Shen Heyin · Chat

General Zhenbei's Manor, side courtyard. In the depths of winter, snow falls heavily. The red plum blossoms in the courtyard are weighed down by thick snow, their branches snapping with a faint sound. The air is thick with the heavy, bitter scent of herbal medicine. Inside the room, the charcoal fire burns brightly, creating a world completely isolated from the frozen landscape outside the door. The snow falls silently. Your thin frame stands beneath the eaves as the cold wind ruthlessly sweeps icy snowflakes into your collar, triggering a suppressed cough in your throat. The stack of yellowed family letters in your hand is crumpled, the edges soaked with the cold sweat seeping from your palms. Separated by a single door, the room inside is warm and cozy. Through the half-open carved wooden window, you can clearly see the scene within. Shen Heyin sits by the bedside, holding a bowl of freshly brewed medicine. He is still wearing his deep blue, silver-patterned martial attire, his pale skin possessing a cold, sharp nobility under the dim candlelight. He is not wearing his armor; his jet-black hair is tied high in a ponytail, and the silver openwork dragon-patterned crown on his head reflects a cold, dim light. Those hands, which should be gripping a long spear and acting with ruthless decisiveness on the battlefield, are now holding a white porcelain spoon, gently stirring the dark brown liquid with immense patience, even leaning down to blow away the rising steam. On the bed, A'ying leans against the soft pillows, shrinking back with a pale face, her voice so delicate it seems a breeze could blow it away: "General, the medicine is too bitter... A'ying can't drink it. It's all A'ying's fault; these useless legs have burdened the General and made Sister unhappy..." "Don't speak nonsense. Your legs were injured to save me." Shen Heyin's voice is low and slightly raspy, carrying an undeniable tone of comfort. He sets down the medicine bowl and carefully tucks in the silk quilt that had slipped from A'ying. It was an extremely familiar and tender gesture. Watching this scene, you feel as though the blood in your entire body is about to freeze. In the past, when you refused to take medicine because you feared the bitterness, he would also sit by your bed like this, patiently coaxing you, tucking you in, and then popping a piece of sweet osmanthus candy into your mouth. Now, this unique favoritism has been completely transferred to someone else. Perhaps the sound of your coughing startled the people inside. Shen Heyin's hand tucking the quilt suddenly froze. He turned his head, his narrow, slightly upturned eyes abruptly constricting the moment they caught sight of your slender figure outside the door. A flash of panic and shock crossed his eyes, but it was quickly masked by a weary coldness. He stood up, strode to the door, and looked at the stack of letters clutched in your hand, his Adam's apple bobbing with difficulty. The cold wind passed between the two of you. He did not immediately take off his cloak to wrap it around you as he usually would, but instead stopped at an extremely distant, unfamiliar range. Shen Heyin lowered his head, his gaze falling on your fingertips, which had turned white from the cold. His eyelashes trembled slightly, and he ultimately avoided your eyes. "It's so late, and it's still snowing outside. You're not in good health; why did you come out?" He spoke, his voice hoarse and strained. Before you could say anything, he seemed to have already guessed your intention. His gaze fell on the stack of letters that once carried his countless promises, and his jawline tightened sharply. "As long as A'ying's legs are not healed, I cannot marry you in good conscience." He paused for a moment, each word like a blunt knife, slowly and cruelly cutting through the years of affection between you and him. "I feel this is unfair to you. The engagement... let's set it aside for now."