Xi Yu said he wanted to learn the blade.
He often sat on the stone stool under the old poplar tree, watching Que Zhi practice with his saber in the courtyard.
Que Zhi was different when he practiced—not the unhurried, meticulous care he showed when wiping the blade, nor the ruthless lethality he displayed on the battlefield.
He would simply stand in the courtyard, beneath the shade of the old poplar, draw the curved saber from its sheath, let the blade catch the morning light in a single arc, then slide it back in.
His movements were slow, so slow that the trajectory of every inch of the blade was clearly visible, as if he were demonstrating for someone.
Xi Yu watched twice, then suddenly said, “Teach me.”
Que Zhi sheathed his saber and looked at him. “The blade is heavy.”
“I have a dagger.”
Xi Yu pulled out the dagger from his sleeve—the one he’d carried all the way from that remote border town to the royal city. The Western Region carvings on the leather sheath had been rubbed smooth by his touch, and the blade itself remained a cold white, never having tasted blood.
He drew it and held it in his hand. The dark red cord wrapped around the hilt matched the color of the cord on Que Zhi’s curved saber.
“You gave it to me. You teach me.”
Que Zhi walked over to him, took his fingers one by one, and repositioned them on the grip.
The hilt should rest in the crook of the thumb—not too tight, leave a finger’s width of space.
Then he stood behind him, his right hand covering Xi Yu’s dagger hand, guiding it to trace an arc through the air.
The arc was slow, cutting diagonally from the right shoulder down to the left hip—the most basic opening stance of the curved saber.
Que Zhi’s chest pressed against his back, his chin nearly resting on Xi Yu’s shoulder, his breath warm against the skin behind Xi Yu’s ear—skin that hadn’t yet been touched by the morning sun. Xi Yu flinched and shrank his neck.
But his grip didn’t loosen; instead, he held the dagger tighter.
“Don’t shrink. The blade will go off course.”
Que Zhi straightened his shoulders, pressing lightly on them with his fingertips—as if adjusting his stance, or perhaps confirming that he wouldn’t flinch again. Then he took his hand once more and traced another arc.
This time faster, the arc smoother.
His wrist was guided through several circles in the air, the dagger flashing cold, curved light under the sun.
Leaning back into his embrace, Xi Yu’s back pressed against his chest, his ear brushing past Que Zhi’s jaw. He caught the mingled scents of soap and pine resin, and something else—Que Zhi himself: that warm, dry fragrance of a man soaked through with the prairie sunlight.
“You practice this every morning in the yard.”
“Mm.”
“From now on, I’ll practice with you every morning. You use the saber, I’ll use the dagger. You teach me.”
“Alright. That’s enough for today—three rounds of the basics. Any more and your wrist will ache tomorrow.”
Que Zhi took the dagger from his hand, slid it back into its sheath, and set it on the stone table.
Xi Yu turned around to face him.
He reached out, grabbed the sash of Que Zhi’s training robe, pulled him down a little, then rose on his toes and pecked him at the corner of his mouth.
It was quick—like a woodpecker tapping a tree trunk: light and crisp.
He straightened up, a sly yet open smile gleaming in his eyes, his chin slightly raised, his tone both justified and playful:
“A reward. Good teaching deserves a reward. From now on, after every morning practice, one kiss.”
Que Zhi looked down at this person who’d just awarded himself a prize after only three rounds of the opening stance. He didn’t make him rise on his toes a second time. Before Xi Yu’s heels could touch the ground, Que Zhi held his waist with one hand, cradled the back of his head with the other, and bent down to kiss him back.
Not the corner of his mouth.
His lips.
Not a dragonfly’s touch, but a true, tender, deep kiss—tinged with morning dew and the faint coolness of mint.
The hand that held the saber now cradled the back of his head, fingertips threading through half-bound strands of hair, stroking gently—with the same patience he’d shown when guiding the dagger, yet with far more tenderness than he’d ever afford any blade.
The curved saber was still in his other hand, but its tip had dropped toward the ground.
From the very first moment he’d seen Xi Yu at the inn’s entrance up until now, all his self-restraint had only lasted him until this morning.
Xi Yu was breathless from the kiss, his fingers gradually loosening their grip on Que Zhi’s sash. His palm pressed flat against Que Zhi’s chest, crumpling the training robe into folds beneath his hand.
His response was clumsy yet earnest—tilting his head back, mimicking Que Zhi’s movements, gently catching his lower lip between his own.
Que Zhi pulled back slightly and looked down at him.
Xi Yu’s lashes were misted with a touch of moisture, his lips flushed pink from the kiss. The natural thin redness at the corners of his eyes now burned deeper than any rouge could achieve, and the beauty mark at its edge seemed to glow, as if that small patch of skin still radiated the warmth of the kiss.
Once his breathing steadied, Xi Yu looked up and declared, with utter righteousness, that that was the real reward—the earlier one didn’t count.
Que Zhi reached out to straighten his skewed collar, his thumb brushing inadvertently past the still-warm flush at his shoulder. “That counted as instruction. Teaching you how to breathe. I’m heading to the hunting grounds this afternoon—the Khan has summoned me for council. You stay in the courtyard and amuse yourself. Wait for me to return.”
Que Zhi sheathed his saber and turned to retrieve his outer robe, which hung from a branch of the poplar tree.
Xi Yu sat on the stone stool, turning the dagger over in his palm. Sunlight streamed through the gaps in the leaves, catching the blade and casting a pale golden shadow upon it.
He called out suddenly, toward that golden shadow.
Que Zhi had already reached the arched gateway, one foot over the threshold. He turned back.
Xi Yu pointed the dagger at him through the morning light—back of the blade outward, the tip tilted slightly upward, as if issuing a formal proclamation: “Come back early.”
Que Zhi stood in the gateway for a moment.
Morning light filtered through the poplar leaves, illuminating half his face while the other half remained in shadow. And beneath that shadow, he smiled at Xi Yu.
“Alright.”
In the past, he’d never looked back when heading out to practice, attend court, or hold council.
Now, beside the door frame lay the dagger they’d just practiced with, and across from it, the one who’d be counting the water clock’s drips, marking the hours until his return.
He pulled his foot back from the threshold and instructed his attendant: “Tonight, send the kitchen’s menu directly to A-Yu’s quarters, not the study.”
Then he stepped out, his footsteps fading along the corridor—slower than usual, by half a beat.
Xi Yu sat on the stone stool, turning the dagger over and over.
The Western Region carvings on the leather sheath had been worn smooth and glossy. Even without understanding the script, he already knew what those words said.
He drew the blade and traced a clumsy arc through the still-cool morning air.
The motion was incorrect, the curve lopsided—uglier than the crooked lines he’d carved into the stone wall.
Xi Yu lowered his gaze, his fingertips absently tracing the hilt. His expression was calm and composed, but beneath that serene surface, a nest of sly, mischievous thoughts was already taking shape:
Practice the blade by the rules—twice in the morning, once in the evening. Tomorrow morning, for the first round, he’d obediently give his reward—a kiss, initiated by him. But for the second round, he simply wouldn’t give it. He’d hold out deliberately, just to see if Que Zhi would lean in and ask for it himself.
Xi Yu savored the thought.
A hint of playful mischief crept into his features—though his face remained impassive, his mind had already laid out the scheme for teasing Que Zhi in perfect detail. Bright and with just a touch of bossiness, his secret little agenda couldn’t be fully hidden.
Then he stood, slid the dagger back into its sheath, tucked it into his sleeve, and passed through the arched gateway toward his room.
His mind was still spinning with other thoughts—the melon needed yogurt drizzled over it, the raspberries were finished and he’d need to pick more, and last night Que Zhi had left his saber sheath on the cabinet again.
On the way, he passed the young guard who’d been the first to ask, “Who is that?” The man stood by the corridor pillar, gave him a salute, and said, “Good morning, Young Master Xi.”
Xi Yu returned the greeting, glanced sideways at him with a smile, and said he’d been off practicing the blade.
The guard fumbled for a response, flipping through his night-patrol duty tokens, but Xi Yu’s footsteps had already rounded the pillar. Only the turquoise bead at the tip of his silver hairpin caught the morning light, winking softly as he disappeared from view.
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