Chapter Text
The ancient carp pond in the Zhuo family estate lay locked in a silent, crystalline slumber. A brittle skin of ice frosted its surface, trapping the ghostly shapes of dormant lotus stems beneath. All around, the bare branches of willow trees bowed under heavy, pristine layers of snow, their stillness broken only by the occasional soft thump as a clump slid free.
The air was sharp and clean, biting at the lungs, yet it carried the unmistakable, joyous sound of a child’s laughter—a bright, rebellious noise against the winter hush.
Servants in thick, padded robes moved along the covered walkways with quiet efficiency, bowing their heads respectfully as they deliberately gave a wide berth to the two young masters at the center of the courtyard.
One stood poised near a frozen stone lantern.
Zhuo Yixuan, even at his young age, possessed a stillness that mirrored the tranquil pond. His breath plumed in a soft, steady cloud before him, his hands tucked neatly into a fur-lined velvet-lined muffler. His gaze, gentle and refined beyond his years, followed his younger brother’s antics with a fondness that was tinged with mild exasperation.
“Xiao Zhuo,” he called out, his voice calm but clear enough to cut through the chill air. “Your cheeks are as red as the pomegranates in the summer. Is it not enough playing for today? You will catch a cold at this rate, and then what will I tell Father?”
Across the courtyard, Zhuo Yichen skidded to a halt, his little leather boots scattering a puff of powdered snow.
He spun around, his wide, bright eyes gleaming with unspent energy. He clutched the edges of his own heavy coat, which was threatening to slip from his small shoulders.
“Dage, just one last round!” Zhuo Yichen pleaded, his voice taking on a practiced, wheedling tone perfected through years of being the indulged younger son.
He trotted closer, his small hand reaching out to tug gently at his brother’s sleeve. “I promise, just one last game of hide and seek, and then I will go back to my studies without a single complaint! I will be so obedient, you’ll think I’ve been replaced!”
A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched Zhuo Yixuan’s lips. He looked down at the small, hopeful face upturned towards his, the boy’s breath coming in quick, excited puffs.
He reached out with his free hand, carefully brushing a dusting of snow from his brother’s wind-tousled long hair.
“Xiao Zhuo…” Yixuan sighed, the name a soft admonishment. “You know what Father said. Our calligraphy master will be waiting. He expects diligence, not excuses born of frolicking in the snow.”
“But Father does not have to know!” Yichen insisted, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper as he leaned in. He squeezed the fabric of his brother’s sleeve, his eyes wide and imploring. “It can be our secret. Please, Dage? For me?”
Zhuo Yixuan looked from his brother’s earnest face to the serene, frozen landscape of the courtyard, then back again.
He could feel the weight of his responsibility warring with the simple desire to preserve this moment of childish joy. Finally, he let out a long, resigned breath that fogged heavily in the air.
“Very well,” he conceded, his tone softening. “One last round. But you are the one seeking. Count to fifty. No peeking.”
A brilliant, triumphant grin split Zhuo Yichen’s face. He released his brother’s sleeve and bounced back on his heels. “Fifty! I will find you before you can even blink!”
“And when you do,” Yixuan said, already turning and beginning to walk backwards towards the maze of covered corridors and moon gates, his movements fluid and gentle, “you will march straight to the study and pick up your brush. Is that understood?”
“Understood! One… two…” Yichen immediately slapped his hands over his eyes, though his small fingers were splayed just enough to create a sliver of a gap. His voice rang out, loud and clear, counting into the frosty silence.
Zhuo Yixuan shook his head in fond amusement, the exasperation melting away into pure affection. He turned fully, the hem of his own light robe whispering against the snow-dusted stone as he moved to find a hiding place, the sound of his brother’s counting echoing behind him.
He slipped behind a large, ornamental rockery, its jagged form softened by a thick cap of snow. The seconds stretched, marked only by the distant, muffled call of his brother's voice.
"...Forty-eight, forty-nine... fifty! Ready or not, Dage, I'm coming!"
Yixuan pressed himself against the cold stone, a smile playing on his lips as he listened to the small, purposeful footsteps crunching through the courtyard.
He heard a rustle as Yichen checked behind a pillar, a soft grunt as he peered under a low bench. The sounds were a familiar, comforting melody.
But then, the melody stopped.
The playful footsteps ceased. The excited giggles vanished. An unnatural silence descended, broken only by the faint creak of a weighted branch.
A minute passed, then another.
The quiet was no longer peaceful; it was profound, and deeply wrong.
A cold dread, sharper than the winter air, pierced through Zhuo Yixuan’s composure. He stepped out from his hiding spot, his eyes scanning the empty courtyard.
"Xiao Zhuo?" he called, his voice tight. "The game is over. Come out now."
Only the wind answered.
His heart hammered against his ribs. He strode into the center of the courtyard, his gaze sweeping every shadow, every corner. Nothing.
Then, his eyes caught it: a set of small, scuffled footprints leading away from the main path, toward a rarely-used section of the outer wall. His breath hitched.
There, nearly obscured by a drooping pine bough, was a small, crumbling opening in the foundation—a place he had long since forgotten, a place a determined little boy could squeeze through.
"YICHEN!" he yelled, his voice cracking with a fear he had never known. He spun around, his calm facade shattering. "Guards! Servants! Everyone, to me, NOW!"
His command ripped through the serene estate, bringing it to a panicked standstill. "My brother is gone! Search the grounds! The forest! Move!"
Meanwhile, on the other side of the wall, Zhuo Yichen had forgotten all about the game. His entire world had narrowed to the flash of white—a snow-fur rabbit, its coat nearly indistinguishable from the landscape, moving with silent, hypnotic hops just beyond the wall. Curiosity, a force far stronger than obedience in a child's heart, had taken over.
He dropped to his hands and knees without a second thought, his breath puffing in quick, visible clouds as he wriggled through the cold, damp hole where the stone had crumbled.
The forest on the other side was a different realm. Deep, untouched snow swallowed his boots with a soft crunch, and an immense silence, broken only by the occasional plop of snow sliding from a branch, pressed in on him.
The rabbit, a ghost of winter, flickered between the gnarled trunks of ancient pines, their boughs bent low under heavy, pristine mantles.
“Wait…” he whispered, and the chase was on.
He stumbled forward, his small legs ploughing through powdery drifts that reached his thighs. The rabbit danced ahead, a fleeting spirit leading him deeper. Icy branches, freed from their snowy burdens, snagged at his silk robes.
The air grew colder, sharper, smelling of pine resin and frozen earth. He pushed on, his focus absolute, weaving between silver-barked birches that stood like silent sentinels.
With a final, desperate lunge, he threw himself forward, tumbling into a soft drift. His small arms closed, and there was a burst of warmth—the soft, frantic creature was caught.
"Got you!" he gasped, a triumphant grin breaking across his wind-chapped face. He sat up, cradling his prize.
He patted the downy fur, marveling at its perfection—white as the first snow, with eyes like twin drops of molten ruby. It trembled against him, a captive heartbeat fluttering against his own.
But as he looked up, his grin froze.
The tall, familiar wall of his home was gone. Vanished. In every direction stood a silent, endless army of snow-laden trees, their interlaced branches weaving a vast, skeletal canopy against the leaden grey sky.
His own footprints, his only tether to home, were already being erased by the relentless, gentle fall of fresh snow.
A cold far deeper than winter’s chill seized his heart.
The once-marvelous rabbit now felt like a leaden weight in his arms. The thrill of the hunt curdled in his stomach, souring into a sharp, rising panic. He scrambled to his feet, turning a frantic, clumsy circle.
The trees seemed to lean in, watching.
"Dage?!" he called out, his voice pitifully small and thin, swallowed by the muffling stillness. "Yixuan! Dage, where are you?!"
Only the soft hush of falling snow answered. The comforting sounds of his brothers' play were now a cruel memory, twisting into pure dread. He was utterly alone.
"Dage! I'm here! I'm scared!"
His cries were absorbed by the immense, indifferent silence. The forest, majestic and unforgiving, offered no comfort.
ʚଓ✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦ʚଓ
With every desperate step Zhuo Yichen took, the shadows on the monstrous tall trees bled across the path, contorting into grasping claws that seemed to reach for the hem of his fine coat. The last sliver of twilight bled from the sky, surrendering to a deep, impenetrable indigo.
He was well and truly lost.
Each gnarled root and snow-drifted rock was a mocking replica of the last, a featureless maze designed to confound him. The elegant panic that once fluttered like a caged bird in his chest now gripped him in a vise of pure terror. His breath tore from his throat in ragged, hitched sobs, each one a puff of frantic mist that hung briefly in the rapidly crystallizing air. The dark was no longer an absence of light; it was a tangible, suffocating entity, making the familiar forest floor treacherous and every shadow a potential monster.
Finally, his small, exhausted legs buckled. He crumpled beneath the skeletal embrace of a massive pine, the impact jarring up his spine. Drawing his knees to his chest, he curled into himself, his small fingers clutching the only warmth he had left—the trembling white rabbit pressed tightly against his heart.
He was just a child, the thought was not a comfort, but a condemnation.
A boy who had never known a want unmet, a fear un-soothed.
A boy whose world had been meticulously bounded by the lacquered gates and high walls of the Zhuo residence. His greatest hardships were a stern word from his father or his brother’s rare, gentle disapproval. He had never felt true, gnawing hunger, or this kind of bone-deep cold that his expensive fur coat could not hope to repel. A pathetic hiccup escaped him, the sound devoured instantly by the immense, waiting stillness of the woods.
Then, a new rhythm punctured the silence.
Crunch.
A branch snapped, too heavy to be the snow. A low, guttural rustle echoed from the thicket to his left. The wind, once a whisper, now climbed into a mournful howl through the pine needles, a chorus of lost souls. And then it came—a long, quavering howl that sliced through the gale, raw and hungry. It was answered from a distant ridge, then another, closer. Wolves.
Zhuo Yichen flinched violently, pressing his back into the rough bark as if he could will himself into the tree and vanish. His tears, unchecked, froze upon his lashes, glazing his vision.
“Dage…” he whimpered, his voice a broken thread of sound swallowed by the night. “Father… please… someone find me…”
But his words were meaningless, pitiful things against the gathering predatory symphony. No indulgent elder brother emerged from the gloom with a reassuring smile. No stern father arrived with a retinue of torch-bearing guards. There was only the consuming cold, the starving dark, and the echoing howls that seemed to tighten a noose around his little clearing.
Zhuo Yichen squeezed his eyes shut, burying his face in his knees, trying to block out the haunting sounds and the rustling that seemed to creep closer with every ragged breath he took. He was trembling uncontrollably, the luxurious garments and coat doing little to stave off the deep, seeping chill of despair.
I am going to die here, the realization was as sharp and final as an ice dagger plunging into his heart. Because I did not listen. Dage… Father… I am so sorry…
Just as the darkness behind his eyelids threatened to become permanent, a change shuddered through the air.
The crushing pressure of the gloom lightened. A gentle, golden warmth bloomed against his frozen cheeks, permeating his closed eyelids. It felt impossible, surreal—a memory of summer sun. Then, a voice, calm and clear as a mountain spring, cut through the cacophony of his fear.
“Don’t be afraid.”
Zhuo Yichen’s head jerked up. His tear-blurred vision, streaked with frozen crystals, scanned the gloom, desperately seeking the source of that impossible solace.
His breath caught.
Hovering in the air around him, as if the very night had begun to breathe, were dozens of tiny, pulsating spheres of soft golden light. They drifted like living embers, weaving gentle patterns in the dark—a constellation of impossible fireflies in the dead heart of winter. And within their gentle glow, a figure began to coalesce from the shadows between the trees.
If he had been a few years older, with the cynicism and worldly knowledge of the Zhuo family’s eldest son, Zhuo Yixuan, he might have questioned the impossibility. Fireflies in deep winter? A boy untouched by the snow? It was a scene that defied nature. But for eight-year-old Zhuo Yichen, whose world was still woven with threads of wonder, his only response was a shuddering exhale of relief. His tense little shoulders, hunched nearly to his ears, softened and sank down.
The boy before him had gracefully crouched, bringing them to the same level. The ethereal lights swirled gently, casting a soft, golden halo that illuminated the stranger’s face and pushed the oppressive forest shadows back several paces.
He appeared to be Yichen’s age, yet he was a creature of contrast. His hair was a breathtaking cascade of moon-white silk, intricately woven into a single, heavy braid that rested over his shoulder. It was adorned with delicate, pearl-like orbs and tiny silver leaves that chimed softly with his every slight movement, catching and refracting the gentle light. His robes were simple, pristine linen, seemingly untouched by the biting cold or the grime of the forest floor. His hands were held open, palms up—a gesture of pure, unthreatening offering.
Around them, the menacing orchestra of the forest—the growls, the rustles, the creaking bones of the trees—faded into a distant, muffled hum, as if held at bay by the sphere of tranquility.
“Wow…” Zhuo Yichen breathed, the word a puff of stolen wonder. His fear, so absolute a moment ago, evaporated like morning mist under a sudden sun.
In his distraction, his numb fingers loosened. The snow-fur rabbit, sensing the shift, twitched its nose, then leaped from his slackened grip. It vanished into a thicket, a blur of white swallowed by the protective dark. A flicker of loss might have come later, but for now, Yichen was utterly entranced.
The white-haired boy smiled. It was a small, serene curve of his lips that seemed to calm the very air. “You see?” he said, his voice melodic and clear. “Where there is light, terror has no home. The forest is just a forest again.”
Zhuo Yichen could only stare, his blue eyes wide. He had met all the noble sons and daughters from surrounding clans; none were like this. The boy’s features were finely carved, pale as jade, and his eyes… they were large, luminous, and held a placid depth that seemed to hold centuries, not years. The most striking thing, however, was his hair.
Finding his voice, still shaky but now laced with burning curiosity, Yichen asked, “Who are you? I am Zhuo Yichen of the Northern Zhuo family. I have never seen you in these woods.” His gaze darted to the patiently offered hand. Flustered, he reached out, his small, cold fingers brushing against the other boy’s warm, steady palm as he was helped to his feet.
He stammered, “Thank you,” and instinctively brushed the snow from his now-damp robes, a nervous habit. He looked up, meeting those serene eyes again. “You… you are so young. Yet your hair is white. Why?”
The boy tilted his head, the trinkets in his braid chiming softly. He reached up, thoughtfully touching a strand of his own hair as if seeing it through Yichen’s eyes for the first time.
“My name is Zhu Yan,” he answered. A pause, then a gentle, inquisitive question. “And it has always been this color. Does it seem… strange to you?”
“No!” Zhuo Yichen said, perhaps a little too quickly. A faint blush warmed his cold cheeks. “I meant… it is like starlight caught on new snow. It is… beautiful.” He winced internally, realizing his forwardness. “I was rude. I apologize. I should only be thanking you for your help.”
The compliment, so earnest and artless, hung in the freezing air between them. Zhuo Yichen dropped his gaze to his snow-caked boots, suddenly shy. The other boy, though of similar age, seemed to carry a quiet gravity that made Yichen feel very small and very mortal.
Zhu Yan’s serene smile deepened, transforming into something warmer. A genuine spark of pleasure—and unmistakable amusement—lit his eyes. This flustered, sincere young master from the mortal world was, in a word, adorable.
He took a step closer. The constellation of fireflies adjusted their orbit, swirling around him like devoted attendants drawn to his tranquil presence. Their light deepened the quiet between the ancient trees, creating a pocket of stillness where the very cold seemed to hesitate.
“Thank you,” he said, his voice a soft murmur that blended with the tender hum of the lights. “No one has ever described it that way.” He glanced at the snow-laden branches, as if listening to a distant sound Yichen could not hear. “I heard a sorrowful sound nearby on my path and came to see. You seem to be lost,” he stated softly, not as a question, but as a simple fact, his luminous eyes holding Yichen’s. “These deep woods keep their secrets closely after dark. You should not be here.”
“I was chasing the rabbit,” Yichen admitted, the childish truth tumbling out. He peeked up through his lashes, half-expecting the mockery he might have received from other boys his age for such a simple, foolish reason. His cheeks burned anew. “I… I didn’t mean to go so far.”
Zhu Yan listened, his expression one of thoughtful absorption, devoid of any judgment. He simply nodded, as if the pursuit of a white rabbit was a perfectly understandable compass. “I see,” he said. Then, he extended his hand once more, his palm upturned and smooth in the ethereal glow. “Come. Those who search for you are near. Their torchlight bleeds through the trees just beyond the ridge. I will guide you to them.”
Hesitation flickered in Yichen for only a heartbeat—a final vestige of his family’s caution about strangers and the unknown. But the boy’s eyes held only a placid certainty. Swallowing, Zhuo Yichen reached out and placed his small, freezing hand into Zhu Yan’s.
The touch was a revelation.
It was not merely warm against his skin; a profound, comforting heat seemed to flow from that point of contact, traveling up Yichen’s arm to settle deep within his chest, banishing the core-deep chill that had taken root in his bones, and the last remnants of his distress melted away. In that moment, holding the hand of this mysterious boy, he felt more than safe. He felt a quiet, resonating sense of belonging, as if he had stumbled upon a missing piece of a puzzle he never knew lay incomplete.
ʚଓ✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦ʚଓ
With each step, the crisp snow crunched underfoot, a rhythmic counterpoint to the silent drift of the fireflies that orbited them. The insects formed a living, golden lantern that moved with the boys, pushing back the pressing dark of the wood.
Zhuo Yichen stuck close to Zhu Yan’s side like a burr. His small hand was a fist of desperate warmth, clenched tightly in the fabric of the older boy’s sleeve, his fingers interlocked with Zhu Yan’s. Every rustle in the underbrush, every distant, mournful cry of a night bird, made him flinch violently, his shoulder pressing against Zhu Yan’s arm.
“The forest has a hundred tongues after dark,” Zhu Yan observed, not unkindly. He glanced down at the terrified child clinging to him. “But do not let them deceive you. Most are far more frightened of the sound of your heartbeat than you are of their empty threats.”
Zhuo Yichen’s eyes darted toward a thicket where shadows seemed to coalesce and writhe. “I don’t believe that,” he mumbled, his breath puffing white in the chilly air. “They sound very brave to me.”
A soft, almost inaudible chuckle escaped Zhu Yan. The sound was like dry leaves skittering on stone. “A clever performance, then.” He steered them around a fallen log glittering with frost. “But let us ponder the real mystery. What folly possessed Young Master Zhuo to chase a white rabbit so deep into a wolf-claimed wood?” His large, luminous eyes slid toward Yichen. “You have the look of a boy who would trade his ‘Analects’ for a moment of mischief in the sun. Am I wrong?”
The accusation, so piercingly accurate, momentarily shattered Yichen’s wall of restlessness. He jerked his head up, a ready denial—I am a diligent student!—forming on his lips, which settled into an indignant pout. But the words evaporated.
Bathed in the gentle, bioluminescent glow of their firefly escort, Zhu Yan’s features were rendered in breathtaking, ethereal detail. The graceful slope of his nose, the perfect, sculpted bow of his lips, the way the pearlescent ornaments in his white jade hair seemed to drink the soft light and pulse with their own inner moon-glow… He was not merely handsome; he was a vision from a dream-painting, something utterly separate from the muddy, fearful reality of the forest. The most beautiful being Zhuo Yichen had ever seen.
“I… I do not always skip my calligraphy,” Yichen managed, his voice a thin whisper. The heat that rushed to his cheeks now had nothing to do with the winter chill. “It… it was just this once, I swear…”
“I believe you,” Zhu Yan said, but his tone was light and teasing. A true, bright grin finally appeared, making him look his age. “Little White Rabbit.”
The nickname, coupled with the grin, made Yichen’s entire face go beet red. “I’m not a rabbit!”
“You are,” Zhu Yan insisted, laughter in his voice. He reached out and poked Yichen’s warm, red cheek. “See? All fluffy and red. If we get lost, we can just use your face to light the way. No fire needed.”
Zhu Yan had been on his own secret errand, something he wasn’t supposed to do, when he’d heard the whimpers and seen the grey shapes slinking between the trees toward a small figure huddled by an oak. He knew what he was, and he knew he shouldn’t interfere. But the boy had been so small, so scared—just like any other child. So, before he could think better of it, he’d stepped forward, not fully understanding the power he’d nudged, and the wolves had simply… hesitated, then faded away.
The fireflies’ light seemed to soften, dusting the silent, snow-draped world in specks of gold.
Zhuo Yichen’s small, sincere voice cut through Zhu Yan’s thoughts, his wide, ocean-blue eyes fixed on his companion’s profile. “You… you are the one who is very pretty. Like a painting of a moon fairy from my storybook.”
Zhu Yan’s steady footsteps faltered for a half-second. A slow, delicate pink—the exact shade of a winter sunrise—bloomed high on his pale cheek. He quickly averted his gaze, his long, dark lashes fluttering down as he stared intently at the path of his own footprints. The unexpected, guileless compliment had struck a chord deep within his yao nature, one that hummed with both pleasure and a strange, new shyness.
“Do not… do not say such frivolous things,” he chided softly, the scold lacking any real heat. He cleared his throat, a puff of vapor in the cold air. “Where did a little rabbit learn to have such a honeyed tongue? Do you give such sweet words to every jiejie and gege you meet in the market?” he teased, trying to regain the upper hand.
Zhuo Yichen’s initial bravado faltered. He scuffed his boot in the snow, his freezing hand tightening in Zhu Yan’s. “No… I don’t,” he confessed, his voice small. “I don’t… have many friends. The other children say I’m too quiet. Or that my eyes are strange. No one my age wants to play for long.” A shadow of loneliness, familiar and heavy, passed over his small face.
A pang of something sharp and protective shot through Zhu Yan. He hadn’t meant to summon that sadness. “I…” he began, but before he could form an apology, Yichen’s head snapped up, the melancholy vanishing as if swept away by the wind. His expression was once again one of pure, adamant wonder.
“But you really are pretty!” he insisted, as if stating a fundamental truth of the universe.
Zhu Yan couldn’t help the small, helpless chuckle that escaped him. The other child’s resilience was disarming. “Handsome will do,” he corrected gently, his own earlier fluster melting into a warm fondness. “After all, the rabbit clinging to my sleeve is the true ‘pretty’ one. Look at you—such long lashes, cheeks like peach blossoms, and eyes…”
He stopped, turning fully to face Yichen, his gaze thoughtful and serious. “Your eyes. Has anyone ever told you about your eyes?”
Yichen shrunk back a little, the old insecurity returning. “People say they’re weird. That they’re like a yao’s, or a foreigner’s. No one in my family has them. I… I don’t think they’re pretty.”
“Then they are blind,” Zhu Yan stated, his voice firm and leaving no room for argument. He leaned in a little, as if sharing a secret. The fireflies drifted closer, haloing them both. “Your eyes are not ‘weird.’ They are the color of the sky just after the ice breaks on the deepest lake. They are the color of a luan bird’s feather I saw once, in a place very far from here. It is a rare and clear blue.” He gave Yichen’s hand a little squeeze. “Do not heed foolish words. You should be proud. I think they are the best part of you.”
Zhuo Yichen felt his entire face grow so hot he was sure the snow around his feet would melt. He tried to sputter a protest, but no sound came out. He buried his burning face momentarily against Zhu Yan’s shoulder, then peeked up again. “You’re just saying that to be nice.”
“I am a… a boy from the mountains,” Zhu Yan said, catching himself and drawing himself up with a playful, exaggerated dignity. “We have good eyesight. It is a fact, little rabbit. Your eyes are like treasure.”
“Well… your hair is like a waterfall of moonlight,” Yichen countered shyly, emboldened. He reached out a tentative, mittened finger to touch a strand that had escaped near Zhu Yan’s cheek. “So white and soft.”
“And your nose is currently as red as a cherry from the cold,” Zhu Yan said, gently nudging the tip of Yichen’s nose with his own knuckle, deftly changing the subject from his own unusual features.
“Yours isn’t! It’s not fair. You’re not even shivering.” Yichen observed, clutching Zhu Yan’s hand tighter. The other boy’s skin was cool, not cold, and he moved through the bitter night as if it were a mild spring evening.
“That,” Zhu Yan said, a mysterious, knowing glint in his own dark eyes, “is because I am thinking very warm thoughts.” He started walking again, gently pulling Yichen along. “Come. Your family’s hearth will be warmer than any compliment. And your cheeks will finally match your nose.”
Emboldened by the shared warmth and whispered compliments, Zhuo Yichen’s small hand shifted within Zhu Yan’s hold. He carefully uncurled his icy fingers and slipped them down, interlacing them tentatively with the other boy’s bare, warmer ones. He peered up, his ocean-blue eyes wide with a cautious, vulnerable hope.
Zhu Yan’s breath hitched, a tiny, surprised sound, but he did not pull away when the fingers laced tighter than earlier. Instead, after a heartbeat suspended in the frozen silence, his own small, elegant fingers slowly curled, closing around Yichen’s hand in a secure, answering clasp. It was a silent confession, an admission that the strange, fuzzy warmth blooming in his own chest was mirrored.
For a moment, they simply stood amidst the sighing pines, two small figures connected in the drifting gold of the fireflies. It was a wordless understanding, a pull as instinctive and undeniable as gravity—a seedling of an attraction that, in another life watered by time, might have grown into a forest of its own.
They began to walk again, hand-in-hand, their linked forms a single silhouette against the endless dark.
It was Zhu Yan who stopped first, his body tensing. His grip on Yichen’s hand tightened. “Look,” he whispered, the word barely stirring the air.
Through a break in the ice-rimed trees, the warm, wavering glow of torchlight stained the distant darkness. Carried on a brittle wind came the distant, frantic calls: “A-Chen! Zhuo Yichen!” The voice was ragged with anxiety.
The spell was broken. Reality rushed back in. Zhu Yan’s hand began to slip from Yichen’s, the movement slow and filled with a tangible reluctance that made the parting ache before it was complete.
“You are safe now,” he said, his voice carefully neutral. “You should go to them. They have been searching for a long time.” He paused, his sharp hearing picking out one particular voice strained with desperation. “Your brother… he sounds the most frantic of all.”
“I guess this this is where we will part.”
A panic, colder and more desolate than any fear of wolves, seized Zhuo Yichen’s heart. He clutched Zhu Yan’s retreating hand with both of his, holding on with all his small strength. “Wait!” The plea was ripped from him. “Will I… will I ever see you again, Zhu Yan gege?”
The honorific, so earnestly given, struck Zhu Yan like a physical blow. His expression softened, then clouded with a melancholy that seemed to age his youthful features. He looked at the human boy, so fragile and full of light, and the vast, unbridgeable chasm between their natures yawned before him. He had gotten carried away, pretending for a moment they were just two boys in the snow.
“The world is vast, Xiao Zhuo,” he said, the name a soft, stolen intimacy. “Our paths… are not meant to cross. It is better if you forget this night. Forget me.” The words were ashes in his mouth, but he believed them to be a necessary cruelty, a kindness in disguise.
The dejection that washed over Yichen was a physical thing. His shoulders crumpled inward, his head bowed, and his eyes, those brilliant blue pools, welled with tears that caught the firefly light. He looked utterly devastated—a young seedling whose first glimpse of sun was being brutally taken away.
Seeing that profound sorrow, Zhu Yan’s resolve crumbled. A soft, resigned sigh escaped him, fogging the air. “Ah, little rabbit, do not make such a face,” he murmured, his voice thick. “You’ll freeze your tears.” He finally gave up the pretense of distance. Reaching out, he used his thumb to gently, so gently, brush a single, escaping tear from Yichen’s chilled cheek. “I live here,” he confessed quietly. “In this forest.”
Yichen’s brow furrowed in adorable confusion. He glanced around at the oppressive, uninhabited wilderness. “Here? But… it’s all snow and trees. There are no houses. No fires. How can you live here?” Then, hope sparked anew, blazing in his gaze. “You can come with me! Live at my residence! My father, my brother… they would welcome you! I know they would!”
Zhu Yan’s heart ached. He offered only that same serene, enigmatic smile, “This forest is my home, little rabbit. I promise you, I am where I belong.”
Before Yichen could protest further, Zhu Yan brought his free hand to the intricate braid woven into his snowy hair. His fingers worked deftly, untying one of the smallest, most luminous white orbs nestled there. It was no bigger than a pea, its surface smooth as polished jade and strangely warm to the touch, pulsing with a steady, inner rhythm like a tiny heartbeat. He pressed it firmly into the center of Yichen’s palm and folded the boy’s fingers over it, his own hand enveloping Yichen’s fist.
“Keep this safe. Hide it well,” he instructed, his tone shifting into one of profound solemnity. “If you are ever in true need, or in grave danger—only then—crush it. No matter where I am, I will know. And I will come to you.” He leaned closer, their foreheads almost touching. “It contains… a piece of my spirit.”
Zhuo Yichen stared, awestruck, at his own closed fist, feeling the warm, living pulse of the gift against his skin. When he looked up, his question—“How can it contain a part of you?”—already on his lips, it was too late.
Zhu Yan was already stepping back, his form blending into the deep shadows of the pines. The fireflies dimmed, their light withdrawing with him, winking out one by one until the last golden speck vanished into the darkness.
He was gone, leaving no trace but the memory of his touch, the ghost of his silver-white hair in the moonlight, and a single, glowing promise—a piece of a yao’s soul—cupped protectively in a human boy’s hand.
ʚଓ✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦ʚଓ
The warmth of Zhu Yan’s hand still lingered on his skin, a phantom touch more vivid than the biting cold. The memory of starlit hair and a kind, knowing smile eclipsed the distant torchlight in Zhuo Yichen’s mind. His small fist, clenched tightly and felt the steady, living pulse of the hidden orb—a secret heartbeat against his own. Will I ever truly see him again? The thought was a fresh, private ache, deeper than any chill.
He was so adrift in this new, yearning sorrow that he flinched violently when a sudden, heavy weight—a cloak of dense, luxurious fur—settled over his own worn one, draping him in immediate, suffocating warmth.
He looked up, startled, into the face of his elder brother. Zhuo Yixuan’s usual impeccable composure lay in tatters. His handsome face was etched with a pallor that rivaled the snow, strands of ink-black hair escaping his formal guan to cling to his damp temples. But it was his eyes that held Zhuo Yichen captive—they were a maelstrom, blazing with a terror so profound it stripped away every layer of the poised young master, leaving raw, frantic relief in its wake.
His hands, usually so steady holding a brush or sword, now framed Yichen’s face, tilting it left and right with a touch that trembled. His thumbs brushed over smudges of dirt and a faint scratch on one cheek, cataloging each minor flaw with the intensity of a physician diagnosing a mortal wound.
“Xiao Zhuo!” The name was not spoken but torn from him, a raw, choked sound that seemed to hurt his own throat. The initial, careful inspection vanished. Yixuan’s hands flew to his little brother’s shoulders, gripping them not in an embrace, but with a desperate, anchoring force, as if Zhuo Yichen might dissolve into the night mist. The visible relief was instantly swallowed by a towering, white-hot wave of anger born from that very fear.
“Have the spirits stolen your wits?!” Yixuan’s voice, usually so measured and refined, thundered through the frozen silence like a whip. It echoed off the old trees, making the assembled guards and servants flinch and bow their heads lower, understanding the pure, undiluted dread that fueled the fury.
They had witnessed the elder young master’s relentless, hours-long search, his composed facade crumbling with each passing moment in the relentless snow. “What madness possessed you to run into these cursed woods alone? In this dark? In this season?” He gave Yichen a slight, frantic shake. “Do you have any conception of what inhabits this forest after sunset? Of what could have found you?!”
Torchlight guttered and flared around them, casting monstrous, leaping shadows that seemed to act out every horrific possibility Yixuan’s mind had conjured in the long, desperate hours. The light carved deep lines of strain around his eyes and mouth.
Zhuo Yichen’s head drooped until his chin touched his chest. The glorious, golden memory of the firefly-lit path and the boy with white hair was utterly extinguished, drowned in the flood of his brother’s fear. A scalding wave of shame washed over him, prickling behind his eyes and tightening his throat. He stared fixedly at the intricate embroidery on his brother’s snow-dusted boots, each harsh word landing with a heavier, more crushing weight than any bamboo switch.
“I… I’m sorry, Dage,” he whispered, the apology a thin, broken sound swallowed by the thick fur at his collar. A hot tear finally escaped, tracing a path through the grime on his cheek. “I was wrong. I was foolish. I should never have run off…”
Yixuan was not finished. The dam of his worry had broken, and the words continued to pour out in a torrent, each one a sharp stone of reprimand. “Sorry? Sorry does not mend a broken neck! ‘Foolish’ does not describe it—it was a recklessness bordering on tragedy! Do you think my heart is made of iron, that it could withstand not knowing if you were alive or lying frozen in a ditch, or worse? Our father is away, and your safety is my sacred charge! What would I have told him? What would I have told our mother’s spirit?”
He continued, his voice a mix of scolding, pleading, and furious relief, listing every danger, every protocol broken, every moment of agony his disappearance had caused. Zhuo Yichen stood perfectly still, head bowed, silently absorbing the storm. He did not speak, did not defend himself. He merely let the words fall over him, each one a penance for the worry he’d caused, even as his other hand, hidden in the folds of the new fur cloak, tightened protectively around the warm, pulsating secret in his pocket.
The fire of Zhuo Yixuan’s anger drained from him as swiftly as a snuffed candle, leaving behind a hollowed-out exhaustion that seemed to settle in his bones. He let out a long, shuddering sigh, the tension melting from his shoulders, and pulled his little brother into a tight, fierce embrace.
His own frame trembled slightly—a final, released tremor of the terror that had gripped him for hours.
“Don’t you ever,” he murmured, the words muffled into Yichen’s cold hair, his voice now soft and frayed at the edges, “ever scare me like that again. Please, Xiao Zhuo.”
Yichen buried his face in the rich fur of his brother’s robe, the familiar scent of sandalwood and safety finally registering. “I won’t, Dage. I promise.”
“Good.” Yixuan pulled back, his hands resting firmly on Yichen’s shoulders as he composed himself with a visible effort. He offered a small, strained smile that didn’t quite reach his weary eyes. “Come. Let’s return home. You must be frozen through and starving.”
He took Yichen’s small, cold hand firmly in his own, then gave a curt, grateful nod to the ring of anxious servants and guards who bowed deeply in return. The party turned as one, lanterns and torches held aloft, casting a pool of wavering, golden light that pushed back the forest’s gloom as they began the solemn trek back toward the manor’s distant glow.
Yichen shuffled close to his brother’s side, their linked hands swinging slightly. The silence that fell between them was thick, broken only by the rhythmic crunch of booted feet on packed snow, the hiss of torches, and the distant sigh of the wind in the pines. It was a heavy quiet, filled with Yixuan’s lingering worry and Yichen’s swirling guilt and private wonder.
After a long while, as the treeline began to thin, Yichen’s curiosity—a stubborn, bright flame—finally overpowered his residual shame. He peeked up at his brother’s stern profile.
“Dage?” he ventured, his voice a tentative thread in the cold air.
“Hm?”
“Are there… are there any deities? Or forest gods… that live in these woods?” He kept his gaze forward, trying to sound casually inquisitive.
He was young, but Zhuo Yichen was far from stupid. The clues were a constellation in his mind: hair white as fresh snow, skin untouched by the bitter cold, a claim that this deep, wild forest was his home. He had heard whispers of yao from his unconventional Aunt Wen Xiao during her visits, though the stories were always fragments, shrouded in mystery and the adults’ hushed tones.
Yixuan’s steps did not falter, but his grip on Yichen’s hand tightened almost imperceptibly. He glanced down, his sharp eyes missing little. “Why do you ask, Xiao Zhuo?” His voice was carefully neutral, a mask of calm over sudden caution. “Did you… see something unusual out there?”
Yao were frequently spoken of with fear, as tricksters or monsters in the cautionary tales told to children. A instinct deeper than fear told Yichen he could not reveal Zhu Yan. Not his name, not his face, not the warm secret currently pulsing like a second heart within his clenched fist, hidden in the folds of his borrowed fur cloak.
Yichen’s cheeks flushed. He pouted, looking away at the skeletal branches clawing at the sky. “No one,” he mumbled, the lie clumsy on his tongue. “I was just… wondering. The woods felt very old.”
Yixuan studied the top of his brother’s head for a long, silent moment. The only sounds were the march of their retinue and the crackle of flames. Finally, he sighed—a resigned, weary sound that fogged the air between them.
“There are no revered mountain gods in this forest, Xiao Zhuo. Not anymore.” He gazed ahead, into the darkness they were leaving behind. “But the elders and the perimeter guards… they speak of a white ape yao that has made its territory in the deepest parts of these woods. A solitary one. It keeps to itself and causes no trouble.” He paused, his voice dropping a fraction. “That does not mean it is harmless. Even a young yao in the demonic realm possesses power. Whether it becomes a threat… depends entirely on its intention, and on what provokes it.”
“A yao?” Yichen frowned, his childish brow furrowing. He thought of Aunt Wen Xiao’s fascinated murmurs, so different from the servants’ fearful whispers. The common teachings were indeed simple and stark. “But… the tutors and the stories… they say all yao are evil. That they trick and hurt humans.”
Yixuan stopped walking. The entire procession halted behind them. He turned, the torchlight carving dramatic planes of light and shadow across his face, making him look older and solemn. He placed a steadying hand on Yichen’s shoulder.
“That, little brother, is a simple truth for simple minds,” he said, his voice low and earnest, meant for Yichen’s ears alone. “I do not believe the world is so neatly divided. Tell me, is a blade evil? Only in the hand of a murderer. In the hand of a physician, it is a tool of salvation.”
He knelt in the snow, bringing his eyes level with Yichen’s wide, confused ones. “There are yao with kindness in their hearts, and humans with rot in their souls. We must never judge a being—any being—solely by its nature or its origin. To do so is the mark of a fool, and we are not fools.”
He searched Yichen’s face, saw the gears turning behind those unique blue eyes—not with fear, but with a dawning, profound thoughtfulness. Satisfied, Yixuan stood, brushing snow from his knees. He did not press further, simply took Yichen’s hand again and resumed leading him home, allowing the silence to return so the seedling of this complex idea could take root.
Perhaps, Zhuo Yixuan thought, his gaze scanning the dark tree line one last time, knowledge of this white ape for Xiao Zhuo could be the beginning of a wiser, less fearful understanding.
As the grand gates of the Zhuo residence came into view, warm light spilling onto the snow-packed path, the hidden orb in Yichen’s palm seemed to pulse in time with his own quickened heartbeat. It was no longer just a beautiful trinket. It was a tangible piece of a beautiful, otherworldly boy who was neither god nor the monster from tales, but something wonderfully, mysteriously in between.
And as the fear of the night fully receded, what blossomed in Zhuo Yichen’s chest was not dread, but a bright, irresistible pull of curiosity—a silent hope to one day turn that something in between into a name, a face, and a friend.