In the fireplace, dry pine logs crackled loudly.
Spattered sparks traced fleeting arcs through the cold air.
Mo Yin was wrapped in thick animal skins; beneath the blanket, her bare feet shifted restlessly.
Between her fingertips, she held a sharp tactical dagger.
In her other hand, she held a piece of birch wood that Shen Luolin had casually tossed to her.
The wood was hard, and she gripped the dagger, whittling away the excess edges bit by bit.
In the shadows across from her, Shen Luolin sat with downcast eyes, wiping his hunting bow.
A white cloth soaked in oil passed over the cold, hard body of the bow again and again. His movements were rhythmic, his fingertips brushing the bowstring with a dull resonance.
Mo Yin stopped what she was doing, her gaze shifting from the block of wood to his profile.
The firelight cast shifting shadows across his face, outlining the sharp bridge of his nose.
The strength in her hands suddenly grew much lighter.
Wood shavings fell with a rustle, clinging to the hem of her dress.
“Not finished yet?”
Shen Luolin’s voice rang out without warning—steady, deep, and without looking up.
Mo Yin was startled, the dagger nearly slicing her finger.
She quickly averted her gaze, hiding the shapeless piece of wood in her palm.
“Almost. What’s the rush?” Her voice was low and small.
“Something like that won’t become real, no matter how long you spend carving it.”
“Mind your own business!”
Mo Yin wrinkled her nose in dissatisfaction, and with her dagger, she spitefully carved a deep furrow into the wooden figure’s forehead.
That was his most frequent expression—a furrowed brow—though her carving was crooked and messy.
She scrutinized the half-finished product.
It really wasn’t much to look at; the proportions of the limbs were strange, and the facial features were just a few pits.
This killing dagger was too clumsy; it couldn’t capture his cold, distant demeanor that kept everyone at arm’s length.
Mo Yin pursed her lips as a thought flashed through her mind.
She held the wood carving in her palm, and at the tip of a finger on her other hand, a silver flame the size of a needlepoint flickered into existence.
The flame was nearly transparent, dancing quietly in the air, yet it contained staggering heat.
Holding her breath, she cautiously brought the flame close to the wooden figure’s face.
“Sizzle—”
The tiny splinters were instantly reduced to ash under the lick of the flame, and the rough wooden surface became as smooth as jade.
Controlling the flame again, she gave a light tap to the two pits representing eyes and swept quickly over the furrow representing the brow.
The wood scorched by the dragon flame instantly darkened, leaving two deep charred marks on the blurred face and a knitted brow.
That comical face miraculously gained a touch of spirit.
It now held a hint of the man himself—deep, indifferent, and slightly impatient.
A faint scent of burning wood mingled with the air.
Shen Luolin’s fingers, which were oiling the bowstring, paused for a moment. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the fleeting silver glow at her fingertip.
He didn’t say a word and continued his work, though the rhythm of his wiping was half a beat slower than before.
Mo Yin looked at her masterpiece with satisfaction.
Even if it was still ugly, it was at least an “ugly” that had heart put into it.
She shifted her body, and the floorboards groaned in protest.
Shen Luolin’s hand paused, but he remained silent.
Mo Yin slowly leaned closer to him.
There was a faint scent about him—one of ice, snow, and metal—mixed with the warmth of the fireplace that drifted into her nose.
The scent made her heart race, and even her breathing became cautious.
She reached out her hand, palm open.
The clumsy wood carving lay quietly in the lines of her palm, possessing a comical cuteness under the firelight.
“Here.”
Shen Luolin finally turned his head. He looked at the wooden figure, his brow twitching imperceptibly.
Mo Yin didn’t dare look into his eyes; she only stared at his hand, which was covered in small scars.
Her cheeks burned, and her voice was so soft it was nearly drowned out by the crackling fire.
“It’s for you. You’re not allowed to think it’s ugly.”
Shen Luolin didn’t speak. He set down the oil jar, and his fingertips rested on the piece of wood for a moment.
Mo Yin felt like prey captured by his gaze, seen through completely from the inside out.
He took the carving, his thumb brushing over the crooked, furrowed brow.
“Is this me?”
“What else? Is it supposed to be the snow fox I stabbed through the neck outside?”
Mo Yin retorted stubbornly, but her hands nervously gripped the edge of the blanket.
Shen Luolin let out an extremely soft, short laugh. The sound vibrated in his throat and vanished in an instant.
He didn’t give it back, nor did he toss it casually onto the table. In front of Mo Yin, he pulled open the collar of the shirt he was wearing.
A glimpse of his sexy collarbone flashed before her eyes as he tucked the rough wooden block into the inner pocket closest to his chest.
There, it sat right against his heart.
“It really is carved poorly.”
He buttoned his shirt, offering the evaluation in a flat tone that carried no hint of disdain.
Mo Yin was stunned.
She could imagine that the wood, still carrying the warmth of her fingertips, was now pressed against his warm skin through the thin fabric, rising and falling with his heartbeat.
The realization made her feel as if her entire being was on fire.
She quickly retreated to her original spot, burying herself in the animal skins, leaving only a pair of shimmering silver eyes exposed.
“So what if it’s ugly? You’re not allowed to lose it anyway.”
Shen Luolin didn’t argue further. He picked up his hunting bow again, his movements remaining calm and efficient.
Silence returned to the room.
Mo Yin listened to her own heart thumping like a drum. She felt that the birch wood hadn’t just been placed on his body; it had also nailed her feelings into this man’s heart—a heart so rational it bordered on cold.
This sensation burned all the way from her chest to her toes.
She wiggled her toes contentedly, the warmth of the animal skins making her drowsy.
She instinctively tried to wrap the blanket tighter around her, and her gaze drifted aimlessly across the room, finally landing on the wooden crate in the corner where supplies were piled.
And then, all her sounds and thoughts were choked off.
Shen Luolin was about to get up to add wood to the fire when he keenly caught Mo Yin’s sudden stiffness and the abrupt hitch in her breath.
He turned his head and saw the light in her originally bright silver eyes dim rapidly, like a candle flame being suddenly snuffed out.
Resting quietly on top of the crate was a flat iron tin.
She remembered this box.
It belonged to the Imperial Capital, to that woman in the deep blue dress who carried the scent of expensive incense. That woman had said, in a voice so gentle it was almost cruel, “When Luolin was in the Imperial Capital, his favorite was…”
This box, and the candied plums inside that she had never tasted, served as a constant reminder—between him and her, there was a world she could never cross.
In that world, there was Aila, their shared past, and an understanding she could never be part of.
And she, along with the earthy-smelling fish in her hand, was merely an accident on this wasteland.
The smile on Mo Yin’s face faded bit by bit. She lowered her eyelids, her long lashes concealing the surging waves of loss and inferiority in her eyes.
That was the world she had long since resolved to flee and take revenge upon with her own hands, yet now, it had caught up to her in this way.