The wind was strong on the hunting grounds, waves of grass rolling from beneath their feet all the way to the horizon.
Several groups of hunters fanned out across the slopes—the baying of hounds, the thud of hooves, the twang of bowstrings all mingling together. Every so often, someone would shout “Hit!” and a cluster of riders would race toward where the arrow had landed.
Xi Yu carried no bow or arrows. He simply rode behind Que Zhi, counting how many shafts remained in his quiver.
“Seven left. You hit one rabbit just now—that one in the brush doesn’t count. That was Helu Tao’s.”
“How do you know it was his?”
“His fletching is blue; yours is gray. I’ve been picking up your arrows all the way—I’ve memorized them by now.”
Que Zhi reined in his horse and turned to look at him.
The hunting wind swept across the grassland, carrying the scent of wild herbs. Xi Yu sat steady atop the fine black horse, clad in a sharp, dark-gray hunting jacket with a ruff of fluffy wolf fur at the collar, stirring gently in the open wind.
His back was straight in the saddle, his face tilted slightly upward, a hint of bright, youthful elation at the corners of his eyes, and beneath it, a trace of self-satisfied pride, waiting quietly for Que Zhi to praise his keen observation.
Que Zhi’s gaze fixed on him without wavering, his eyes brimming with tender affection, his attention utterly absorbed.
After a long moment, he softened his voice and said indulgently, “Keep three. You hold the rest.”
Then he guided his horse closer to Xi Yu’s, the two mounts drawing near in the wind. Xi Yu’s knee brushed against Que Zhi’s calf through the stirrups. Que Zhi reached over and straightened the silver hairpin that had gone askew: “The wind here is fierce. Tell me if your pin loosens.”
“The twist I put in your hair this morning was too loose. I’ll redo it tonight when we get back.”
After the reminder, Que Zhi didn’t turn away immediately. Instead, he gave Xi Yu another long look, a faint smile warming his eyes, and added the praise Xi Yu had been waiting for:
“Your eyesight truly is excellent—steady and precise. You’ve improved so much compared to before. It makes me happy just watching.”
That gentle praise landed perfectly, catching all of Xi Yu’s eager anticipation.
Xi Yu’s eyes brightened instantly, and a smile broke across his face that he couldn’t suppress.
Only then did Que Zhi reluctantly look away. He lightly pressed his heels to the horse’s flanks, and the black horse broke into a trot. “Let’s go.”
Xi Yu reached up and touched the silver pin that Que Zhi had straightened, the shaft still holding the warmth of his fingers. He adjusted the quiver on his shoulder, gave his horse a gentle kick, and followed.
As the sun tilted westward, Helu Xiong sounded the hunting horn from beneath the slope.
This year’s top prize went to Helu Tao—he’d bagged a yellow antelope and two hares, and he paraded his catch proudly around the bonfire three times.
Que Zhi had taken two hares and a wild goose—not a large haul, but he didn’t seem to mind. He ordered his attendants to send the game straight to the kitchen, saying it was for the young master’s soup.
“Always for Xi Yu—why don’t you keep one for yourself!”
Helu Xiong was building the fire and tapping the rim of Que Zhi’s bowl with his roasting skewer.
Helu Tao passed by with the antelope on his shoulder and chimed in: “The young master thinks of nothing but others when he hunts now. Last year he could eat half an antelope by himself; this year he’ll probably just gnaw on a rabbit leg.”
Que Zhi kicked him lightly on the shin—not too hard, but enough to make him hop two steps, yelping that he’d been called out and was getting embarrassed about it.
Once the bonfire blazed up, the hunting grounds grew quieter.
The firelight painted the grassy slopes in warm orange hues. The hunters sat in a circle, roasting their catch and sharing mare’s milk wine.
Xi Yu sat beside Que Zhi, holding a bowl of mare’s milk wine. He only took a single sip before setting it down—he still wasn’t quite used to the taste.
He fished out the parcel of honey-preserved apricots from his sleeve, unwrapped the oil paper, ate one himself, stuffed two into Que Zhi’s mouth, then leaned back against the saddle to watch the fire.
“The wind was strong out on the hunting grounds today.”
“Mm.”
“You also said the twist you put in my hair this morning was too loose, and you’d redo it tonight.”
“Mm.”
“Your hands were clumsy when you combed my hair back on the Gobi. They’re not clumsy anymore. You changed combs—that one you bought secretly at the market last time and tucked into your bundle. I saw.”
Xi Yu enunciated the word “secretly” very softly, but the glance he shot between bites of apricot laid everything bare. Then he curved his eyes and leaned a little closer to Que Zhi.
The bonfire crackled, sparks flying up onto the grass before dying out.
Que Zhi set his curved saber beside the saddle and turned to look at Xi Yu.
His face was beautiful in the firelight—the thin flush at the corners of his eyes deeper than usual, his silver hairpin askew, but he hadn’t asked to have it fixed. He was waiting for Que Zhi to notice.
Que Zhi reached over, straightened the pin, tucked the stray strands behind his ear, and asked if Xi Yu remembered that time on the Gobi when he’d asked the innkeeper for cold tea, with his palm-leaf fan resting on his knee and his hat pulled low.
Then he smiled—the curve at the corner of his mouth wasn’t large, but under the firelight, it was unmistakable.
Que Zhi said that back then he’d been a shadow, but not anymore.
Xi Yu felt a little shy under that gaze. He set the apricot bag on his knee and looked down, rummaging through his bundle to change the subject.
He pulled out his dagger, the wooden comb, a pastry box, some pebbles he’d picked up along the road, and finally that box of pastries. He opened the lid and bent to sniff it.
He took one out and popped it into his mouth, chewing with his cheeks puffing out, then looked up at Que Zhi with his chin slightly raised.
A little cat.
“What are you staring at? It’s not like it’s the first time you’ve seen me,” Xi Yu mumbled through his mouthful.
“It’s not the first time. But every time I look, I find you more beautiful than the last.”
Xi Yu closed the pastry box, put it back in his bundle, and his ears slowly reddened in the firelight.
He was quiet for a moment, then reached over, picked up Que Zhi’s left hand from his knee, turned it over, and pressed his fingertip against the old scar on his palm—as if confirming something.
After a long pause, Que Zhi looked down, then up again. His deep pupils reflected the dancing flames, and within them, Xi Yu stood clear and whole. His gaze was steady and serious, and he spoke slowly, each word deliberate:
“When do you want to get married?”
It wasn’t a casual probe, nor a perfunctory question.
It was him, earnestly placing the choice in Xi Yu’s hands—wanting to follow his heart, to wait until he was ready, until he felt at ease. Then they’d choose an auspicious day, he would formally marry him, and they would stay together through the years.
Xi Yu’s fingers tightened slightly around his palm, and then he bent down to press a kiss to that old scar.
He looked up again, tilted his face, and brushed his lips lightly against Que Zhi’s—just to the left of the center of his mouth. When he drew back, his voice was softer than the crackling fire, sounding at once like laughter and like shyness.
He pulled back half an inch, his long lashes trembling slightly, his eyes holding both the leaping bonfire and the reflection of Que Zhi.
His voice was so soft it barely rose above the snap of burning wood—tender and clinging, carrying a trace of unguarded bashfulness wrapped in a heart full of joy:
“Whenever. Anytime.”
Que Zhi took the hand that had just held the pastry box, bent down, and caught the kiss that he’d begun and left unfinished.
His hand slid upward, interlacing his fingers with Xi Yu’s, palm against the back of his hand—closing naturally, just as he’d done countless times before when helping Xi Yu into the saddle on a camel’s back.
Xi Yu didn’t close his eyes. Only after he felt Que Zhi’s third gentle peck on his lips did he finally let his eyelids fall, his lashes brushing across Que Zhi’s nose.
They shared a long kiss there on the hunting grounds, lit by the burning bonfire. Wind swept up the grass beside them, and a blade of it landed on the mouth of the curved saber’s sheath.
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