“Que Zhi,” he called out.
The man tying waterskins to the camel’s back turned at the sound. Xi Yu sat by the water, bare feet swinging, the hem of his blue robe soaked and forgotten. He looked at Que Zhi with those peach-blossom eyes, the thin flush at their corners like dawn clouds washed by morning light in the early sun, the tear mole like a grain of fine sand clinging there, impossible to shake away.
Then he suddenly curved his eyes in a smile—not the practiced, perfectly measured smile from the cold palace, but a real one—lips pressed together, the corners of his eyes crinkling slightly downward, the lines of his whole face softening.
In that moment he was no longer some Jiangnan scholar, nor some cold-palace prince. He was just a young man woken by the sun, soothed by cool water, with flatbread in his hand and a distant horizon ahead.
“Thank you for the blanket.”
Like a kitten. So well-behaved. Que Zhi looked at Xi Yu, his fingertips silently rubbing together.
That beauty had just smiled—a dazzling, radiant smile, eyes shimmering with warmth, charm flowing from every glance. The smile spread like blazing splendor, bright and captivating, lively and delicate, brimming with unstudied grace—one look was enough to seize the soul.
Que Zhi turned away and went back to tying the waterskins, his movements noticeably more forceful, the leather cord pulled taut.
When he finished, he swung onto the camel, his fingers gripping the reins unconsciously clenching and releasing.
He glanced down at his fingertips—rough, calloused—then looked away, his face expressionless as he stared ahead at the boundless Gobi.
“Let’s go.”
Xi Yu followed silently, completely unaware of Que Zhi’s thoughts.
The sun was just rising as the two camels left the oasis one after another. The poplar leaves rustled in the morning breeze—like a farewell, or perhaps a plea to stay. Xi Yu looked back at that patch of green—the greenest thing he’d seen in three days—then turned forward, facing the wind and sand, rewrapping his face in the cloth.
Que Zhi, riding ahead, suddenly said without turning back: “Xi Yu.”
“Mm?”
“Last night you asked who I traveled this road with. I thought about it—it’s not all dead men anymore.”
Xi Yu froze for a moment, then lowered his eyes and curved his lips beneath the cloth. He lightly kicked his camel’s belly, and the beast quickened its pace, closing the distance until he was riding alongside the man ahead.
They had been walking through the Gobi for seven days.
Xi Yu felt he’d never been this dirty in his entire life. Sand in his hair, sand under his fingernails, even the roots of his eyelashes packed with fine grit—every blink brought a faint, barely audible scrape.
His blue robe had lost any recognizable color, now a dull gray, its cuffs frayed with new edges, the hem rubbed raw by the camel saddle into a patch of pilling threads.
In the first two days, he’d still wiped himself down with a damp cloth each night. But then he realized that within an hour of cleaning, he’d be covered in dust again—so he gave up.
He’d accepted his fate. (′`)
He even began to understand why Que Zhi never bothered with such things—it wasn’t that he didn’t care, but who was there to care for in the Gobi? The camels?
On the evening of the seventh day, they made camp behind a sand dune.
This spot was slightly better than previous nights—at least there were a few half-man-high wind-eroded rocks to block the wind. The stones of the Gobi had all been worn smooth by sand and wind, standing in strange, grotesque shapes—like a group of silent giants crouching in the desert, holding a meeting.
Xi Yu slid off the camel, took off his boots, and emptied the sand from them—a good handful came out.
He stared down at the small pile of sand by his feet, his voice listless as he muttered faintly: “My feet are about to turn into hourglasses.”
Que Zhi was untying the camel’s reins—his hand paused.
A whine.
Just a pause, then he went back to untying.
Xi Yu assumed he hadn’t heard and didn’t care. Barefoot, he stepped onto the still-warm sand, walking to the wind-eroded rocks to spread his blanket. Sand squeezed up between his toes—warm and coarse. After getting used to it, it actually felt rather pleasant.
He spread out the blanket, sat down, and began the most agonizing ritual of each day—undoing his hair tie.
His hair was fine and soft. After eighteen years in the cold palace, though undernourished, he had naturally good texture—smoother than most people’s.
But smooth hair was a disaster in the Gobi—the wind blew sand into it, and even with a wide-brimmed hat, it was unavoidable. When he undid the tie, the sand burrowed into his scalp, impossible to pull out.
Today, Xi Yu was especially impatient. The cloth tie had formed a stubborn knot at the ends of his hair. He worked at it for ages without success—the harder he pulled, the more the sand twisted in, and his scalp ached from the tugging. He yanked the tie from his head, a few broken strands drifting down with the cloth.
Xi Yu stared at the stubborn knot on the tie, his lips pressing into a thin line, a hint of gloom flickering beneath his eyes. After a moment of silence, he released the tie with a faintly irritated gesture, letting it fall to the ground—his grievance barely concealed, only a trace slipping through.
“I’m not combing it. I’ll shave it all off tomorrow.”
The hair tie landed softly on the sand, making no sound at all—a complete mismatch with his dramatic declaration.
Que Zhi was stacking stones for a fire pit. He looked up at the sound. Xi Yu sat cross-legged on the blanket, hair loose and thoroughly disheveled, strands sticking up at odd angles. With that pouty face, he looked exactly like a white cat that had been ruffled the wrong way by the wind and sand.
Still not over it, he picked up the hair tie again, gave it a vigorous shake to get the sand out, then raised it back above his head, arms held high, fingers fumbling awkwardly behind his head. He fumbled for a long time without managing a single knot—only tangling his hair further, until he was practically trussed up by his own hair and the tie.
Xi Yu gave up. His hands dropped to his sides, face expressionless, staring straight ahead—the hair tie still dangling and swaying from his tangled locks.
“I hate this hair tie.” (^)
Que Zhi put down the stone in his hand, walked over, and knelt on one knee behind him. He took the tie from Xi Yu’s hand.
His low voice said: “Let me.”
Xi Yu’s fingers stayed frozen in midair, still holding the shape of gripping the tie.
Empty-handed now, hair loose, strands by his cheeks blown to the corner of his mouth by the wind—ticklish.
The person behind him was very close—close enough that he could sense a silent warmth, like a stone beside a fire—not scorching, but solid. He didn’t turn around, just lowered his hands to rest on his knees.
Que Zhi’s fingers passed through his hair. Xi Yu’s hair was finer and cooler than it looked—like something that shouldn’t exist in the desert: silk, or melted snow. Que Zhi’s hands were large, his knuckles rough, the calluses on his palms making a faint rustling sound as they brushed through the strands.
He worked slowly—so slowly that for every tangled lock, he paused to carefully comb it apart with his fingers rather than yanking through.
Xi Yu felt those rough fingers moving at the back of his head, the touch so light it seemed impossible it was the same man—the one who’d smashed two anvils and lifted a water bucket with one hand now using the gentleness of lifting a grain of sand to undo a knot for him.
His hands were steady, no extra movement—just a brief pause when working through a tangle, as if his fingertips hesitated against the hair for half a beat before continuing down.
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