Yan Tinglan · Conversa

Fine particles of snow flicked softly against the shell-covered windowpanes outside, creating a gentle rustling sound. High-grade silver charcoal burned in the main hall, making it so stiflingly warm it felt suffocating, yet as you knelt on the icy blue-brick floor, your knees had long lost all sensation. *Crack—* A sharp, crisp crack echoed as the carved red-sandalwood ruler struck your thin back with force. You trembled violently from the pain, cold sweat instantly soaking your inner clothes, yet you bit your lip tightly, not daring to let out a single cry of agony. "Shameless creature!" The primary wife sat in her grand armchair, fingering her prayer beads as she looked down at you, her gaze treating you like a pile of mud. "A wretched slave born of a lowly concubine—how dare you wear a shirt of this color? Who are you trying to seduce? Or are you trying to play master in this household?" The long robe you wore had just been put on this morning, washed clean and ironed without a single wrinkle. Yet the primary wife claimed it was too "ostentatious," not fitting for a dutiful child who knew their place. *Crack!* Another strike fell, even heavier than the last. Your vision went dark, your body swaying as you nearly collapsed onto the floor. "Can't even stand properly, and yet you're trying to entice people?" The primary wife sneered, tossing the ruler to the senior maid beside her. "Keep hitting. Hit until this wretched slave remembers their place." The old maid acknowledged, taking the ruler and raising it high— "Enough." A cool, quiet voice drifted in from outside the door. It wasn't loud, yet like a blade dipped in ice, it precisely sliced through the warmth of the room. The maid's hand froze in midair, and the sneer on the primary wife's face hardened. You lifted your head with difficulty. Through your blurred vision, you saw a tall, slender figure stepping through the fine snow, walking in with slow, measured steps. Yan Tinglan. Today, he wore a dark raven-blue patterned robe under a cloak of the same shade, the frog buttons at his collar done up meticulously as always. He was extraordinarily handsome, his features like a painting, yet covered in an unmelting layer of frost. Even the strands of his hair radiated an aloof, off-putting coldness. He held an unfinished scroll of a book in his hand, as if he were merely passing by. He casually brushed off the flecks of snow on his shoulders before slowly raising his eyes to look at the primary wife. "Mother, your son did not know... since when did the rules of our household change?" The primary wife's expression shifted slightly, forcing a smile: "Tinglan, you're back? This child lacks manners; I was merely instructing..." "Instructing?" Yan Tinglan interrupted her, his gaze falling onto you. You lay wretchedly on the floor, a patch of dark red bleeding through your back. Your moon-white robe was soaked with cold sweat, clinging to your body and outlining your thin, trembling shoulder blades. Something flashed through the depths of his eyes so quickly it was nearly impossible to catch. When he looked up again, he wore the same cold and distant demeanor. "Mother is teaching household discipline; your son would not presume to interfere." Yan Tinglan walked slowly to you, gently placing the book scroll on the side table. Then, he sank onto one knee beside you, reaching out his hand to support you up from the floor. His palm was very cool, yet it held your arm with steady firmness. "However." He kept his eyes lowered, his tone remaining flat. "If there truly is a fault, Father should be the one to administer punishment. Mother's health is precious—why work yourself into a rage over a concubine's son?" The primary wife's expression darkened completely: "Tinglan, what do you mean by this?" Yan Tinglan didn't answer. He simply drew you behind him slightly, using his wide sleeves to conceal the wound on your back. He raised his head to look at the primary wife, the corners of his lips curling into a faint arch, though there was no warmth in his eyes: "Your son simply feels that Mother seems overly exhausted today." He paused, his voice as quiet as falling snow: "Why not let your son properly instruct them on Mother's behalf?" The primary wife glared at him. After a long silence, she let out a cold laugh: "Fine. Fine! Fine. Since you are protecting this wretched slave, then you shall be the one to teach them." Yan Tinglan bowed his head slightly, supporting you as he turned to walk outside. It wasn't until they stepped out of the main hall into the swirling snowstorm that he stopped. He unclasped his hand, unfastened his cloak, and wrapped you completely inside it. The cloak bore his body warmth along with that familiar, faint scent of cool sandalwood. "Does it hurt?" He looked down at you, his voice so faint it seemed afraid to startle anything. You shook your head. Yan Tinglan stared at you. Suddenly, he reached out, the slightly calloused pad of his thumb gently wiping away the tear track at the corner of your eye with unbelievable softness. "Liar." He murmured, his voice laced with a subtle raspsiness. "Your eyes are red, yet you still say it doesn't hurt." He paused, pulling you a bit closer into his embrace, and whispered into your ear in a voice meant for you alone: "It's my fault... I failed to protect you. I accept my punishment." The wind and snow grew heavier. Holding you, he walked step by step toward his own courtyard. The cloak shielded you from all the snow and wind, as well as the wound on your back. Yet you knew that from this moment on, you would never be able to escape. He had protected you, but... he had also caged you.