The old Khan picked up his tea bowl and took another sip.
“I know.”
“I had a feeling when I read your letter—you said he was a guest you’d brought back from the Central Plains, but you’d drawn a small blue flower at the edge of the paper. That’s the wild iris that grew in front of your mother’s tent.”
He paused and set the tea bowl down on the table.
“Your mother, back then, was also at the hunting grounds. She pulled me off my horse in front of everyone and said, ‘I want to marry you.’ I was terrified at the time—it took me a while to even process what had happened.”
“I also told you—if you ever meet someone like that, you’ll understand. You’re like me in every way, except you have more patience when it comes to pursuing someone.”
“He’s not from the tribes. He’s not from Shuo. He can’t even ride a horse or herd sheep.”
Que Zhi said all of this in a very even tone.
“But he can spot repetitions in official documents that even I missed. He’s crossed the Gobi’s wind and sand without a single complaint. He’s the most resilient and the softest-hearted person I’ve ever met. He is my wife—I don’t need a political alliance, and I don’t need an imperial decree. I just want him.”
The old Khan looked at him for a long while, then turned his gaze to the old poplar outside the window.
He took another sip of tea. “I’ve never meddled in your marriage. Your mother passed too early, but before she left, she gave me only one instruction—let you marry the one you love.”
“You’re already twenty-three. It’s taken you this long to bring someone home. Your mother up in heaven has probably been waiting anxiously. Pick a date and hold the betrothal banquet.”
“As for the throne—no rush. I’m still in good health. You two can go wherever you like. But before you leave, have him come have tea with me. He hasn’t tried my private stash of aged Pu’er yet.”
That same morning, Que Zhi brought Xiyu to the Khan’s study as promised.
The old Khan had two chairs placed by the window, brewed a pot of aged Pu’er himself, poured a cup for Que Zhi, and then one for Xiyu.
He said that Que Zhi, since childhood, had never let anyone touch his whetstone—you’re the first.
He said that his mother had passed early, and the boy had been squatting by the river sharpening his own blades since he was seven or eight, keeping all his worries hidden inside his scabbard. His father was too dense to guess what was on his mind.
Then he looked at Xiyu’s side profile lit by the midday sun, and that tear mole made unusually clear by the tea’s amber glow. He paused for a moment, then smiled:
“But since you arrived, he’s poured out everything he’s kept locked away for half his life. Whether you two go to Liangzhou or anywhere else in the future, I don’t care—I can leave the court’s affairs to Helü Xiong’s son, Helü Tao. That brat knows how to handle things better than Que Zhi anyway.”
“If you want, you can go far away with him. It’d be good to see more of the world. I’ll wrap up this brick of Pu’er for you two to brew on the road.”
The old Khan stroked his beard, a gentle smile in his eyes, his tone slow and easy, carrying the composed warmth of someone who had been through it all:
“If you stay… then stay here in the royal city, and enter our royal lineage. We grassland folk are open-hearted—we won’t let you suffer the slightest grievance.”
He leaned forward slightly, his gaze both teasing and fiercely protective, and patted Xiyu’s shoulder:
“If anyone does give you trouble, you just tell this brat!”
Xiyu felt a warmth in his heart, the tip of his nose tingling slightly. His voice was soft, with a hint of timidity: “But I haven’t told you who I really am.”
He looked up at the old Khan, then stole a glance at Que Zhi, his voice soft and hesitant:
“Doesn’t it bother you?”
After saying that, Xiyu took a deep breath, lowered his gaze, and his expression gradually grew calm and solemn.
His long lashes drooped, and when he looked up again, his eyes were open and sincere. Slowly, he began to confess his background.
When he finished, he lifted his eyes, a thin layer of glistening moisture in them—gentle and fragile—quietly waiting for their reactions.
Beside him, Que Zhi felt his heart tighten sharply, as if something were about to seize it.
His eyes churned with dense, overwhelming pity and tenderness as he looked at Xiyu’s thin, lonely figure.
He gently pulled him into his arms, his whole being radiating sorrow and guilt—hating himself for not having seen through the loneliness hidden beneath that gentle, obedient exterior sooner.
The old Khan’s teasing expression had completely faded, his brows now heavy with deep sympathy.
He looked at the timidly lowered head of this young man, so alone in his background, and felt an inexplicable tug at his heart. His gaze softened, filled only with pity and tenderness.
Seeing such a well-behaved, gentle child who had suffered neglect in the cold palace since childhood, he could no longer maintain even a trace of jest.
His tone was broad and warm, carrying the affection and protectiveness of an elder:
“Good child, you’ve been through so much.”
“Now that you’ve come to the Western Regions and entered our hearts—father and son alike—from now on, this is your home. No one in the palace cherished you, but we two will. No one protected you there, but the royal city of the grasslands has your back. Just stay here with peace of mind.”
Que Zhi pulled Xiyu fully into his arms, his eyes churning with dense, aching tenderness, his voice low and hoarse, filled with both pity and certainty:
“Silly Ayu—whether you’re an ordinary young master or a prince from the cold palace, to me, you’ve always been the one I hold closest to my heart, the one I want to protect for a lifetime. Your background could never be a barrier between us.”
“A Zhi is right. From now on, don’t let yourself be bound by those identities anymore.”
The old Khan softened his tone, his brows and eyes filled with a smile, carrying both solemnity and warmth:
“Since you are the one Que Zhi holds dear, and a child who has known such loneliness since childhood—if you don’t mind, just like Que Zhi, you may call me Aba.”
Xiyu froze, his lashes trembling violently, the tip of his nose suddenly stinging, tears nearly spilling from his eyes.
From childhood, the deep palace had been cold and unfeeling—no one had ever treated him like this, cherished him like this, and never before had there been the warmth of someone he could call family.
He pressed his reddened lips together, his heart both warm and bittersweet. Timidly, he looked up at the old Khan, his voice catching with emotion, soft and small:
“Ab… Aba.”
The moment the word left his mouth, Xiyu felt a warmth spread through his heart, as if half of all his regret and loneliness had been smoothed away by that single, affectionate address.
Beside him, Que Zhi watched the scene unfold, a gentle smile spreading in his eyes. He reached out and gently drew Xiyu closer by the shoulder, his heart full of peace and gratitude.
The old Khan took a sip of tea and added:
“According to Shuo custom, the betrothal banquet requires slaughtering three sheep. Helü Xiong will serve as the witness.”
He pointed at Que Zhi: “You, go wait outside. I need a word with Ayu.”
Que Zhi stood up, glanced at Xiyu, received a reassuring nod, and went out, closing the door behind him.
The old Khan told him that Shuo didn’t have as many rules as the Central Plains—no imperial decree needed, no long list of betrothal gifts. The only requirement was for the bride-to-be to say “I do” herself.
Xiyu set down his teacup. The thin red at the corners of his eyes, in the daylight slanting through the window lattice, burned deeper than rouge. His voice was very soft, but very steady: “I do.”
That evening, Que Zhi went to Helü Xiong’s hunting grounds.
Helü Xiong was sitting by the bonfire, whittling a new shepherding stick with his dagger. Que Zhi told him he was getting betrothed.
Helü Xiong laughed: “Congratulations! It’s Xiyu, isn’t it?”
“Yes. It’s him. It can only be him,” Que Zhi replied solemnly.
“I’ll likely have to ask A Tao to take over many things in the future.”
Helü Xiong’s hand paused as he whittled, wood shavings curling off the blade and rolling into the bonfire’s embers.
He asked nothing, only paused briefly before nodding:
“Alright. That boy’s been restless in the tribe anyway—it’ll be good for him to come to the royal city and train. Your father’s still in good health; he’s got at least another ten or twenty years in him. Once Tao’er gets the hang of things, you can take Xiyu out to see the world.”
He paused, then handed the finished shepherding stick to Que Zhi. “Here. This one’s for you. For when you two herd sheep in the future.”
The bonfire crackled and popped, sending a few sparks into the air. He slid his dagger back into his belt and grinned. “Never thought I’d see the day, you brat. Old man Que Heng must be over the moon. Your mother would be happy too.”
That night, Xiyu sat on the low couch watching the moon, the new shepherding stick set beside him. He sat cross-legged, looking down at his own fingers, freshly washed and still carrying the coolness of the water.
Hearing footsteps, he raised his eyes slightly toward Que Zhi approaching.
“When is the betrothal banquet?”
Que Zhi sat down slowly beside him, his gaze resting on him gently, and answered softly: “Three days from now.”
Xiyu’s lashes fluttered, a faint, scattered light flickering in his eyes, the tips of his ears quietly turning pink.
He looked down again at his damp fingertips, his voice soft, with a hint of shyness and anticipation he couldn’t quite hide: “That soon…”
Que Zhi reached out and gently folded his fingers around Xiyu’s slightly cool fingertips, speaking slowly:
“Three days from now, we’ll hold the witness ceremony. The royal city will host a banquet with wine, and we’ll make our covenant.”
“After the betrothal, we’ll wait a while and choose an auspicious day for the full wedding. Whenever you want—that’s when we’ll do it.”
Xiyu’s ears burned pink, his fingers curling slightly. He looked up at Que Zhi in the moonlight, his eyes filled with tenderness and peace, and answered softly: “Alright.”
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