Maomao rises even earlier than usual today.

Working in the rear palace demanded her waking at dawn, as the sun 's first golden rays began to shine down on the capital. Now, in the depths of winter, the sun comes up later in the day, and so Maomao 's internal clock demands she rise much earlier than sunrise.

She takes one final, deep exhale, then pushes the covers off of herself and stretches. She rolls her neck, sighing in relief when it pops. This room isn 't particularly comfortable, and her shoulders ache from sleeping at an odd angle.

Her bare feet sting on the cold floor as she rises, finding a place to sit and prepare for the day. She doesn 't have a mirror here, but that 's fine 'she didn 't have a mirror back in her hut in the pleasure district, either. They were much too expensive for a common apothecary. She finds a place to sit that 's not on the cold floor and begins to dig into the folds of her robes.

Despite the cold and the discomfort of the room, it 's not so bad, Maomao tells herself. She still has all the things she needs, and she can make do with little.

From her robes she pulls a familiar little cloth pouch. The wooden beads inside clack against each other, the only noise in the empty room. She draws a crimson bead from the pouch and weaves it into her hair, then repeats the process thrice more. See? Even without the creature comforts of home, she 's more than fine. Her fingers know the way.

Once they 're fixed in her hair, she lets out a slow breath. That 's a little better. She feels more human, like this.

Next, Maomao reaches again into her robes and draws out a little pot of clay mixed with oil. She takes a brush from the desk, brushes off the thick layer of dust, and smears it into the mixture. Carefully, she applies the freckles to her face. The clay and oil is yet-colder on her skin in the frigid air, but once they 're painted on, she feels better. Safer.

Now, she is ready for the day. As if everything was normal.

The bars on the window ruin the illusion, though.

Maomao sighs and looks out the window. The cold metal bars slat the moonlight spilling into the room. The moon is full and just starting to wane, and it 's well above the horizon. The sky isn 't even lightening yet. It 'll be hours until dawn.

Her eyes ache. By her best estimate, she got about three hours of sleep.

Maomao finishes tying her hair back and reminds herself that she never sleeps well in unfamiliar places. It was a problem in the rear palace, too, and later during her service in the outer palace.

This isn 't so different.

Besides, she 's done her routine for the morning, so it 's easy enough to pretend that everything is normal. Three hours is better than nothing.

The storage room serving as her quarters is frigid and unheated. Beneath her feet, the floor is cold stone. So she sits on the wicker chest in the corner, the only thing in the room one could call anything near homely furniture. It 's comfortable enough to sit on, though, and it even holds the treasure trove of books she 's been sorting through the last few days, at the behest of a madwoman demanding an elixir of immortality.

The books are quite interesting. Many of them are from the west, and hold theories or stories or anecdotes she 's heard from her old man. A treasure trove of knowledge, to be certain.

Plus, the wicker chest holding the books is marginally more comfortable than what 's meant to be her bed 'a single sheet thrown over the cold stone. Maomao has layered a jacket, a cloak, and every other scrap of moldy fabric in this room that she could find onto the floor, but it 's still not very warm.

The room is cold. Her fingers are shaking.

It takes her a moment to realize this, but when she tears her gaze from the room to look down, there they are, trembling slightly. Her breath rises in puffs of steam.

She breathes into her hands, shoves the discomfort down, and looks out the window. The moonlight illuminates a field of pure white. The tower she is in is high enough that her head spins, if she looks too far for too long. The only way out is down, down, down, into the valley, which starts out broad but narrows closer to the fortress. A swarm of invaders would be funneled in to their deaths, even if sheer numbers could eventually break through.

What does that say about her, then, already in the fortress ' maw?

'It 'll be a bloodbath, ' Maomao murmurs to herself, fiddling with one of the beads in her hair. The Forbidden Army will certainly come knocking soon.

It 's not a question of

if

anymore. The rebellion of the Shi clan in the north is open and brazen enough by now. They are openly cloistering themselves in a fortress to the north and manufacturing enough arms to rush the capital. If the all-seeing eyes of the Emperor, of Heaven Himself, land on this fortress and learn of the Shi 's plans, His vengeance will be swift and brutal. No matter the collateral.

If the Forbidden Army comes sweeping through, Maomao will be slaughtered with the rest.

That 's just how these things work.

And if the army somehow doesn 't come knocking, Shenmei will decide she 's through waiting for that impossible medicine sooner or later.

The bars of the window feel close, caging, choking. There is a lump in Maomao 's throat. Her fingers are still shaking.

She tells herself it is just the cold. Nothing more.

Her gaze is still locked onto the window and the white beyond. Maomao fumbles blindly at the front of her robes, feeling for the little cloth pouch of beads, the ones that Pairin gave her many years ago. She 's already put the largest four in her hair, but the others from that broken bracelet clack noisily against each other.

A touch of comfort, she tells herself. A bit of home, when the familiar routine she practices every day has failed to still her shaking fingers. A reminder that even here, isolated and imprisoned and a breath away from the executioner 's blade, far from home in the frigid north, she is not so alone.

Her fingers close around something else instead.

It is long and thin in her fingers and smooth to the touch, save for one end capped in intricate detailing. Its metal is warmed by her own body heat. Against the tips of her frigid, shaking fingers, it feels like a sauna.

Maomao 's breath puffs in the air again as she draws the object out of her robes. The phoenix wing adorning one end flashes with every twist against the moonlight. Even in the dim light of the room, the polished silver gleams like a beacon.

The hairstick Jinshi gave her is warm against her frigid fingers.

Maomao heaves a sigh hard enough to cloud the silver with her breath. She really doesn 't understand why he gave her the thing in the first place. Surely he could trade the thing for a million other political favors. It is really beautiful, she thinks, as the silver flashes in the moonlight. The craftsmanship is impeccable.

Surely he could have given this to someone else in trade for something worthwhile. She doesn 't think she 'll

ever

understand how his mind works.

The silver flashes in the moonlight. She ought to sell the thing. It 's sure to fetch a decent price.

It was pure coincidence that she happened to be carrying it on her person the day she was kidnapped. It doesn 't mean anything in particular. That 's right 'she had been toying with selling it, actually, which was why she put it in her robes that day. It wasn 't her fault she was caught up in some crazy conspiracy and dragged off before she could.

But she has it now, and she might as well use it. She 'll take any good luck charm she can get.

She 'd do the same with any of the hairsticks she received that day. If she 'd brought Consort Lihua 's or Lihaku 's to sell instead, she would also wear those in her hair. It 's not like this silver one is special.

With a grimace, Maomao pierces the hairstick through her bun, as she has every morning since she arrived.

It 's nearly become part of the routine.

There 's only so much charms can do, though.

Another massive fireball rises behind her, close enough to feel the heat of it against her back. Maomao cries out as the ground lurches beneath her, stumbling forward as the world tilts. Her knee bangs against the wall hard enough to bruise, pain flaring through her nerves, but she scrambles to grasp the rough, freezing stone just before she can pitch down the fifty-foot plunge beyond it.

The cold stone scrapes her palms. The tips of her fingers ache from the cold. Her eyes sting from the smoke.

Think

, she tells herself.

Think

.

Maomao doesn 't know where she 's going. The snow falls thick and fast enough that it blinds her, gathering in her hair and on her eyelashes, stinging her eyes. She blinks, and freezing moisture gathers on her cheeks.

The snow muffles all of the sound, though. In the wake of the blast, it 's oddly quiet.

Or maybe her ears are just ringing from the explosion Shisui set.

Maomao reaches up to her hair with shaking fingers. The hairstick is gone, passed on to Shisui. She needs the good luck charm more than Maomao does. It was all she could do.

Give it back to me someday.

Maomao clenches her fists hard. She tells herself the sting in her eyes is just from the snowy cold. She faces forward, and she marches on.

To where, she doesn 't know. There 's nowhere she can go. This fortress is the only thing for miles. Trying to find civilization would be suicide in this cold.

Bare instinct keeps her legs moving. She has no choice.

It 's not likely that the Shi 's top priority would be some girl they kidnapped to try and make medicine, right? Not when their warehouse just blew up, and not when their princess is in active revolt. Maybe she 'll be able to hole up and slip through the cracks of their notice.

Her legs feel heavy. Her shoulders are shaking. She pulls the thin cloak tighter around herself, but it does little good. Maybe the cold will take her instead. Her father always told her it is a quiet death. That doesn 't sound so bad.

Her shaking legs have only carried her a few feet further down the winding, narrow pathway when she hears something from down below. It 's faint and muffled, but the snow can 't absorb the sound completely.

Shouting.

Maomao looks down over the barrier, and her frigid blood runs yet-colder.

Something is moving, down in the base of the fortress.

A smear of something yet-whiter against the pearly snow, it creeps at first between the torches throwing golden light out into the storm, towards the Shi soldiers standing guard. Beneath the white comes glimpses of black 'armor, boots, hair. The soldiers finally catch on 'they shout, reel back in surprise, and reach for their swords.

It 's too late. From the white blur comes a flash of steel, sparking golden in the torchlight. Crimson spatters on the snow and Maomao knows her fate is sealed.

The Forbidden Army has come, and she is in the perfect place to become collateral damage.

She heaves another gasp through raw lungs, clutches the banister; exhausted, she can only watch the figure 'how it flicks its sword and scatters more crimson droplets into the snow, how its night-dark hair spills from the hood of its cloak. Pulled tight against the skull, it whips in the wind like a conqueror 's flag. Torchlight catches on purple-black armor. The snow runs red.

Others in the same pure white cloaks rush in after. None of them have the ornate armor of the first, and none catch her eye in the same way. The first barks orders, but she can only catch the shape of the voice, not the words themselves.

Something about it keeps her rooted to her spot.

The voice sounds 'familiar, somehow.

She stands there, breathing hard against the banister, for a second too long. As she watches the men below, one of them looks up. His face is obscured by the falling snow, but she can still hear his booming shout, and see him point directly at her.

The figure with the long hair starts to turn on its heel. Maomao does not wait to meet its eyes before she bolts.

Her legs scream at her, breath coming in ragged gasps. Smoke and sulfur hangs choking in the air, and she presses a sleeve to her nose. There might be more explosions. She doesn 't know Shisui 's 'Loulan 's 'plans. She doesn 't know if there are more stores of gunpowder, whether the crevice she might hole herself up in will blow her to smithereens like a rodent.

But maybe it 's her only chance.

She just has to find a place to hide.

Maomao runs blindly through the snow. Thick, heavy flakes stick to her eyelashes and blind her vision and sting her eyes, but she presses forward through the storm. The ground shakes beneath her with the footfalls of hundreds of men pouring into the fortress.

She comes to a door and blindly throws it open to what might have been a storehouse. Bits of metal and scrap lie scattered about the room. There 's no furniture.

There 's no place to hide.

The thundering footsteps grow louder and louder. She shuts the door and crouches among the metal, pulling her thin cloak tighter around her, as if it 'll do anything to protect her.

Maybe they 'll hear me out

, she tells herself.

Unlikely, she knows.

But at least here, crouched down, she can conserve some body heat. Her hands are still shaking. It 'd be nice to be warmer, in her final moments.

The ground is shaking beneath her feet with the footfalls of what must be thousands of soldiers by now, a dull, deafening roar. It 's broken by the door slamming on its hinges. Someone on the other side just kicked it.

The door slams again, harder this time. The wood cracks and squeals.

Maomao curls further into herself and shuts her eyes.

On the third slam, the wood splinters on its hinges with a horrible

crack

, and the door pitches into the room. A figure stands beyond it, dim in the moonless night. What light there is catches on the sharp angle of its armor, flashes in the long strip of the steel sword it holds.

The figure steps into the room, dust rising with every heavy footfall. Its head swivels, scanning for enemies. Its eyes are cold and unfeeling, lips pressed into a thin line in the face of its solemn duty. The sword in its hand is still dripping crimson.

And then their eyes meet.

His expression shifts in an instant. His lips part and his eyebrows unknit. His fingers loosen around the hilt of his sword. His shoulders slump, and the cold, hard glint in his dark eyes shifts to starlight.

They 're both silent for a moment, staring each other down.

Finally, Maomao rises on shaky legs from her crouch on the floor. Willing her voice not to shake, she says, 'Please excuse me. But I may need to ask you to protect me, Master Jinshi. '

'Are you hurt? ' is the first thing out of Jinshi 's mouth, stepping forward into the gap between them. He looks so strange here in this sharp armor, with a sword still dripping crimson clutched in his hand. The pure relief on his face is yet stranger.

What is he doing here?

'I 'm fine, ' she tells him in the steadiest voice she can manage.

'You 're

covered

in blood. '

Is she? She looks down at herself. Ah, right. 'It 's spatter. '

His beautiful face twists in exasperation. '

That 's not better.

'

'It 's snake blood, ' she manages. 'Not mine. '

In this strange armor with a sword in his hand, he looks so different from the eunuch she knew, but the frustration that twists his face is the same. His shoulders slump, and he looks completely exasperated, and there is something so comfortingly familiar about the sight.

Maomao 's racing heart begins to slow, and the corners of her lips start to pull.

The frustration is off his face in an instant, replaced by something like wonder. Jinshi steps forward, reaching a hand out 'coming close enough to touch. After everything that 's happened today, she might even let him. 'Are you ' '

Pounding footsteps race outside, and Jinshi cuts himself off. His eyes snap back to that cold, hard glint in an instant. His fingers tighten around the hilt of sword and steps between her and the door 'but as soon as he sees another soldier cloaked in white, he relaxes.

'Milord heir, ' the soldier says, and bows as deeply as his armor will allow.

So that 's who you are.

'That title is not mine anymore, ' Jinshi snaps. His voice is not that cloying, honey-sweet voice she knew in the rear palace 'no, it is sharp and cold as the sword in his hand. 'A royal son has been born. '

That answers a few questions Maomao had at once, and she breathes a sigh of relief. So Gyokuyou had a safe delivery, and the baby was a boy.

And that means '

Maomao looks at the man standing before her now, with snowflakes melting in his hair and the cold eyes and the blade in his hand. There 's nothing remaining of the man she thought she knew in the rear palace 'none of the smarmy eunuch or the childish young man both. The nymph-like beauty of his face is hardened into pure steel.

'You seem to have changed a great deal, ' she murmurs to herself.

Not quietly enough 'Jinshi glances back in her direction with plain annoyance.

That 's

more familiar. Some things never change.

His eyes flick down to her bloodstained clothes, then down the hall. He clenches his jaw and loosens it again, thinking. There 's a war in his eyes. But finally, he turns to the rough-looking soldier and asks, 'Is Lihaku here? '

The soldier sticks his head out the door and shouts. There 's a yell of affirmation, and another familiar face comes bounding in like a dog. 'She 's in your hands, ' Jinshi barks, and turns to leave.

Maybe it 's the exhaustion. She 's not sure. But before she can think better of it, Maomao steps forward, some half-baked thought on her tongue.

But '

The face and voice of the man standing before her are familiar, yes, but the way his face twists, the way his voice hardens, is foreign. His armor is much grander than the other soldiers around him, and while those others wield crude clubs, the weapon in his hand is a fine-forged sword, surely made by one of the best craftsmen in the country.

The Imperial Brother would be armed with nothing less.

Does she have any right to speak with him? Almost certainly not. This lowborn apothecary has no right to raise her voice to the son of heaven, no more than wood sorrel has the right to compare its beauty to peonies, or bellflowers, or the moon itself.

She sent Shisui off with a prayer for safety. But for some reason, looking at him, those words '

stay safe

'fall dead on her tongue.

Before she can act, Jinshi turns and leaves without another word.

Hours later, in a carriage beneath a moonless sky, Maomao wakes up to Jinshi looming over her.

That is much more familiar, as he springs back with hands held up in innocence, trying to explain away why he was leaning over her sleeping body. Maomao 's glare feels even more like home, like a common, nearly comforting routine, but she drops it as soon as she notices:

'Sir, what 's that on your face? '

Jinshi sits up a little straighter, smacking a hand over his cheek to cover the bandage. Despite the armor he still wears, he looks much more like the young, immature man she knew in the rear palace. Especially when he winces from slapping himself.

'It 's nothing, ' he says a little too quickly. 'Just a graze. '

Maomao narrows her eyes. Just a graze? She 's seen enough injuries to know he 's not acting like it 's 'just a graze '. Such a small injury wouldn 't make him wince so badly when he touches it. He 's speaking more carefully than usual, too, like he 's trying to not pull at the skin of his face.

She sits up, fixing her collar, and stares right at him, eyes narrowed. Jinshi grimaces and looks away.

And in this comforting space, in this familiar routine, Maomao forgets herself.

She leans forward, pressing into his space. Jinshi leans back. He 's not looking at her.

Maomao narrows her eyes further. 'Let me see it. '

Jinshi glares very intently at a spot on the floor next to her. 'It 's not worth showing. '

Not worth showing? Maomao must disagree. The very presence of a bandage covering his heavenly face implies something well worth showing.

She presses forward, reaching up for the bandage. Jinshi 's face only twists more. When she crawls forward, he crawls back 'but when his back hits the carriage wall with a quiet

oof

, and she crawls yet-closer, until they are nearly chest to chest, he goes very still.

Weird face he 's making, she thinks, but Jinshi still lets her reach for the bandage. At least he 's letting her do her job now, and she finally peels the offending cover away.

Beneath it is a long gash, several inches long and curved like the crescent moon, running just below his cheekbone. The skin around it is still raised, red, and angry, straining against the ten haphazard stitches keeping it closed.

Whoever sewed this thing up did a terrible job, is her first thought. The stitches are uneven, and the thread is pulled too tight. She could do a much better job.

Maomao runs her finger along the wound with the lightest touch she can manage. Jinshi 's cheek is ice-cold from the air outside, and he winces again. Definitely too tightly stitched. Whatever doctor sewed it up didn 't do their job well.

She could redo them herself. She still has a few medicines tucked away in her robes 'simple, useful things like an antiseptic balm, and a needle and thread. She keeps many things tucked away. You never know when you might need them.

Maomao 's hands itch to fix them 'but looking at her own fingers against his cheek, she realizes they are still shaking, from exhaustion or the cold. She couldn 't hold a needle right now if she tried.

Not very helpful. The one thing she 's supposed to be good at, and she can 't even do it properly.

'You were in the fighting, ' she croaks.

Jinshi scowls. He 's still not looking at her. 'I couldn 't just sit back and watch while the others put themselves in danger. '

Maomao scowls back. Surely he could. The Imperial Brother has better things to do with his time, and better ways to go about them than this. 'Why not? You 're important enough to sit this one out. I wish you wouldn 't go running headlong into danger, sir. You 'll only cause trouble for others. '

Jinshi gives a grim smile. 'People like you, you mean? '

Yes,

Maomao wants to protest. He should have hung back at camp, commanding the army from afar 'not storming the fortress on the front lines. Not coming face to face with someone who would give him this scar. Not chasing after some apothecary.

Though it 's not like he came here just to save her, anyway. Even this not-eunuch doesn 't have that much time to kill.

There must be something she can do. Even if she can 't stitch up the wound, she has that antiseptic balm in her robes. She reaches for it, but before she can, Jinshi wraps his arms around her back and pulls her close.

'Sir, ' she scolds. 'I can 't move like this. '

'Mmmph, ' Jinshi says into her neck, and pitches sideways.

Maomao lets out an undignified squeak as they tumble to the floor together, lying side by side. ' 'M tired, ' Jinshi whines, and Maomao resists the urge to roll her eyes. Of course

now

the worst of his childishness decides to rear its head.

'Your wound will get infected, ' Maomao protests, pushing against his chest. He doesn 't budge. It 's like being tackled by a large, clingy dog. 'Sir. '

Nothing.

She shoves at his chest again. And when that doesn 't work, she shoves at his face.

Forgetting the bandage.

'

OW

, ' Jinshi yelps, finally releasing her from the death grip.

'Your wound

will

get infected if I don 't treat it now, ' Maomao protests, pushing him away just enough to reach into her robes and snatch the cream. When she looks up at him, still lying sideways, his pout is truly pathetic.

'Don 't make that face, sir. It 's undignified. '

'That

hurt

. '

She spreads some of the cream on her fingers. 'And an infection will hurt worse, ' she replies. 'Hold still. '

Jinshi pouts at her like a kicked puppy but does as she says, letting her reach a hand to his cheek to spread the cream across it. If she cannot restitch the wound now, this treatment is the least she can do.

Her fingers are still shaking, as she smears the treatment against his cheek. Must be the exhaustion.

He winces a little at her touch, but holds still for her. Maomao clicks her tongue. 'This isn 't stitched properly at

all

, ' she grumbles to herself 'the edge of the wound doesn 't have a stitch where it really needs one, and the injury is still raw and open. She runs her pinky along the edge of the cut.

From it, a single drop of blood gathers. It catches on her crooked pinky, and winds down her finger like crimson thread.