The gloves were stitched from thick sheepskin, with a thin layer of ice crystals frozen along the back of the hand. As the warmth from the fire melted them, they turned into tiny droplets that trickled along the leather grain and into the ashes around the brazier’s edge.
Batu finished the last dumpling, set down his chopsticks, and looked seriously at Xi Yu, saying it was the best meal he’d ever had in his life.
“You still have a long life ahead of you.”
Xi Yu stood up, brushing the grass clippings off his knees.
“There’s still one more tier of dumplings left in the kitchen steamer. I’ll steam a few more for you tomorrow. Once you can ride back to the royal city in your new boots, I won’t deliver them anymore—you’ll have to come eat them yourself. It’s not far from the winter pastures, and you know the way.”
His brows were calm and gentle, his expression composed and serene—just casually chatting about small matters, his manner carrying the quiet ease of old friends who needed no extra words, tranquil and warm.
Helü Tao propped the sheep-driving stick upright by the tent entrance, stood up, and stretched.
“Since his foot’s fine, I’ll take some people tomorrow to tap all the ice along that gully section.”
Then he looked around and noticed that Halebala had poked his head through the tent flap at some point and was stealthily nuzzling at the bits of dough that had fallen off the steamer basket.
Batu shouted that he couldn’t eat dumpling wrappers—they were too sticky, and last time one had glued itself to his tongue and he couldn’t get it off.
Halebala gave him a look and swallowed the whole piece of dough in one gulp.
Xi Yu crouched down, pulled a small piece of carrot from his pocket—the old cook had pressed it into his hand just before he left—and held it up to Halebala’s mouth.
Halebala lowered his head, sniffed it, took a bite with a crisp crunch, then tilted his head at Xi Yu as if waiting for a second piece.
“I’ll bring you more tomorrow.”
Xi Yu patted his head, stood up, packed the steamer basket away, retied the bundle, and placed Batu’s old boots into the wooden cabinet in the corner of the tent.
Then he turned to Batu and told him to rest and recover properly—don’t rush to get back on his feet, let things thaw out a bit first.
Batu nodded, still holding his chopsticks.
It wasn’t until Que Zhi and Xi Yu had lifted the tent flap and been gone for a good while that he sniffled and nudged Helü Tao, who was squatting by the fire whittling a sheep stick, and asked in a voice that was deliberately low but utterly pointless:
“How many words did Que Zhi say from start to finish? Three. Ah Yu did everything for everyone, and he just stood there watching. That’s called being completely at ease—he trusts him that much. He doesn’t need to say a single extra word.”
“This must be that husband-and-husband understanding!” Helü Tao sighed and shook his head, spreading his hands in resignation.
After a pause, Helü Tao studied him for a moment. “You’re not going to cry from the pain today, are you?”
“I didn’t cry—it’s just my foot hurts,” Batu said, lacking conviction.
Then he slipped on his new boots and limped after them out through the tent flap.
Batu’s foot injury healed over five or six days. Once the swelling went down, he was back to bouncing around, chasing Halebala across the slopes.
His mother said the boy had fallen more times than anyone could count since he was little—off horses, off sheep pen fences, off haystacks—and every time he’d be back on his feet after two days. Tough as nails.
Batu himself felt this time was different—this time he’d gotten a new pair of boots and eaten dumplings made by Xi Yu’s own hands. Not a bad deal at all.
When he shared this conclusion with Helü Tao, Helü Tao was crouched by the winter pasture fence helping his father fix a sheep pen gate. He didn’t even look up.
“You’ve fallen that many times since you were little. Did you get new boots every time? Dumplings every time?”
Truth was, he’d never admit he was jealous. ((д) Damn it—why don’t I get any?!)
Batu thought for a moment: “No, but I had Halebala every time.”
Halebala heard his name from outside the fence, let out a bleat, and went back to nibbling grass.
Batu’s father was counting the newly born lambs nearby. Hearing the young men’s conversation, he chuckled and said to his wife:
“If that boy ever gets married, we’ll have to list ‘dumplings’ as a separate item on the betrothal gifts.”
Batu’s mother set the stone mortar on the counter with a firm thunk.
“Not just dumplings—you’ll need pear syrup, wild chrysanthemum, butter tea, and a sheep’s knuckle bone too.”
Then she moved the jar of pear syrup that Xi Yu had sent deeper into the cabinet, just in case Halebala tried to sneak a lick.
Helü Xiong later heard the story from Batu’s father and laughed for a full cup of tea’s worth of time out on the hunting grounds.
Then he sent Batu a new pair of leather gloves with a note attached—only four characters: “Don’t lose these again.”
Batu was moved for an entire day after receiving the gloves. That very day, he wore them to help Helü Tao break ice at the gully. He didn’t lose the gloves on the way back, but his pant legs were soaked halfway up again.
Helü Tao said if he fell through the ice one more time, he’d make him a pair of indestructible iron boots.
Batu said he should go ahead and make them now, then.
Another day passed, and a messenger arrived from the old Khan, saying that this year’s final winter hunt had ended, the game had been distributed among the tribes, and the hot spring pool had been cleaned out—he was inviting Xi Yu and Que Zhi to go soak in it.
This hot spring was tucked deep in the most secluded hollow of the hunting grounds, far more hidden than the wild spring in the valley. In past years, only the old Khan would soak there after a hunt.
This year, however, the old Khan’s leg ailment had flared up twice since winter began, preventing him from going. He said it would be a shame to let it sit empty.
Xi Yu finished reading the letter, set it down on the table, and looked up at Que Zhi.
“A hot spring!”
“Mm.”
“Are you going?” (｡•̀ᴗ-)✧
Xi Yu rested his chin on Que Zhi’s shoulder, looking up at him with those peach-blossom eyes, his long lashes trembling faintly as they brushed lightly past his collar, his lips slowly drawing closer to Que Zhi’s earlobe.
Que Zhi felt his movements and gaze, his heart warming, his ear tips burning red as if about to drip blood.
“Going.”
Que Zhi closed the official documents, then raised his hand and gently ruffled Xi Yu’s hair—soft, very soft—though the heat still lingered on his face.
He then turned, took the thick cloak from the rack, and carefully draped it over Xi Yu, tucking it snug and warm.
The hot spring was tucked in the deepest part of the hunting grounds, inside a naturally sunken hollow of rock, surrounded on all sides by dense birch forest and exposed granite boulders.
Had someone not cleared the snow, the path beneath the fallen leaves would have been impossible to distinguish.
The hollow wasn’t large. Dense, impenetrable white mist rose from the water’s surface, shrouding the rocks and snow on the shore in moist, warm vapor.
Water droplets condensed on the stone walls, trickling down along the moss, each one glinting with the faintest light in the shadows.
The air carried a blend of pine resin, decaying leaves, and sulfur—not overpowering, but somehow comforting,
as if this was the deepest exhale of breath, filtered through layers of birch branches and fresh snow, seeping through only in this one small pocket of stillness.
The attendants had already swept the stone ledge by the pool, laid down fresh thick felt cushions, and hung two bronze lanterns on the rock walls.
The lamps were filled with oil, their flames burning steady and smokeless, casting a stable glow through the white mist, bathing the entire hot spring in a dim, golden light.
Beyond that, there was only the occasional rustle of falling leaves as the wind passed through the birch forest, and the soft, slow trickle of spring water seeping through the cracks in the rock.
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