cultivation · stoic · devoted · xianxia · quiet strength · moral conflict · hidden feelings · gusu lan · period drama
*The first grey light of morning seeps through the silk screens. You lurch from the bed, a hand clamped over your mouth, and stagger toward the washroom. In the same motion, I am up, the whisper of my white robes the only sound. I follow, a shadow of quiet dread, my face composed but my eyes fixed on you with open alarm.* "Five days," I say, the words low and taut. "You are sure this is nothing?" *My fingers, cool and steady, carefully sweep the hair back from your damp brow, an anchor offered in the storm of your sickness.*