One side of his body burned with heat, the other was cold as ice. Crackling sounds whispered through the silence—firewood sputtering, popping sharply as it caught something in the flames.
Were it not for the searing pain in his chest, the suffocating tightness in his breath, and the thin layer of nightclothes clinging to his skin, Lin Jing might have thought he was still lying beside the official road outside the city, awaiting news from the troops.
Before opening his eyes, he listened in guarded silence for a quarter of an hour. Birds chirped, insects buzzed, and fireflies brushed past his eyelashes—yet not a single human voice stirred the night.
Taking a deep breath, he suddenly opened his eyes. A flare of brightness blinded him—the bonfire. Its glow drew his gaze, but what startled him was the silhouette seated beside it, back turned, calmly warming themselves.
Lin Jing's breath hitched.
"You're awake?" The voice was languid, neither wholly masculine nor feminine, more like a stringed instrument softly plucked—melodic and graceful.
The speaker sat loosely, resting their chin upon a crooked wrist, posture so relaxed it was as though they had no bones. There was no hint of hostility—or perhaps, they were simply so powerful that they could afford to appear harmless.
Growing up on the streets, Lin Jing had long since learned: the more serene the surface, the more dangerous the depths.
Grabbing a wooden stick, he instinctively took a step back, eyes wary. "Who are you?"
The stranger did not bother with suspense. Turning slowly, he revealed his face.
Tapping a stick lightly against the fire, he said with a faint smile, "You should recognize me."
"Recognize?" The firelight painted his profile with gold and shadow—sword-like brows, starry eyes, refined features softer than a woman's, yet more striking than a man's. He exuded nobility with a quiet, effortless elegance.
Lin Jing's breath caught. He inhaled sharply, blood freezing in his veins. His knees buckled, and he dropped to the grass.
"Your humble servant greets the Sixth Highness."
There was no mistake. This man was none other than Prince Li Can.
Clad in nothing but a nightrobe, he sat beside the fire. Nearby stood a rack upon which several garments hung drying. The most neatly spread among them was the signature rose-colored robe—famously worn by the sixth prince, who often dressed in feminine fashion.
A shudder of unease crept over Lin Jing.
"Many thanks for your rescue, Your Highness."
"No need for thanks," Li Can replied, gaze fixed on the fire. "Just remember it. You owe me now."
Owe him… But how could he repay such a debt? In public affairs, he answered only to Ye Jiao. In private, he wished to owe no one anything.
Despair clawed at his chest. He would rather have drowned.
But he couldn't. He still had a mission.
With that thought, panic rose. His fingers shot to his collar. Empty.
The letter Ye Jiao had entrusted to him was gone.
It was the letter for Prince Chu, Li Ce. She'd told him: if the Crown Prince or Prince Wei's men were headed to Jinzhou, he must deliver it.
Horrified, Lin Jing dashed to the fire and grabbed his drying clothes, rifling through them with trembling hands.
"Looking for this?" came the same languid voice.
Li Can, with two twigs, held up a slightly charred letter.
Lin Jing snatched it.
The paper had clearly been soaked, then dried hastily by the fire—wrinkled, the ink slightly blurred, though still faintly legible. He only glanced briefly before tearing his eyes away, overwhelmed.
"You read it?" he asked, his voice sharp with accusation.
It was improper—unthinkable—to speak thus before a prince. Lin Jing's lowly position offered him no protection if he offended royalty.
But Li Can remained unbothered. He drew a character in the ash with a stick, tilted his head toward it, and smiled faintly.
"That's Ye Jiao's handwriting," he said softly. "Her letter—so I didn't read your letter. I read Ye Jiao's. Written to Li Ce."
Lin Jing clenched his fists. A dangerous thought surged to the forefront of his mind.
Li Can hadn't just read it—he knew the recipient.
To protect the mission, to keep Ye Jiao's intentions secret, there was only one option…
He studied Li Can's build. Could he overpower him? Knock him out? Kill him?
Whatever it took—he could not allow the prince to ruin her plans.
Perhaps sensing his thoughts, Li Can chuckled.
"No need to panic," he said gently. "I won't speak a word. Both Prince Chu and Ye Jiao are kind souls. Say you fell into the river and the letter got wet—they won't blame you."
He changed the hand propping his head, letting it dangle like it might fall off. "As for me, whether you mention me or not—it matters little."
Lin Jing clutched the letter tighter, lips trembling.
"But you… you've seen it."
"That's of no consequence," Li Can said with an amused smile. "I'm no match for them, not in this game. Otherwise, I wouldn't have saved you or dried your clothes. Oh, and your stinking socks—I dried those too."
With that, he flicked the socks toward Lin Jing with his fire stick.
Standing by the fire, trembling, Lin Jing stared at him like he was mad. He hastily dressed, heart still brimming with murderous intent, and retrieved his sword.
His main blade had been left with the troops as a token; only a short dagger remained. Miraculously, it had not been lost in the river.
Li Can, sitting closest, picked up the sword and handed it over.
The blade faced himself.
He truly had no fear of death—or perhaps he believed even if Lin Jing struck, he could defend himself with ease.
"Go on, then," he said mildly. "Linger here, and you'll only delay your mission. If your mistress ends up a widow because of you, that'll be quite the guilt."
Lin Jing hesitated only a moment before vanishing into the forest.
Li Can's voice called after him, soft but clear:
"A word of caution—there are wolves in the woods."
A pause.
"And you're running the wrong way."
By the time daylight broke, Lin Jing arrived in Jinzhou City.
He didn't dare ask openly for Prince Li Ce's whereabouts. Instead, he wandered the streets, pretending to drift, until he caught sight of a familiar face.
"Qingfeng," he called quietly.
Qingfeng, carrying a bag of meat buns, glanced over. His frown lifted. "Well, well. I wondered who was tailing me in broad daylight. Turns out it's you. Want a bun?"
He shoved one into Lin Jing's hands.
"I'm telling you, this backwater Jinzhou's got nothing—except these. Thin-skinned, stuffed with meat, real tasty. Try one. If it's not good, I'll give your money back."
Lin Jing blinked in confusion. Since when had Qingfeng grown so chatty?
He cut him off, urgent. "I've brought a letter. From Miss Ye."
"Why didn't you say so sooner?" Qingfeng grabbed his arm and took off like the wind.
As they neared the residence, a foul stench assaulted their senses. From afar, they could already smell it.
Up close, they saw the red lacquered gate splattered with something dark and sticky.
"Is that… blood?" Lin Jing whispered.
"Black dog's blood," Qingfeng replied, nodding to the guards. "Don't ask. Things aren't easy in Jinzhou."
Not easy? That didn't warrant blood at the gates…
Lin Jing said nothing. He followed Qingfeng past a series of corridors, each more heavily guarded than the last. The deeper they went, the more tense the air became.
At last, they reached the eastern wing. Prince Li Ce sat by the window, writing.
Lin Jing dropped to one knee and presented the letter.
Li Ce stood, accepting the envelope himself.
"You've had a rough journey," he said. "Qingfeng, see to Lin Jing's meal and prepare a room for him."
Qingfeng turned, but Lin Jing did not follow. His face was taut with unease.
"I fell into the water. The letter… it's damp."
Li Ce unfolded the creased paper, nodding. "No matter. The writing is still legible."
But Lin Jing couldn't relax. He confessed, ashamed:
"Your Highness the Sixth rescued me. He… read the letter."
At the mention of Li Can's name, a subtle change crossed Li Ce's expression—wariness, concern… and something more.