She nodded.
They stepped out of the chamber together, the door sliding shut behind them. For a long moment, Poppy simply stood in the quiet hall, breathing slowly, grounding herself.
Mingxi waited—silent, steady.
“Would you like the garden,” he asked, “or a walk somewhere quieter?”
“Somewhere quieter,” she said faintly.
He inclined his head, offering his arm. “There is a place,” he murmured. “If you’ll trust me.”
She placed her hand gently on his elbow. “I do.”
Together they stepped into the winding path leading away from the Council halls, toward the quiet wilderness of the clan’s hidden forest.
The moment she chose stillness, the moment she chose him, the air seemed to lighten and allowed her to breathe easier.
And they walked on.
Chapter 47
The path curved away from Council Hall, each step carrying them deeper into the quieter folds of the hidden forest. The hum of foxfire lanterns faded behind them until only birdsong and the whisper of wind remained.
Poppy didn’t speak.
Her breath became thin, her thoughts knotted tight, the weight of Lysandra’s portrait still pulsing behind her ribs like a bruise.
Mingxi didn’t intrude. He simply walked beside her, matching her steps with wordless precision—present, steady, offering silence as though it were something sacred. After several long minutes, he slowed.
“There is a grove nearby,” he said softly. “Quiet. If you wish to stop.”
Poppy hesitated and then nodded.
They followed a narrow path veiled beneath low branches until the trees parted around them like a curtain. The plum grove lay in full bloom. Pale petals drifted in slow spirals through the cool air, catching in the folds of Poppy’s robe, dusting the moss at her feet. The blossoms glowed faintly against the late-winter light, delicate yet unbowed—proof of resilience born out of cold.
Poppy stopped, breath catching.
Wind sighed through the branches, sending a fresh cascade of petals raining down around her. One brushed her cheek, feather light, and dissolved against her warmth. She exhaled shakily, the sound barely audible.
Mingxi stood a few paces behind her, hands clasped loosely behind his back—close enough that she felt him, far enough that his presence didn’t crowd her grief.
“In our clan,” he murmured, “plums are a symbol of endurance. They bloom early, when winter refuses to loosen its grip. They choose to open anyway.”
Poppy stared at the drifting petals, throat tight.
“They’re beautiful,” she whispered.
“They are stubborn,” he corrected gently. “And that, too, is beautiful.”
Another breeze stirred the branches. Blossoms swirled around her like pale snow, catching the light as they fell. Poppy lifted a hand, letting a few land in her palm. They trembled against her skin before slipping away.
For a moment, her breath steadied.
Mingxi stepped closer—but slowly, clearly giving her space to sense him before he reached her side.
“Sometimes,” he said quietly, “it is easier to breathe where the world is still.”
Poppy shut her eyes. The ache under her sternum loosened the faintest bit. She opened her eyes again, petals clinging to her sleeves and hair.
