Chapter 10: Where He Belonged

The doors of Phoenix Palace closed behind him with a low, final thud—like a held breath let go.

Xiao Heng walked, boots steady against the damp stone, robes whispering with each unhurried step.The weight of the morning audience still clung to him, and he let it loosen with every measured step. State affairs could hold. A quarter-hour more wouldn't bring the empire to its knees.

Overhead, the glazed tiles still glistened from the night's rain, and water slipped from the eaves in a lazy, arrhythmic drip.

His mind circled back to Lanxin.

A witness silenced before she could speak. Someone had slipped in before the Palace Guard arrived—quiet as a shadow, meticulous to the point of obsession. Whoever it was had stripped the room clean.

The corner of his mouth twitched—not quite a smile, not quite a sneer. Panic was a clumsy tool. It left fingerprints in the spaces people forgot to look. A hasty retreat. A misplaced seal. A servant who remembered too clearly or not at all.

They'd flinch again, and he'd be watching.

The thought should have brought him quiet satisfaction—the hunter's calm patience. But instead, another face drifted into the hollow of his chest, unbidden and warm.

Qingyuan——

His steps quickened without his permission. The half-formed smile on his lips turned gentler, almost private.

She'd be waiting now. He could see it with ridiculous clarity: the book resting open in her lap, spine cracked at her favorite passage; the tea beside her gone tepid, a faint oil-sheen on its surface.

Reading as though nothing else demanded her attention.

Yet somehow...she always knew the sound of his footsteps before anyone announced his arrival.

She never admitted she was waiting and he never pointed it out. Some things no longer needed words.

Without realizing it, his pace quickened.

The breeze caught the sleeves of his robes as he crossed one palace gate after another.

Crabapple blossoms drifted lazily through the afternoon air, scattering across the rain-washed stones.

Ahead, the familiar roof of Chengqian Palace came into view.

For all the halls within the Forbidden City...there was only one place he ever found himself eager to return to.

He stepped through the gates of Chengqian Palace.

Inside these walls, he was simply Xiao Heng.

The familiar gates of Chengqian Palace swung open before him, attendants bowing silently as they drew back the heavy wooden doors—a ritual repeated so many times it had long since become wordless.

Warm afternoon light spilled across the courtyard, pooling between the rain-darkened stones. A few petals drifted lazily through the air, catching the light as they fell, and for a moment he stood still, letting the quiet settle into his chest.

He reached Qingyuan's door and pushed it open himself.

The study smelled of old paper, dried ink, and the faint citrus of the tea that had gone cold on the low table beside her elbow.

She was there, exactly as he had imagined.

A book open in her lap, the spine cracked at a well-worn page. Her head was tilted slightly, her gaze tracking across the lines, but her fingers had stilled—poised mid-turn, as if the sound of his step had caught her just before the page could fall.

She did not look up immediately.

He waited.

The sunlight slanted through the window, catching the edge of her profile—the curve of her cheek, the soft fall of her hair against her shoulder. She was so still that for a moment he thought she might not acknowledge him at all.

She finished the line she was reading, turned the page and closed the book with quiet care.

Only then did she lift her eyes: "You've returned."

He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he leaned against the doorframe, folding his arms loosely across his chest: “You've finally decided to look at me?”

A smile touched her lips: “I had to finish the sentence.”

Her voice was low, unhurried, carrying a warmth that made the word sound less like a statement and more like a quiet question.

"So... you've finally decided to look at me?"

"You're early today. You usually spend another quarter of an hour brooding over your ministers."

"I don't brood."

She finally looked up, one eyebrow lifting just a fraction. "You pace in circles. With that little line between your brows."

He touched his forehead instinctively. There was no line. He knew there wasn't.

But she was smiling now—a real one, small and private, the kind she kept only for him.

He pushed off the doorframe and crossed the room, lowering himself onto the cushion beside her. The tea on the table was indeed cold. He picked it up anyway, took a sip, and set it down without comment.

"You were waiting," he said.

She met his gaze without the slightest hint of guilt. "I was reading."

"You were listening for footsteps."

"I don't listen for footsteps."A corner of her mouth lifted, "I simply notice when yours arrive."

He huffed a quiet laugh—a sound that surprised even him. The knot in his chest, the one that had been tightening since the morning audience, the knot in his chest, the one that had been tightening since the morning audience, since Lanxin, loosened—just a fraction.

He reached out and gently tugged the book from her hands.

She gave him a look—mock outrage, real affection. "I was at the good part."

"You can finish later." He set the book aside, letting his hand linger near hers on the cushion.

She smiled, “I was planning to.”

She reached up to undo the jade clasp at his collar. Her movements were practiced, careful, unhurried. Layer by layer, the weight of the dragon robe slipped from his shoulders. One robe. Then another. Until only a simple inner robe remained.

Qingyuan folded each garment neatly and handed them to a waiting maid before dismissing everyone with a gentle glance. The doors closed softly behind them. The room grew quiet once more.

She turned back to him."You've been carrying the court on your shoulders since dawn." A teasing smile touched her lips, Don't move."

Without protest, Xiao Heng obeyed. She moved behind him. Her fingers rested lightly on his shoulders before beginning to knead the tense muscles beneath the fabric. Gentle and steady- she had done it a thousand times before.