his sword hilt. His voice was quiet, deadly serious:

"I woke to see your maid slip back into camp at dawn. And I saw the guards talking behind the trees. They know something is hidden among us."

Qingling's shoulders stiffened.

"So let them suspect. They have no proof."

Li Zeyan crouched, his eyes level with hers — for the first time, not as a prince or a hero, but simply a man caught between ruin and an uncertain hope.

"You have risked too much. If they find even a scrap of your hidden herbs or food…" His eyes darkened. "They will use you to break us."

Qingling smiled, though her lips trembled from sleeplessness.

"Let them try. I am not so easy to break, Your Highness."

His calloused thumb brushed a strand of hair from her temple — an intimate gesture so sudden that even he seemed surprised by it.

"I owe you more than life, Consort Yan. When this road ends — whatever your secrets are — I will protect them, as you have protected my people."

Qingling leaned into his touch for a heartbeat that felt like spring amidst the frost.

"Then walk this road with me, husband. To the end."

In the distance, the guards stirred, blades rattling in morning chill — but here, in the hush between heartbeats, a bond unspoken took root in frozen soil, destined to bloom despite the frost.

The exiled Li camp slept fitfully under a starless sky. The faint warmth of hidden fires flickered under piled brush to keep the Imperial Guards unaware.

Yan Qingling lay against a straw mat, cloak wrapped tight around her thin shoulders. To any onlooker, she seemed as exhausted as the rest — a fragile bride worn to threads by mountain wind and endless miles.

But beneath her closed eyelids, her mind stayed razor-sharp.

She felt it before she heard it: the soft crunch of boots too careful, the faint scrape of metal against a cart latch.

Qingling's eyes snapped open in the darkness. Beside her, Xiaoyu stirred — but Qingling's hand pressed the maid down before a squeak could escape her throat.

She rose like a wraith, silent on the damp earth. Slipping behind crates, she glimpsed him under the sliver of moonlight: a squat man in guard armor, rummaging inside a half-broken supply cart. He cursed under his breath as he tore open folded blankets, sniffed at bundles, and pawed at hidden corners where the sisters-in-law kept their few valuables.

Looking for proof, Qingling realized, her blood turning to ice. He suspects we have more than scraps. If he finds even a scrap of Pavilion food—

The man hissed, "Where is it, witch? I saw you slip food to the brat…"

He pulled a small dagger, using it to pry loose a floorboard in the cart. His greedy eyes flickered, imagining the bounty hidden below.

Qingling stepped forward, her shadow falling over him.

"Lose something?" she asked, voice smooth and sharp as a drawn blade.

The man spun, dagger raised — then sneered when he saw it was only the 'delicate Consort.'

"Well, well. Even the War God's witch bride prowls at night, hmm? Hand over your stash, or I'll tell the Captain you're hoarding Imperial tribute."

Qingling's smile was razor-thin in the moonlight.

"And if I refuse?"

He lunged. Fast — but not fast enough for a woman trained to dodge flying bullets and falling rubble in another life. She slipped aside, grabbed a broken wagon spoke, and swung it with perfect precision.

CRACK.

The man crumpled, clutching his arm, hissing curses. But he wasn't done — he lunged again, knife flashing.

Behind them, a sudden bellow split the night:

"INTRUDER!"

Li Zeyan's voice, raw and furious, shattered the quiet. Heavy footsteps thundered from every direction — half the clan's loyal old guards and a few surprised Imperial soldiers converged like wolves on a wounded boar.

Qingling didn't drop her makeshift club until Li Zeyan himself grabbed her wrist, pulling her behind him with a possessive ferocity that left her breathless.

"Speak!" Li Zeyan snarled at the whimpering spy on the ground. "Who sent you?"

The man spat blood, trembling. His eyes darted at the silent Imperial guards watching from the edge — and a cold smile spread across his bruised lips.

"His Majesty wishes to know… where you hide your wealth. You think exile frees you? Ha! The Emperor wants you dead poor — and dead, if needed…"

Li Zeyan's boot slammed down on his broken arm, drawing a shriek that echoed into the woods.

"Take him. Bind him. If the Emperor wants our secrets, he can ask my wife's ghost after she's buried me — not before."

The loyal guards dragged the spy away, muffling his cries with ragged cloth. The Imperial soldiers said nothing — they had seen enough of the War God's fury to mind their own skins.

In the stunned quiet that followed, Li Zeyan turned, towering over Qingling. In the flicker of a dying torch, his face was part shadow, part bruised pride.

"Why do you risk your own neck to hide ours?" he asked hoarsely. "Why not let them take what little we have left?"

Qingling lifted her chin, unafraid though her heart thundered.

"Because 'little' is a seed, Your Highness. A seed I will plant far from this Emperor's reach. When it flowers, you will never bow to any throne again."

His eyes glinted — not the cold steel of a prince betrayed, but the blazing promise of a man beginning to believe in miracles.

"You have more courage than my father's whole army, Consort Yan."

She allowed herself a weary laugh as she touched the bruise forming on her wrist.

"I have more secrets than that, too. Try not to let the Emperor steal them, hmm?"

Li Zeyan grasped her hand, gentle but unyielding.

"Not while I breathe, wife."

Above them, the moon slipped free of the clouds — pale but unbroken, like hope clinging to a ruin.