Chapter Text
Arc 1 - Threads of Silk
The descent down the mountain was nothing if not brutal, and it certainly wasn’t pretty. The path clawed at Mu Qing’s feet with every exhausted step as loose shale shifted treacherously beneath worn, trembling boots.
He was starving and mostly delirious from days without proper food, and the hunger gnawed at him like a live beas. Beneath that, a flicker of despair and resolve burned, fueling his relentless descent.
His stomach cramped into a hard knot, but it had stopped rumbling days ago; now it simply ached with a deep, bone-weary emptiness that made his limbs feel heavier than the pack slung over his shoulder.
His legs trembled and shook beneath the pressure of his body. He had eaten nothing but bitter roots and stolen handfuls of berries for nearly a week, and the world tilted faintly with every careful descent. He caught a fish once by the sound and touch of the stream; he had been lucky that day, but it seems he would never be so again.
The red silk ribbon tied tight across his eyes offered no mercy. It smelled faintly of old smoke and Feng Xin—a scent that had somehow survived years of hardship—and it itched against his sweat-damp skin.
Without sight, every sound grew teeth: the distant murmur of voices from the valley below, the wind hissing through pine needles, the faint rustle of small creatures fleeing his stumbling path.
His vision swam even behind the blindfold, and his tongue was swollen and dry, throat raw and crackling with a burn he couldn’t be rid of.
His tongue felt thick and dry, his throat raw. Yet still he walked, one trembling hand brushing the rough rock wall beside him, the other clenched white-knuckled around the strap of his meager bag.
He was half-starved, half-mad, and entirely cursed, and still, he kept descending toward the only place left that might still hold the people he had once failed.
Though he never met most people who would now live there, he left for them, and now he was returning to them with plagued eyes and a message he’d never dare send. Except for the two, who he had once known as boys, but they would be men now, just as much and definitely more of one than he ever was.
The crows would find him eventually. This destination was no haven, not for him, not for men like him.
Two nights ago, he had fought off a pack of shadow-wolves with only sound, smell, and spiritual sense—he killed one by driving a knife into its throat after it had lunged at the sound of his breathing; the others fled when he screamed and swung wildly.
He was lucky then, too, he supposed.
Yesterday, a rock-serpent nearly struck him; he only survived because he heard the dry rattle of scales and rolled aside at the last second, the creature’s fangs grazing his boot.
The more he thinks about it, the more he realizes that his survival was based only on his luck and his senses, more than strength and endurance. If anyone had an ounce of endurance, it was him, but any more of it was too far of a stretch for even him to hope for.
Perhaps he was lucky, but if he were, then he would never have been cursed in the first place.
Just as he assumed, luck was a myth only for those wealthy enough to believe in it, and his foot caught a random tree root and sent him toppling over. He rolled through the dirt and leaves, straight down a ridge, and clunked into the trunk of a tree. The red silk ribbon shifted on his face, revealing just half of one eye.
Quickly, he squabbled off the ground, slamming his palm into a spot of mud that squelched on impact and sent his arm into it all the way up to his elbow. Now he could see his predicament, and that was worse than the curse itself.
He yanked his arm free after groaning in utter disbelief. Today wasn’t too bad, he thought. Until now, and of course, I had just washed my clothes.
He used his clean, or cleaner, hand to adjust the ribbon, which was damp with old sweat and dried blood from the cut across his forehead. With how much he’s clutched and adjusted the ribbon in the past seven days, he was surprised the fabric wasn’t threadbare.
If it ever becomes so, Mu Qing isn’t sure he'd ever find the will to scrap up a replacement. The ribbon was dear to him, even if the person it belonged to would damn him to hell until he was burned to ash from the eternal fires. It was all he had left of a life with typical vision, with the ability to flick his eyes wherever they so pleased.
His hand was covered in mud, but at least he no longer had to face it anymore, and besides, his eyes had been sheltered for so long that he’s sure the light would blind him if he had pulled it off in any other sense. He was lucky as well that it was late in the evening, and the sun dipped below the trees, leaving only a bit of light filtering through the canopy.
Bullshit, he told himself as he listened carefully to the sound of running water.
To his luck, again, bullshit, he heard the distant sound of a river and found his hand placed against a tree. The stone wall was gone, and now he was left with nothing but his sense of hearing once again. He hadn’t been given directions, and a part of him wondered if this was some cruel punishment. The King finally got tired of him.
He was lost, but is a blind man ever oriented? And he’s been lost, ever since the King’s guard led him out into the streets and left him, he’s been lost. He hadn’t been to this Commune; it didn’t exist before Xie Lian escaped the King’s grasp, and he hardly knew whether any of it was left. A nearby village could have raided them, or the magistrate caught wind of their location and hauled them out. For all he knew, the land could have been bought already.
Perhaps the King had already found them, and this journey was no more than a final punishment. If the King had wanted him to find them, wouldn’t he have given him at least the cardinal direction of the place? He would have taken a map even though he’d be too frightened to pull up his ribbon to look.
If the King really meant any of this, wouldn’t Mu Qing have been escorted in a wagon among other believable spies?
He caught his breath, fingers tearing at bark in frustration. How the hell was he meant to do anything for the King if he was blind?
His hand unconsciously rose to his face, his finger tips brushing the fabric cover over his eyes, now damp with more grime than sweat. The fabric caught on a callus, and the world flipped over.
Rain lashed down in heavy sheets, turning the palace courtyards into rivers of mud and blood. Thunder cracked overhead as alarms screamed through the corridors. Mu Qing ran with his heart in his throat, one arm wrapped around a limping Xie Lian, the other holding a stolen sword. Feng Xin was just ahead of them, cutting down two guards in a single brutal arc, a red guard ribbon, soaked dark with rain, clinging to his shoulders. Lightning flashed, illuminating the sharp lines of his face, furious, determined, and viscerally alive.
“Keep moving!” Feng Xin shouted over the storm. “To the eastern gate now!”
They burst into the outer gardens, wind howling like a dying beast. Mu Qing’s foot caught on a loose stone, and he stumbled, nearly dragging Xie Lian down with him. In that split second, his hand shot out instinctively. He missed the shoulder and went for the flash of red flying violently instead, fingers closing around the soaked silk ribbon, and he yanked.
The ribbon tore free with a sharp rip, but the fabric was entirely intact. Feng Xin didn’t even notice it in the chaos, too busy carving a path through the King’s soldiers.
Mu Qing clutched it like a lifeline as they ran. It was stupid, childish even. The last act of a desperate, jealous servant who had nothing else left. He shoved the crumpled silk into his sleeve, feeling it grow warm against his skin even as cold rain stung his face.
With another crack of lightning, a violent gust of spiritual energy slammed into them—one of the King’s mages had caught up. The world exploded into white light and roaring wind as Mu Qing felt himself being torn away from Xie Lian’s side, thrown like a rag doll into the storm.
“Mu Qing!” Feng Xin’s voice was furious, but the tilt of fear made Mu Qing reach out unquestioningly. His fingers only closed around empty rain, and the last thing he saw before darkness swallowed him was Feng Xin’s desperate face, eyes wide with something like terror, one hand still outstretched.
Then they were gone, and Mu Qing was alone.
Mu Qing gasped sharply, yanking his hand away from the ribbing as if it had burned him.
The memory faded, leaving only the bitter taste of iron and rain in his mouth. He pressed his forehead against the cold rock wall, breathing hard. The silk felt heavier now, weighted with years of regret. That ribbon was the last piece of them he had carried out of that nightmare—a stupid, stolen scrap of red that had somehow become his only constant through starvation, torture, and the wretched curse that followed him wherever he went.
He hated it, but he couldn’t let it go.
Mu Qing swallowed the lump in his throat, adjusted the blindfold with shaking fingers, and kept walking down the mountain.
He found the stream after tumbling down again, but this time he didn’t stick his hand through deep mud and risk killing every plant around him. He rose back onto his feet, found the tree again, and kept going.
He found the stream once the mud had already dried up his arm and began to crack and chip off, and he is momentarily thankful that he is forced to be blind because he certainly didn’t want to see himself in whatever terrible condition he is in.
Toward the people he had lost that night, and who weren't so sure whether they were even alive anymore.
The sun was beginning to set when Mu Qing crested the last ridge and began the final descent into the valley. He had been able to find the wall once more and continued without fault, and didn’t stop.
The light shifted his vision more, at least before he could make out some things from the cracks of the ribbon, but now he relied on nothing but sound.
He could smell woodsmoke curling from the grounds beyond him, the tilled earth, and the faint spiritual hum of the Commune’s wards. It was so close, and he could feel his hands begin to shake. They were alive, they’re still…
Mu Qing’s pace slowed significantly as quiet fear rolled through his body. His hand scratched into the stone wall as the other white-knuckled on his small bag, forcing both of them still.
Beyond him were two people he grew up with, knew better than anyone, and yet hadn’t seen in years. Would they remember him? And if they did, would they even welcome him?
Mu Qing's ankle almost gave out when it knocked into a tree root, but he managed to keep himself up. He’d been walking for so long that he might collapse the moment he reaches the Commune, if he makes it there to begin with. The possibilities that Mu Qing could be attacked, stopped by guards who didn’t hesitate, or fall so badly he couldn’t stand, were endlessly high in chance.
But he moved anyway. Through the fear, the guilt, and the shame. He kept moving.
Mu Qing’s fingers touched his ribbon again, sliding down the smooth fabric as he remembered the time Feng Xin had torn it off his uniform himself and threatened to muffle Mu Qing with it if he didn’t shut his mouth. Mu Qing had, in fact, not shut his mouth and ended up with a heavy beast on his back as the ribbon was forced around his head, Feng Xin cackling the entire time like a child.
Mu Qing’s lips twitched into a scowl as he pulled his hand away. What irony it was that now the ribbon was forced over his head once more, but this time it was to protect those whom he found from certain death.
He remembered the night they left for the escape, how Feng Xin had looked at him when he told him he was leaving with Xie Lian, “saving” him, and had asked Mu Qing to come along. If Mu Qing had never agreed, he could have been in this forest without a curse, but he had.
Now he was blinded for the rest of his life with a ribbon he never should have taken, never should have even thought about pulling. It seemed to make sense then, to grab and tear the ribbon free, even though it wouldn’t aid him at all. Perhaps he just grabbed out of instinct, or maybe there was purpose in it. Less for Feng Xin, but for Xie Lian, to remember him somehow. It had been Xie Lian who picked the color of the ribbon Feng Xin had tied through his hair, and it was Xie Lian who tied the ribbon into Feng Xin’s uniform.
Yet as Mu Qing pulled his fingers against it, Xie Lian’s gentle smile and kind eyes weren’t what he thought of, but Feng Xin and his words snarled at Mu Qing with nothing other than disdain. They felt so familiar, so close, when he touched the ribbon, but the man was so far from him now. They were hardly “close” back then, bitter people forced to stand and walk side by side because Xie Lian asked them to play nice, and now… Mu Qing didn’t think there was any chance that Feng Xin wouldn’t snarl the moment his eyes met the ribbon tied around Mu Qing’s eyes. Part of Mu Qing wished it could be different, but it would be stupid to hope.
The sun had completely gone down when he heard a whistle carved through the air, shifted, and practiced.
Mu Qing didn’t flinch when he heard the cutting sound of a blade unsheathing, and though he couldn’t see it, he knew it was pointed at him.
“Hold!” A voice barked from beyond the darkness that encapsulated him, the one who held the sword. The blade’s tip was inches away from the ribbon covering his eyes, wielded by a woman, if Mu Qing had any guesses. “State your business, stranger.”
Mu Qing tilted his head, listening for the footsteps—at least three sets—approached quickly from the tree line. He could hear the faint creak of leather armor and the metallic whisper of weapons being half-drawn.
The Commune’s outer guards were a precaution Mu Qing had expected, prepared for, but the reality of it all sent a hold of old instinct through his exhausted body. It had been such a long time since the last time he spoke to a guard, and part of him wondered if Feng Xin would be among them. He was a guard once, so maybe he still…
None of them seemed to recognize him, and a softer piece of him hoped that Feng Xin would. That, after all these years, maybe he was important enough that he could be remembered, even if it’s through anger. Mu Qing could take that, at least. He understood anger, endured it, tolerated it for so long, it would only be second nature for him to handle Feng Xin’s reaction to seeing Mu Qing alive after so long. Or maybe Feng Xin wouldn’t be mad at all, but relieved to know Mu Qing hadn’t been slaughtered at the hands of the King, and even feel sympathy for the cursed man.
Mu Qing knew it was ridiculous. Feng Xin never liked him, so why would he be bothered by Mu Qing’s death, and why would he care for Mu Qing’s unexpected survival?
It’s been so many years that Mu Qing couldn’t guess which way Feng Xin would react, and even he didn’t remember exactly what Feng Xin’s face looked like. They were so young back then, and so much has happened that perhaps Feng Xin didn’t look like himself at all. It wouldn't matter anyway; Mu Qing couldn’t see. Mu Qing would never be able to look at Feng Xin, at anyone, ever again.
One of the guards stopped a few paces away, close enough that Mu Qing could smell woodsmoke and pine resin on him. An unfamiliar smell, not Feng Xin at all, and the voice didn’t match either.
“Blindfolded,” the man muttered, sounding wary. It almost seemed sophisticated in a way, observant. Feng Xin was none of the above, and Mu Qing tried not to think about how disappointed he felt at the realization. “This is new. You lost, traveler? Or looking to cause trouble.”
Mu Qing then turned his head towards them, feeling the presence of a blade ahead of him draw back, and then heard it sheathe. Whoever was standing directly in front of him must have made their own conclusion and decided he wasn’t a threat, or recognized him, and their silence only led to Mu Qing’s curiosity spiking.
If they did know him, they didn’t voice it. Perhaps this was for his protection, maybe they were unsure, or perhaps they looked at the dirt staining his robes and decided to let him off easy. Mu Qing didn’t know whether to be relieved or on edge, but he certainly didn’t let his guard down. Not even for a second.
Another guard circled to Mu Qing’s left, boots crunching on gravel. “He’s half-dead on his feet,” they noted aloud. “Look at the state of him, he’s filthy. Could be one of the King’s spies trying to play weak for our empathy.”
Smart, Mu Qing thought, but their cleverness would only hurt him. He didn’t speak up; he couldn’t risk biting himself into an early grave because they couldn’t take the bitterness of his tone.
“He could be a refugee,” the first guard countered, then his voice stayed hard. “Either way, no one gets past the wards without answering.”
The man at Mu Qing’s left must’ve folded his arms by the way his robes shuffled. “Remove the blindfold and speak clearly, or we’ll remove it for you.”
Mu Qing’s heart slammed against his ribs, no. His head slightly lowered, he squeezed his eyes shut beneath the silk, even though the fabric was still firmly in place. No, you idiots. I’ll kill you.
“I won’t remove it,” he said, voice hoarse and cracked from disuse. The sound of it was almost felt foreign, as if he didn’t even know his own voice. He hadn’t spoken much since that night. The King didn’t allow him unless he was addressed directly, and even then, he was so terrified that he couldn’t get his lips to move.
“You’re in no position to make demands,” the guard to his left said.
“How can we trust you’re not a spy if you’ve survived without sight?” The first guard asked, stepping closer as if leaning in to see if Mu Qing could see through the fabric. He couldn’t, but he wasn’t weak.
“If you value the lives inside those walls… do not make me.”
The guards became silent, but the sound of steel sliding from its sheath was unmistakable. They suspected him, good, they should. It wasn’t his intent to burn this Commune down with him, but that was his purpose now, whether he liked it or not.
“Bold words for a starving man,” said the woman who had once pointed a sword just above his nose. “You’ve got three seconds to explain yourself before we drag you in.”
Mu Qing swallowed hard, tasting blood from where he’d bitten the inside of his cheek. “My name is Mu Qing,” he said quietly. “I used to serve the prince... Xie Lian.”
The silence that followed was heavier than before, no longer guarded in the same way. They knew him, or at least his name.
The woman exhaled sharply. “Mu Qing…?" Then she turned to a guard. “Alert the council. Now.”
Rough hands seized his arms, firm enough to make his breath shudder from the first contact he’s had with a person in months, but not cruel enough to make his bones ache. His bag slipped off his shoulder, and someone picked it up before it hit the floor, pulling it from his arm completely.
As they began marching him down the final slope toward the glowing wards of the Commune, Mu Qing allowed himself one last shaky breath. The wards answered to their presence with a hum, and they didn’t react to Mu Qing. It was as if he were a ghost, as if he wasn’t there at all.
Beside him, the guard on his right whispered to the one on his other side, “The lost one?”
“We’re going to find out.” The other answered, their grip tightening on his upper arm.
“They said he died.”
“They said a lot of things.”
“You two,” the woman called loudly. “Quit your gossiping. Let him have silence, won’t you?” The two straightened up immediately, clamping their mouths shut and holding him with determination rather than curiosity. “He’s been through enough; the last thing he needs is the likes of you.”
Mu Qing didn’t thank her; he’s far too busy trying to place her voice. She commanded them like students, like children, so she has some position of power above being a guard. Still, that didn’t narrow down who she was. The three of them hadn’t left with anyone else, but they weren’t the only ones who took the initiative to run.
Several others fled long after that night anyway, most were hunted down and killed, the rest were expendable.
Mu Qing was punished for all of them. The King had lost his only asset, the only thing important in his life, and Mu Qing had helped. The curse was only the beginning; the rituals that followed weren’t the worst of it, and Mu Qing could still feel the burn of blades on his skin.
He’ll never forget that feeling.
“You’ve come a long way, haven’t you?” The woman asked as the sound of commune-folk chattering and the smell of fire wafted through the air. “The palace is far from here.”
“Who says I came from the palace?”
The woman must have smiled by the way his voice tilted. “You’re wearing their colors, aren’t you?”
Mu Qing pressed his lips into a line.
“It speaks for itself.” She didn’t continue for long, not until the ground changed texture. They were entering the stone square, the main lands, if Mu Qing could guess. “How is His Majesty?”
Mu Qing chewed on his lip and didn’t answer, not even when one of the guards nudged him towards it. He shook his head, hoping that would suffice.
The woman exhaled pleasantly through her nose. “You don’t have much to say when it doesn’t come to your benefit, hm?”
Mu Qing’s fingers clenched. He’s heard that before.
“You only speak when it benefits you.”
The King had said those exact words many times, usually right before another “lesson,” another ritual, another night spent proving his “loyalty” through pain. The King had enjoyed calling him a disciple and enjoyed forcing Mu Qing to kneel and repeat the words while the curse burned behind his eyes.
Then there was Feng Xin, who had snarled those words to him the day before the escape, swearing that Mu Qing didn't care for any of them. Feng Xin had declared that Mu Qing was only around because he was self-serving, but if Mu Qing was so selfish, he would have picked better company. If he were selfish, he wouldn't have been on his knees cleaning blood off pristine tiles and wouldn't have made sure Feng Xin’s Royal Guard armor was straight and strapped on correctly.
“I suppose that is the way of life as the King’s disciple," the woman said with a light shrug.
Mu Qing answered before he could stop himself. “I’m not a disciple.” The words came out sharp, defensive, but even as he said them, a bitter voice in the back of his mind whispered the truth he could never admit out loud: It wasn’t entirely a lie.
The King had made him one in title, in training, in the eyes of the court. Mu Qing had survived by playing the part just well enough to buy time, to delay, to sabotage from within. He had worn the mask of the King’s favored, cursed disciple for years. Now that the mask was following him here, clinging to him like the scent of smoke and blood that never quite washed off.
“Oh?” The woman’s voice lilted with unmistakable amusement. She must have smiled. Mu Qing had spent years learning to read faces by sound alone, and he was almost certain of it now.
A scowl pulled at his mouth. She must have noticed this, because a light, amused scoff escaped her.
“It’s been so many years,” she said, almost fondly, “yet you haven’t changed at all.”
Mu Qing went rigid. The words landed like a stone in still water. Did this woman know him? Had she been at the palace? The possibility sent a cold ripple down his spine. He searched his memory for her voice, for any hint of familiarity, but found nothing concrete.
She offered no further confirmation, falling silent once more. The two guards holding him had gone stiff as well. Mu Qing could feel their confusion in the way their grips tightened, in the slight hitch of their breathing. They had believed he was dead, “they” had said so. Whoever “they” were—Feng Xin, the palace survivors, or simply rumor—it was clear the story of his survival had not reached everyone.
Most likely, the King had kept Mu Qing’s existence quiet after the curse, parading him only before carefully chosen audiences. A broken disciple, a tool meant to remain hidden until the day he was useful.
The two younger guards must be thoroughly confused by now.
Mu Qing kept his head slightly lowered, his jaw tight, but he kept his silence as they continued down the final slope. The ground beneath his boots changed from loose shale to firmer, packed earth, and the hum of the wards grew stronger, warmer, almost welcoming. It made something in his chest ache.
One of the younger guards on his right shifted closer. His voice dropped to a nervous whisper, barely audible over the crunch of their footsteps. “So… the blindfold. You really won’t take it off? Not even for a second?”
Mu Qing didn’t answer. His fingers twitched against his sides.
The guard pressed on, voice even quieter, prodding like a child poking at a sleeping snake. “We’ve seen all kinds of refugees come through here—people with curses, scars, worse, but none of them refused to show their faces like this. What’s there that’s so dangerous you’d rather stumble around half-blind?”
The second guard on Mu Qing’s left let out a low, uneasy chuckle. “Maybe he’s just ugly.”
“Quiet,” the woman snapped without turning around. Her voice was sharp enough to make both guards straighten instantly. “He already gave you an answer. If you value the lives inside these walls… do not make him.” Heavy silence followed the echo of his words, and the two guards’ grips on his arms loosened slightly, but Mu Qing could still feel their tension, their burning curiosity. He could practically hear the questions swirling in their heads, but he kept his own mouth shut.
Internally, the memories clawed at him again—the cold ritual chamber, the King’s mocking laugh as the curse took hold, the way his eyes had burned for weeks afterward while he learned exactly what kind of monster he had become. The blindfold wasn’t just fabric, not to him at least. It was the only thing standing between him and more blood on his hands.
The woman’s voice softened just a fraction as she spoke again, almost to herself. “Some things are better left covered. At least until the person wearing them decides otherwise.”
Mu Qing kept walking, letting the silence swallow the rest of their questions. The glowing wards of the Commune grew brighter ahead, and with them, the weight of every secret he carried grew heavier.
He was already regretting the decision to come here. Their final words hummed as they passed through, a gentle vibration that brushed against Mu Qing’s skin like a question. It did not reject him, nor did it flare, spark, or burn. For one brief, painful moment, its warmth felt almost like acceptance.
Then the sounds of the Commune enveloped him.
Voices, dozens of them, growing louder with every step down the main path. Footsteps hurried across dirt and stone. The scent of woodsmoke, fresh bread, and damp earth thickened the air. Children’s laughter cut off abruptly somewhere to his left, replaced by hushed whispers. Word had already spread.
“...The lost one is here.”
“...they say he came down from the mountain.”
“...blindfolded, like some kind of ghost.”
Mu Qing kept his head up, shoulders tight. The two younger guards flanking him had gone stiff with awareness, their grips on his arms no longer just guiding but anchoring. The woman walked a few steps ahead, her presence cutting a path through the growing crowd like a blade.
The streets were filling. Not the full frantic press of a mob as he feared, but enough that Mu Qing could feel the weight of eyes on him from every direction. People spilling out of doorways, pausing mid-chore, whispering behind hands. He could hear the shuffle of feet drawing closer, the rustle of clothing, the low murmur of speculation spreading like ripples in a pond.
“He’s really alive?”
“I thought the King killed all the palace servants.”
“Why won’t he take the blindfold off?”
A child’s voice piped up, clear and unafraid: “Is he a prisoner?” Someone shushed the child quickly.
Mu Qing’s jaw clenched so hard it ached. Every new set of footsteps, every whisper, every curious stare he couldn’t see pressed down on him like stones. He was painfully aware of how he must look, of his filthy travel-worn robes, bloodied and torn in places, stumbling slightly despite the guards’ support, the red silk tied tightly across his eyes like a criminal or a madman. He felt like both.
The woman’s voice rose again, calm but carrying. “Give him room. He’s not here to be gawked at.” It helped only a little. The crowd still pressed in, curious and wary, forming a loose corridor as the guards marched him toward the central square. Mu Qing could feel the shift in the air as more people joined, the growing murmur, the way the space around him felt smaller even though no one touched him.
He allowed himself one slow, shaky breath. This was what he had come for, this was the price, and yet every whisper felt like another chain wrapping around his throat. Every curious stare he couldn’t see reminded him that no matter how far he had walked, no matter how many years had passed, he was still the King’s cursed disciple in the eyes of the world. Even here, especially here.
The woman’s voice softened just enough for him to hear. “Almost there. The council’s been notified. They’ll want to see you.”
Mu Qing said nothing but kept going, still blindfolded and surrounded by strangers who were already deciding what he was, while the red silk pressed against his eyes like a second skin he could never remove.
The crowd parted reluctantly as the woman led them away from the main square and down a quieter side path. The murmurs followed them like a trailing shadow, but at least the press of bodies had eased. Mu Qing focused on the ground beneath his boots, on the shift from packed dirt to a narrower, stone-lined trail, and tried to ignore the way his skin crawled at the unseen eyes still watching him.
They stopped in front of a small, weathered cabin tucked near the edge of the settlement, half-hidden by overgrown vines and a cluster of pine trees. It was modest, almost humble. A single room, sloped roof, a simple wooden door that looked like it had been repaired more than once.
“This one,” the woman said. “It’s small, but it’s yours for now. No one’s lived here in a long while.”
One of the guards pushed the door open. The hinges creaked as a faint scent of old woodsmoke and dried herbs drifted out. Mu Qing hesitated on the threshold because something about the place felt… familiar in a way that made his chest tighten. He couldn’t see it, but he could feel the weight of history in the air.
The woman seemed to notice his pause. Mu Qing assumed that when her voice softened, it would be almost gentle. “Xie Lian and Feng Xin stayed here when they first arrived. Back when this was nothing but tents and hope, before His Highness became our leader. Feng Xin moved closer to the training grounds.” Mu Qing’s throat closed as she stepped aside, gesturing for him to enter. The two younger guards released his arms at last, though they lingered nearby like they weren’t sure if they should.
Once Mu Qing crossed the threshold, the woman followed him inside. She closed the door behind them, muting the distant murmurs of the crowd. The cabin was simple: a narrow bed against one wall, a small table with a single chair, a basin for washing, and a low shelf with a few folded blankets. It smelled clean, like it had been aired out recently.
The woman stood near the door, watching him. “You can remove the blindfold in here, if you wish,” she said quietly. “The windows are small, and the door is thick. No one will see.” Mu Qing didn’t move to take it off. He stood in the center of the room, hands loose at his sides. After a long moment, she sighed. “My name is Xuan Ji. I was... Part of the ones who fled the palace later than most. I remember you, Mu Qing. Not well, but enough.”
He went very still. A war general?
Xuan Ji continued, voice steady but not unkind. “The council has been notified. They’ll want to speak with you properly tomorrow, most likely, once the initial panic has settled. You’ll be expected to kneel before them and explain yourself. Who you are, why you’re here, what happened to you after that night.”
Mu Qing’s jaw tightened. Kneel, of course.
Xuan Ji must have seen the tension in his shoulders. “It will be… awkward,” she admitted. “Some of them are afraid, others are angry. A few are simply curious, but you’ll have to face them all the same.” She paused, then added more softly, “I suggest you rest while you can. You look like you’ve walked through hell to get here.”
Mu Qing gave a short, bitter exhale that wasn’t quite a laugh. “Something like that.”
Xuan Ji lingered for another moment, as if she wanted to say more, but ultimately turned toward the door. “I’ll have food and fresh clothes brought to you. Try not to wander too far tonight. Not everyone is ready to see the blindfolded stranger walking freely just yet.” She opened the door, then paused on the threshold. “And Mu Qing?” He turned his head slightly toward her voice. “Whatever you are, whatever you’ve become… you’re here now. That has to count for something.” The door clicked shut behind her.
Mu Qing stood alone in the small cabin, the same cabin where Xie Lian and Feng Xin had once begun building their new life. He reached up slowly and touched the edge of the red silk blindfold, fingers tracing the familiar, threadbare fabric. For several long moments, he stood in the center of the room, listening. The floorboards creaked faintly under his weight. A soft draft slipped through a crack in the window shutter, carrying the faint scent of pine and old smoke.
He exhaled slowly and carefully, reached out with one hand, and began to explore. His fingers brushed the rough-hewn, old, scarred wood of a table, worn smooth in places by years of use. He traced the edge, feeling faint grooves that might have been made by a knife or the pressure of someone leaning too hard while writing. He wondered if Xie Lian had sat here, drafting plans for the Commune in those early, uncertain days, or if Feng Xin had sharpened his sword at this very table, cursing under his breath the way he always did when something frustrated him. The thought made his chest tighten.
He moved to the narrow bed next. The frame was simple, sturdy. The mattress was thin but clean, with a folded blanket at the foot. Mu Qing ran his palm over the headboard, then along the wall behind it. His fingers found a small, uneven notch; someone had carved something there, long ago. A faint shape, maybe a crude lotus or a flame. He couldn’t tell without looking.
He hesitated, glancing toward the door to make sure it was still firmly closed. Mu Qing lifted the bottom edge of the blindfold with two fingers, just enough to peek. The carving was small, almost hidden. A tiny, lopsided lotus. Xie Lian’s work, most likely. He always had a habit of doodling when he was anxious or deep in thought. Mu Qing’s throat closed, and he let the blindfold fall back into place quickly, heart hammering at the risk. Even this small, dim room felt too open, too dangerous.
He continued his careful exploration.
The shelf held a few folded blankets and an old, chipped ceramic cup. His fingers lingered on the cup’s rim. It was smooth in use. Had Feng Xin drunk from this? Had Xie Lian? The thought sent a strange ache through him. The idea that this tiny, unassuming cabin had once held the two people he had risked everything for, the same two people he had failed to stay with.
He moved to the basin stand, where a clean cloth and a pitcher of water waited. He dipped his fingers into the water, cool and clear, and brought a few drops to his lips. Simple and clean, nothing like the poisoned luxury of the King’s palace.
This was where they started over, he thought bitterly. At the same time, I was learning how to be a monster.
That is where he stood when Xuan Ji returned with fresh clothes that he could tell were modest by their weave after he touched them. Mu Qing sat down heavily on the edge of the bed once he slipped out of his muddied robes and cleaned himself with the basin of water to the best of his ability, only slipping the ribbon off his eyes to ensure the dirt was gone.
Once he sat down, his hands kept moving, running over the blanket, the rough wall beside him, the wooden frame, as if searching for any lingering trace of them. Any proof that Xie Lian and Feng Xin had once lived here, laughed here, argued here, and built something real here.
He found nothing beside the faint scent of old pine and the quiet weight of a life already lived.
He lifted the blindfold again, just for a second, and scanned the small space. The room was humble, almost painfully so. A far cry from the opulent palace chambers they had once shared in service to a prince. Yet it felt… warmer, far more honest than anything he’s stood inside for a long time.
Mu Qing let the silk fall back over his eyes and pressed both hands to his face, breathing through the sudden burn behind his eyelids.
They had made a home here without him, and now he had brought the shadow of the King straight to their doorstep.
He lay back on the bed fully clothed, one arm draped over his eyes, even though the blindfold was already there. His fingers found the edge of the red silk again and traced it slowly, the same way he had done thousands of times over the lost years.
He tried, he wanted to believe that he did, but sleep would not come. Just as peace wouldn’t reach him, neither would freedom.
The thin mattress was surprisingly comfortable, the blanket smelled faintly of cedar and sunlight, but his body refused to settle. Every creak of the cabin walls, every distant voice carried on the night wind, every shift of his own breathing felt too loud.
This was their cabin, the thought looped endlessly. Xie Lian and Feng Xin had slept here once, recovered here, planned the future of the Commune here while Mu Qing was still chained in the King’s dungeons.
He turned onto his side, then onto his stomach, then back again. The red silk blindfold felt tighter than usual against his temples. Eventually, he gave up with a quiet, frustrated exhale and sat up.
He moved carefully in the silent dark, one hand trailing along the wall for guidance. His fingers found the small table again, then the shelf, and finally the old wooden chest tucked beneath the window. He hesitated only a moment before kneeling and lifting the lid. Inside were a few forgotten things, items left behind by accident, or perhaps kept on purpose as quiet reminders. A small, chipped inkstone, a bundle of dried herbs tied with twine, a single worn glove, far too large for Mu Qing’s hands. He ran his fingers over the leather, feeling the places where it had been mended. Feng Xin’s, most likely. The man had always been hard on his gear.
He reached deeper and found a small wooden box. The lid creaked when he opened it. Inside were scraps of paper, old notes, some in Xie Lian’s elegant, flowing script, others in Feng Xin’s improper, impatient hand. Grocery lists, ward reinforcement calculations, a tiny doodle of a lotus flower in the corner of one page, exactly like the carving he had glimpsed earlier.
Mu Qing lifted the blindfold just enough to peek. The ink had faded, but the words were still legible.
“We will make this work
—Xie Lian”
He let the blindfold fall back into place and closed the box with careful fingers, as though the papers might crumble if he breathed on them too hard.
He moved to the small set of drawers beside the bed next. The top one stuck at first, then slid open with a soft rasp. Inside was a single red ribbon, not his, but similar in color and weave. It was frayed at the edges, clearly well-used. Mu Qing ran his thumb over it, feeling the familiar texture. Perhaps one of Feng Xin’s spares from his guard days, or something Xie Lian had kept as a memento.
He closed the drawer slowly and reached for another. The bottom drawer held something heavier. A small, carved wooden figure. It was crude but recognizable as a tiny version of a lotus throne—Xie Lian’s work, without question. Mu Qing turned it over in his hands, fingertips tracing the uneven cuts. It was the kind of thing a tired prince might carve by firelight when he couldn’t sleep, worrying about the people depending on him.
Mu Qing pressed the little carving to his chest for a long moment, eyes burning behind the blindfold. I should not be here, he thought bitterly. This place belongs to the people who built it, not to the one who has come to destroy it.
He returned everything exactly as he had found it, closing drawers and the chest with the care of someone who knew he was trespassing on someone else’s beginning. Then he sat on the edge of the bed again, elbows on his knees, hands pressed to his face over the blindfold.
Still, sleep refused to take him. Instead, he sat in the dark of the small cabin that had once sheltered the two people he had failed most, surrounded by the quiet ghosts of their early hope, and wondered how long he could pretend he deserved to be here before the King’s shadow finally caught up with him.
At some point, between the moments he stopped counting, Mu Qing paced.
The small cabin felt smaller with every pass, four steps one way, four steps back, the floorboards creaking under his boots like accusations. His hands were clenched at his sides, nails biting into his palms. The red silk blindfold pressed against his eyes, but it did nothing to block the storm inside his head.
Why did I come here?
The question looped endlessly, tirelessly. Every kindness from Xuan Ji, every curious whisper from the crowd, every faint trace of Xie Lian and Feng Xin left in this cabin only made the guilt sharper. He had brought the King’s shadow with him, the King’s so-called disciple, the one who had survived years of torture only to lead destruction straight to the last safe place on this mountain.
He should leave tonight, at least before dawn. Before the council could drag him in front of them and force him to kneel and explain the years he spent—
A heavy thud sounded against the door, and Mu Qing froze mid-step, heart slamming against his ribs. His hand instinctively went to the knife at his belt. The second knock was firmer, nowhere near polite, too rough to be only demanding.
Before he could speak, the door sprang open with enough force to make the hinges protest and send a rush of night air into the cabin. Mu Qing flinched hard, turning toward the sound, one hand already rising to steady the blindfold.
He had no time to materialize anything when a fist connected with his jaw, hard and sudden. The impact snapped his head to the side as pain exploded across his face. His vision, already limited, flashed white behind the blindfold as he lost his balance completely. He stumbled backward, boots catching on the edge of the bedframe, and crashed to the floor in a heap. The back of his head knocked against the wooden leg of the table with a dull crack.
For a second, everything spun.
Mu Qing tasted blood between his teeth, and his jaw throbbed sharply. He pushed himself up on one elbow, breathing hard, the other hand instinctively pressing the blindfold tighter against his eyes.
A low, furious voice cut through the ringing in his ears. “You’ve got some fucking nerve showing up here.”