Later that evening, Tian Shen and Feng Yin return from the pork dinner, alone under the moonlight in a quiet pavilion.
The night air shimmered with a gentle breeze, brushing through the pine boughs like a whisper.
Somewhere in the distance, a flute played, its melody lazy and slow, drifting across the Feilun Sect's lantern-lit pavilions.
Tian Shen leaned against the railing of the quiet overlook, gazing at the stars, his stomach full and his mood warm.
He heard soft footsteps behind him—light, measured, and somehow teasing.
Feng Yin's presence was unmistakable. She didn't announce herself, but he could feel her there, standing just close enough to touch.
"You're quiet," she murmured, her voice silk over steel.
He tilted his head. "Too full to talk. I think I've been ambushed by pork and... by charm."
She gave a small snort of amusement, stepping beside him. Her robes rustled faintly, and the sleeve of her arm brushed his.
The contact lingered.
