Sparks

There was no singular moment that marked Rowan's entrance into Yunhua's life. No dramatic encounter, no flash of revelation. Rather, it happened the same way moss grows along the base of stone—imperceptibly, steadily, until one day the surface beneath your hand no longer feels smooth.

She became part of Yunhua's landscape. A fixture.

Not an intrusion. Just... present.

Somehow always in the periphery of the scriptorium or brushing past her in the corridor with a glance, a grin, and a stray leaf caught in her red curls. Always speaking—never too loud, never directed squarely at Yunhua—but enough to suggest that if Yunhua ever did want to reply, her words would not be unwelcome.

Yunhua never replied. Not at first. But she listened. In the way one might listen to birdsong at dawn—fleeting, irrelevant, but oddly reassuring.

And Rowan did not pry.

This, more than anything, made her dangerous.

Yunhua knew how to repel attention. The overt kind, anyway. Bullies, gossipmongers, inquisitive instructors—all were predictable in their needs. But Rowan? Rowan made no demands. She simply spoke into Yunhua's silence with the comfort of someone who could breathe just fine in it.

And Yunhua, against her better judgment, found herself making room for the noise.

That morning, the rain had arrived before the sun. Not a thunderstorm, but a steady, cold drizzle that misted the garden paths and turned the soil into wet, stubborn clumps.

Most apprentices stayed indoors, citing unfinished translations or injuries both real and imagined.

Yunhua did not.

She stood in the herb beds wrapped in her usual gray cloak, hood low over her brow. Her fingers were chilled but steady as she clipped away dead feverwort leaves. The herb didn't mind the cold. It thrived in discomfort. Yunhua could respect that.

The garden gate creaked.

She did not look up.

A heartbeat later, the sound of boots on wet stone announced Rowan's arrival. Light-footed, irregular—like a song being played by someone too impatient to follow the notes properly.

"Of course you'd be here," Rowan muttered, ducking under the arbor with a half-smile and rain clinging to her eyelashes. "If the outpost caught fire, I think you'd still show up to trim the feverwort."

"Feverwort burns fast," Yunhua replied without turning. "Too much oil in the stems."

Rowan blinked. "Wait—was that a joke?"

"No."

Rowan tilted her head, grinning. "I think it was."

Yunhua continued snipping.

The silence between them, once untouched and tenuous, had become almost familiar. Rowan didn't fill it with needless noise today. She simply joined Yunhua in her work, pulling her damp sleeves up to her elbows and kneeling in the mud like she had nothing better to do.

For once, Yunhua didn't mind the company.

---

They worked side by side for nearly twenty minutes. Rain beaded off the edges of the overhang. The garden smelled of wet soil and cold iron.

Rowan eventually broke the quiet.

"You always this dedicated?"

Yunhua didn't pause. "Yes."

"Even before?"

Before.

Yunhua's fingers hesitated. Only briefly.

"Before what?"

Rowan shrugged. "Before you were sent here."

Yunhua didn't respond.

The past, she'd learned, was best treated like certain types of mold: avoid stirring it unless you wanted the spores to spread.

Rowan continued, unbothered by the lack of answer. "I only ask because you move like someone who never expects help. Like you're used to doing everything yourself."

Yunhua clipped a browned stem. "I am."

Rowan sat back on her heels, watching her. "Why?"

Yunhua finally looked up. "Why do you help?"

Rowan blinked. "Because I can."

"Then I work because I must."

For a moment, there was only the soft hiss of rain between them.

Then Rowan smiled—not in mockery, but with a kind of quiet approval. "Well. That's honest, at least."

They lapsed into silence again.

Rowan adjusted her posture, stretching her legs beneath the arbor. Her tunic was already soaked through at the hems, but she didn't seem to care. Her body was made for movement, for restless, stubborn energy. Stillness looked strange on her.

Yunhua returned to the feverwort.

But her rhythm faltered when Rowan reached for a leaf and spoke again—this time more softly.

"You don't hate it here, do you?"

Yunhua blinked.

"No," she said, and meant it.

The outpost was not kind. But it was consistent. It had rules. Expectations. No one here asked for more than you could give—provided you gave something.

"I like the quiet," she added.

Rowan snorted. "You mean the way no one talks to you?"

"No. I mean the way no one expects much from me or tries to fix me."

Rowan turned, studying her.

"I don't think you're broken," she said.

Yunhua blinked again.

That word — broken — had never been voiced before, but it hovered in the background of every adult's stare, every instructor's sigh. It clung to her like mildew to damp cloth.

But Rowan said it with certainty. And dismissed it just as quickly.

"I don't think I'm anything," Yunhua said after a beat. "I just want to be left alone."

Rowan didn't laugh. She didn't chide. She simply nodded, as if that was perfectly reasonable.

Then, seemingly out of nowhere, she added:

"And your hair—"

Yunhua glanced up.

Rowan's grin widened. "Gods. Your hair drives me crazy."

Yunhua blinked, startled. "What?"

"It's always in your face," Rowan said, gesturing loosely. "Like a curtain. Like you're hiding behind it. Doesn't it bother you?"

Yunhua hesitated. "No."

"Of course it doesn't," Rowan muttered, half to herself. "You'd probably let a spider live in it and never notice."

"Probably."

Rowan looked at her for a long moment.

Then, without warning, she reached over—very gently—and tucked a stray lock of hair behind Yunhua's ear.

Yunhua froze.

The contact was brief. Light. Nothing invasive.

But the touch lingered, impossibly warm against her rain-chilled skin.

Rowan pulled her hand back and grinned. "Now I can see your face."

Yunhua stared at her. Then at her red curls.

She did not mean to. But her eyes were drawn to it, the same way one's eyes follow candlelight in the dark.

No symmetry. No restraint.

Just honest, defiant beauty.

Rowan caught her gaze and tilted her head. "What?"

Yunhua said nothing.

But something strange stirred in her chest.

A thought, perhaps. Or the echo of one.

This person is going to be dangerous.

That night, Yunhua didn't sleep.

Not out of anxiety. Not quite.

She simply... thought too much. Her body lay still under her blankets, but her mind continued turning over images like stones in a stream.

Red curls. Bright laughter. A touch that hadn't felt like a trap.

Rowan was not kind in the way healers were kind. She didn't coddle. She didn't wait. She simply saw things—and didn't flinch.

That alone was terrifying.

Yunhua closed her eyes and told herself to forget it.

She did not.

A week passed.

Rain turned to frost. The garden stiffened with the promise of winter. Lessons shifted indoors, but Yunhua still found excuses to linger outside—where silence lived longer and walls didn't press so close.

Rowan kept appearing.

Not always in the same place. But she appeared.

Sometimes with stories of arguments she'd overheard, or theories about their instructors' secret affairs. Other times with half-eaten apples, which she claimed were "charity," though Yunhua suspected they were stolen.

They didn't talk about the hair situation.

Or the look that followed.

And that suited Yunhua just fine.

Then came the bell.

A sharp, singular chime. Not part of the morning routine.

Emergency summons.

Yunhua was already awake, dressing with habitual precision. She paused at the sound but didn't startle. Old instincts stirred in her bones.

By the time she reached the infirmary courtyard, a small crowd had gathered.

Murmurs spread like fire through dry underbrush.

And there, at the center of it all—

Rowan.

Barefoot. Blood on her left shoulder. Tunic torn. Her jaw set like stone.

Yunhua stared.

"What happened?" she asked, not realizing she'd spoken aloud.

Rowan looked up.

And for the first time in weeks—

She didn't smile.