Poppy exhaled softly. She didn’t feel pity, only understanding.
Mingxi continued, “She was very ill, but I thought… I thought if I was strong enough, fast enough, skilled enough, I could protect her. As if power could stop death.” He looked away. “It was the first time I learned that sometimes, even everything you are is… not enough.”
Poppy felt her chest tighten. She reached out—hesitating—and then gently touched his hand.
Mingxi’s breath caught. She didn’t offer comfort. She didn’t spout platitudes.
She simply said, “You were twelve.”
Mingxi’s eyes widened slightly.
“You were twelve, Mingxi,” she said softly. “You shouldn’t have had to earn a tail like that.”
Something in him seemed to soften. He didn’t step closer. Didn’t take her hand. But he didn’t pull away either.
That meant everything.
After a moment, Poppy added, “Will you ever earn a fifth?”
Mingxi’s expression shifted—unreadable for a moment. “If I do,” he murmured, “I hope it is not through loss.”
Poppy kept her voice low. “Then I hope so too.”
They resumed walking, closer than before—their silence no longer heavy but shared. They walked a few more minutes in companionable quiet, the morning light warming the forest path and the soft crunch of leaves marking their pace. Every so often, Poppy caught herself listening for him—his steps, his breath, the quiet surety of his presence—and found comfort in knowing he was already attuned to hers.
Mingxi glanced at her from the corner of his eye, subtle and careful, as though gauging whether she needed space or company. She didn’t say she needed either. She didn’t need to.
For the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel alone.
Ahead, the path forked. One way led toward the lower valleys where merchant routes and mortal towns bustled with life. The other curved deeper into the old forest, toward quieter land, older land—land untouched by portals or leylines.
Mingxi inclined his head toward the tree-shrouded route.
“This way,” he said softly. “It’s safer. Fewer leylines here. Harder to track.”
Poppy nodded. Of course it wasn’t the painless way. Her hand brushed the embroidered pouch Minghua had given her.
Safer didn’t feel like the right word. Not for this journey. But she trusted him, and that was enough.
They walked until the sun passed its zenith. No Guardians followed; the fox clan escort had peeled off hours ago to avoid creating a trail Mingxi and Poppy would have to outrun.
The world had gone quiet—too quiet. No foxfire lanterns. No fox clan footsteps. No Minghua crashing through bushes. No Yunlian humming in the distance. No protective presence except the one beside her.
They walked in silence for a while, frost crunching softly beneath their boots. The forest thickened around them, the light bleeding from gold to smoke to the bruised violet of early dusk. It wasn’t tense silence—no longer—but careful. New. Two people who had chosen to trust but hadn’t yet learned what that meant.
A twig snapped somewhere deeper in the wood.
Mingxi’s hand went instinctively to the dagger at his hip—silent, controlled—before he restrained the motion and let his arm fall.
“You’re listening for revenants,” Poppy murmured.
“Always,” he said. “They move differently in winter.”
“Differently how?”
His eyes stayed on the shadowed trees. “Their joints stiffen. They drag more. And they do not breathe, even when the air cuts.”
“Comforting.”
