The next morning, dawn had barely broken.
A sliver of cold fish-belly white had just begun to emerge along the eastern ridge, gently slicing open the ink-black sky.
The wind swept in, carrying the lingering chill of the Gobi night—dry and biting, tightening the skin around one’s nose, yet sharp enough to shake off all drowsiness and leave one fully awake.
Everything was utterly still, save for the low rustle of wind across the barren land and the occasional dull snort from a camel. The world was still submerged in the deepest silence before daybreak.
Xi Yu stepped out of the inn with his bundle on his back.
Que Zhi was already waiting at the door.
He held the reins of two camels, laden with water skins, dried provisions, thick wool blankets, and two bulging packs.
Que Zhi stood in the middle of the yellow-earth street, the morning light behind him gilding his silhouette in a thin layer of gold.
He wasn’t chewing a blade of grass today, nor was he carrying a wine jug. He just stood there, like a silent, dependable wall.
Seeing Xi Yu emerge, he gave him a once-over—from hat brim to boots, from bundle to belt.
Then he strode over, stopped before Xi Yu, and reached down to unbuckle a water skin from his own waist, hanging it onto Xi Yu’s camel saddle.
He didn’t ask “Did you bring water?” or say “I got you an extra one.” He just hung it, tugged the leather strap to make sure it was secure, and stepped back.
“Mount up.” His voice was low and curt, carrying an unshakable certainty.
Xi Yu looked up at the tall camel before him. He was about to bend his knee and struggle his way up when a hand—knuckles broad and defined—reached out steadily before him.
It was Que Zhi’s hand.
The knuckles were large and rough, the palm covered in thick calluses built from years of forging iron and gripping reins. A pale old scar ran from the base of his thumb all the way to his wrist, lending an added edge of fierceness.
That hand hung there in the air, neither urging nor retreating—just waiting steadily, with no sign of pulling back.
Xi Yu hesitated for a moment, his lashes trembling slightly. His fingers curled inward instinctively, a thin sheen of sweat forming in his palm.
He looked at the hand before him—the distinct skin texture of a Western Regions man, broad-boned and strong-knuckled, its palm layered with thick calluses, the hardened texture forged from years of smithing, riding, and gripping reins.
Then he looked at his own hand—small and slender, pale and luminous, with delicate bones and fine, soft skin that had never known wind or dust.
The contrast between them was stark.
After a moment’s pause, he finally raised his hand, fingertips lowered, and gently placed it in Que Zhi’s.
That pale, slender hand fell into the warm, broad, honey-toned palm—one small, one large; one fine, one wide; one smooth, one rough. As their skin met, even the air seemed to slow for half a beat.
The cool tips of his fingers touched the other’s hot, calloused palm. The rough texture of the hardened skin grazed his fingertips—warm, solid, like a stone that had baked under the desert sun all day, radiating scorching heat and steady strength.
Que Zhi closed his fingers, gripping his hand firmly. With a precise, measured exertion—neither too light nor too heavy—he lifted Xi Yu smoothly onto the camel’s back in one clean motion, settling him steadily without a single wobble.
Que Zhi looked up at him. The morning light spilled across his sharp brows and eyes, falling into those amber irises. Tiny flecks of light rippled in his pupils, like a lake on the Gobi warmed by the rising sun—clear and burning hot.
Seated atop the camel, Xi Yu leaned forward slightly, raised his hand, and unhurriedly smoothed his robe. He pulled down the white cloth that had been covering his face and tied it around his neck.
The wind-tousled collar was smoothed flat, every crease pressed away.
The morning light fell upon his pale fingertips, warming the edge of his robe as well.
Que Zhi watched him quietly—watched the soft stray hairs beneath his hat brim lift gently in the cool morning breeze, revealing a smooth forehead.
Those exquisitely beautiful peach-blossom eyes narrowed slightly in the pale, thin light of dawn. Their outer corners bore a natural, shimmering flush—soft and alluring, like the lingering morning glow that refused to fade from the horizon, tinting his features with a beguiling charm.
The small tear-shaped mole beneath his right eye sat precisely on his nearly translucent pale skin—a single dot of ink, like a grain of black sand suddenly falling on snow. The cold white of his complexion made that dot of ink all the more vivid, its intensity laced with a touch of cool elegance.
His brows were slender and well-defined, his lips naturally tinged with a light crimson, their lines delicate and refined. His entire face was stunningly beautiful—possessing a unique, captivating allure that stood in stark contrast to the vast, rugged Gobi around him, yet breathtakingly so.
Que Zhi remembered that face without the bamboo hat in the twilight by the well. He remembered the tear-shaped mole emerging from the shadows when the lamplight spilled from the inn onto the steps. He remembered how, in that one moment, Xi Yu’s gaze had made his own palms slick with sweat.
In his life, he had seized countless treasures—gold and silver from Great Liang, jade from the royal courts, glass from Persia.
But nothing had ever looked at him with eyes like those.
When they met his, they would curve slightly, then look away—like gazing at a flower through thin mist, never quite clear, making him want to look again, and then again.
“Que Zhi,” he said.
This was his name, spoken from his own lips for the second time.
No titles. No origins. Just two words, clean and simple.
“Let’s go.”
He swung onto his camel and pulled the reins.
The camels stepped forward, one after the other, heading west along the yellow-earth street.
Behind them, the frontier town grew smaller and smaller—low mud walls and morning cooking smoke shrinking into a faint shadow in the dawn light.
Ahead stretched endless Gobi, dunes rising and falling, the horizon nowhere in sight.
Xi Yu looked down at his own hand gripping the reins—the hand that had just been enveloped by another’s palm. The rough texture still lingered on his fingertips.
He tucked his hand back into his sleeve and touched the dagger there, his thumb tracing the unfamiliar Western Regions script carved into the sheath, over and over.
After a long while, he lowered his eyes and curved his lips beneath the shadow of his hat brim.
Que Zhi, riding ahead, suddenly spoke without turning back. His voice came carried by the morning wind—hoarse, low, like a stone rolling across the Gobi for a very long distance.
“Xi Yu.”
“Yes?”
“Your hat is crooked.”
Xi Yu raised his hand to straighten the brim, when he heard the man in front add another line.
The wind scattered his voice somewhat, but every word landed clearly in Xi Yu’s ears.
“You don’t have to wear it either. You look good either way.”
The words landed with perfect seriousness, carrying a natural, unselfconscious straightforwardness.
Xi Yu’s hand, still adjusting the hat, froze mid-air. His fingertips paused, his breath catching for half a beat.
The morning light grew brighter, pouring over the boundless golden sand. The shadows of the two camels stretched long, one ahead of the other, quietly overlapping on the scorching ground.
The wind carried fine sand past their ears. All around was silence, broken only by their breathing.
His lips moved—he seemed to want to retort, or perhaps to say thank you. A thousand words lodged in his throat, but in the end, none came out.
He could only turn his face slightly away, avoiding the other’s gaze. He raised his hand and pulled the hat brim down a little further, hiding his brows and eyes completely—and concealing, as well, the stubborn, traitorous flush spreading across the tips of his ears.
Leave a Reply