Why hadn’t the guards announced his arrival?
Then again, for someone like Duan Ling, slipping past guards unnoticed was child’s play.
Duan Ling ascended the steps, crossed the threshold, and entered the room with eerily silent steps, like a specter.
“She’s gone.”
“She? Who are you talking about?”
Xia Zimo played dumb.
Duan Ling stopped before him.
“Lin Ting, Lin Leyun. She vanished last night.”
“Seventh Miss Lin, gone? When did this happen? How could she disappear without reason?”
Though Xia Zimo desperately wanted to bring Lin Ting back, he couldn’t let Duan Ling know he was already aware of the situation.
“Last night,” Duan Ling murmured, his wrist turning slightly, his gaze lowered.
“Indeed, how could she vanish without reason?”
Xia Zimo felt a chill crawl up his scalp at Duan Ling’s soft, silken tone.
Duan Ling’s fingers brushed the hilt of the embroidered spring dagger at his waist, then the slightly soiled sachet.
Abruptly, he asked, “Does Young Master Xia know where she is?”
Xia Zimo’s heart pounded like a war drum, though he kept his composure.
“How would I know where Seventh Miss Lin is? I haven’t seen her since the flower house, nor has she sought me out.”
“Is that so?”
“Why would I lie?” Xia Zimo moved toward the door.
“I’ll send men to help you search.”
Before he could step out, a flash of cold steel swept past his eyes, and an embroidered spring dagger rested against his neck.
The blade’s icy chill was terrifying.
Xia Zimo froze, glancing sideways.
“Lord Duan, what’s the meaning of this?”
Duan Ling applied the slightest pressure, the blade nicking Xia Zimo’s skin, leaving a thin line of blood.
His expression remained impassive.
“What do you think I mean, Young Master Xia?”
Xia Zimo felt under interrogation.
“You suspect I’m involved in Seventh Miss Lin’s disappearance?”
Duan Ling let out a soft laugh, pressing the blade deeper into Xia Zimo’s neck.
“So, Young Master Xia, are you or aren’t you?”
Though he addressed him respectfully, his actions showed no regard for Xia Zimo’s status.
The Imperial guards held the authority to arrest nobles and even execute without prior approval.
Even without that power, Duan Ling would find a way to kill if he so desired—just as he had with Prince Liang.
Duan Ling glanced at the blade.
“Drip, drip.”
Blood slid down the steel, pooling on the carpet.
Xia Zimo felt the weight of his killing intent but endured the pain.
“Seventh Miss Lin’s disappearance has nothing to do with me.”
Duan Ling hummed.
“Let’s say it doesn’t. But do you truly not know where she is now?”
As Xia Zimo opened his mouth to reply, Duan Ling cut in, his tone deceptively kind.
“Think carefully before you answer, Young Master Xia. I’d hate for my blade to slip and kill you by mistake.”
Xia Zimo clamped his mouth shut.
Duan Ling’s smile didn’t reach his eyes as he drew another shallow cut.
“My patience is thin today. I hope you’ll answer quickly.”
Xia Zimo’s wounds that day likely surpassed all he’d suffered before combined.
“I’ll bring Seventh Miss Lin back tomorrow.”
“She’s with Xie Qinghe?”
Xia Zimo’s eyes widened, realizing his mistake.
“You knew I’ve been in contact with Little Five.”
Duan Ling’s smile faded.
“I don’t care what you and Xie Qinghe are plotting. Just answer me—is she with him?”
Xia Zimo hesitated, then admitted, “Yes.”
Duan Ling didn’t lower the blade.
“Why did Xie Qinghe take her?”
Xia Zimo withheld the truth about Jin Anazi being the former dynasty’s prince.
“I don’t know, but I swear Little Five would never harm her.”
The blood on Duan Ling’s blade grew thicker.
“Oh, Xie Qinghe would never harm her, so that makes it fine to abduct her?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
Xia Zimo’s gaze dropped to the blood pooling at his feet, the sting in his neck a sharp reminder of his misfortune.
This wasn’t his doing, yet here he was, staring down the threat of death.
The true culprit—Uncle Gui, who’d acted over Xie Qinghe’s head—remained untouched.
Xia Zimo could’ve cursed the heavens.
Good fortune never found him, but calamity clung to him like a shadow.
His thoughts drifted to Duan Xingning, and a pang gripped his chest.
His father’s involvement in the rebellion had kept him from proposing to her, and now she was lost to him forever.
Duan Ling cut through his melancholy reverie.
“I want to see Lin Leyun tonight. If I don’t, I’m afraid Young Master Xia will find himself… inconvenienced.”
Xia Zimo’s heart sank.
“Tonight? Can’t it be tomorrow? Rest assured, Seventh Miss Lin will be safe.”
Uncle Gui would be at the camp all day, leaving only for a brief window tomorrow—a perfect chance to free Lin Ting.
Acting tonight risked discovery, and with Uncle Gui’s stubborn streak, he’d never let her go.
Duan Ling’s eyes curved with a faint, unyielding smile.
“I said tonight.”
Xia Zimo felt like throwing himself into the abyss.
“Fine. I’ll write to Xie Qinghe now and have him bring Seventh Miss Lin back tonight.”
Duan Ling finally sheathed his embroidered spring dagger, the blood on its tip gleaming as it slid back into place.
He acted as if he hadn’t just come within a breath of killing Xia Zimo, offering a polite, “My thanks, Young Master Xia.”
Fearing delay, Xia Zimo ignored his bleeding neck and scribbled the letter, sending it off without pause.
While Xia Zimo wrote, Duan Ling wiped the blood from his dagger, then sat quietly sipping tea, his demeanor as calm as ever.
Yet his grip on the teacup betrayed him—fingers clenched tight, knuckles whitening, veins bulging faintly on the back of his hand.
Xia Zimo, tending to his neck alone in front of a mirror, winced with every touch.
“Tonight, I’ll go with you to meet Seventh Miss Lin outside the city.”
As a nobleman’s heir and an Imperial commander, slipping past the city gates wouldn’t be an issue.
Duan Ling set down his teacup.
“Very well.”
Xia Zimo glanced at the cup and froze. Cracks spiderwebbed across its surface, a silent testament to Duan Ling’s barely restrained fury.
***
That night, heavy clouds smothered the sky, blotting out stars and the moon.
A thick fog cloaked the city and its outskirts, lending an eerie stillness to the world.
Lin Ting emerged from Jin Anazi’s tent, where she’d been checking on him.
Xie Qinghe, who’d been waiting outside, approached her, clutching a letter he’d just read.
Abruptly, he said, “I’m sending you away tonight.”
She hadn’t peeked at the letter, wary it might contain secrets that could trap her here.
“Wasn’t it supposed to be tomorrow? Why the change?”
Still, leaving sooner meant fewer chances for complications.
Xie Qinghe hesitated, then handed her the letter.
“Read it, and you’ll understand.”
Lin Ting scanned its contents quickly.
Duan Ling knew of Xia Zimo’s secret dealings with Xie Qinghe.
That wasn’t the point, though.
The real question was how Xie Qinghe planned to sneak her out of the camp tonight.
She’d felt Uncle Gui’s strength when he knocked her out last night—she wasn’t eager to test it again.
Her brow furrowed with worry.
Xie Qinghe thought for a moment.
“I’ll find someone to distract Uncle Gui while I get you out of the camp.”
A quarter of an hour later, his plan worked.
With Uncle Gui occupied, Lin Ting slipped away under Xie Qinghe’s protection.
Perhaps the heavens were on their side—the escape went smoothly.
Xie Qinghe brought no men with him.
He had no trusted confidants of his own; the guards who usually protected him answered to Uncle Gui.
If they caught wind of his plan to free Lin Ting, Uncle Gui would know in an instant.
So, he escorted her alone.
He didn’t take her all the way to the city gates, stopping instead a few miles short, where Duan Ling and Xia Zimo waited.
Each held the reins of a horse, standing on a stretch of open grassland.
Xie Qinghe’s gaze settled first on Duan Ling.
The man’s face was as refined as polished jade, his tall frame striking against the night.
His crimson robes swayed lightly in the breeze, the jade hairpin in his hair tinkling faintly, its bell audible only up close.
At Duan Ling’s waist hung not only his embroidered spring dagger but two identical sachets.
The sight of them jogged Xie Qinghe’s memory—Lin Ting’s question earlier about her lost sachet.
He stopped in his tracks, turning to her with a heavy heart.
“Seventh Miss Lin, on behalf of Uncle Gui, I’m truly sorry.”
Lin Ting’s hand brushed the back of her neck, where the memory of Uncle Gui’s blow lingered.
If he wanted her forgiveness, she’d need to knock him out in return.
She said nothing.
Xia Zimo, who’d endured Duan Ling’s “gentle” torment all day, felt like a man pulled back from death’s edge at the sight of Lin Ting.
“Seventh Miss Lin!”
Duan Ling’s head tilted toward him.
Xia Zimo clamped his mouth shut, the lesson of Duan Ling’s smile—sharp as a hidden blade—etched into his memory.
He’d felt that blade’s bite too many times today.
Lin Ting hadn’t forgotten how Xia Zimo had broken Duan Xingning’s heart.
She gave him no warmth, brushing past him to stand by Duan Ling.
Words failed her—she’d lied to Duan Ling before, claiming no connection to Xie Qinghe.
How was she supposed to explain this?
Her head ached.
It was all that damned general’s fault, scheming to kidnap her.
Fine.
She’d deal with Duan Ling’s questions when they came.
For every attack, a defense; for every flood, a dam.
Xia Zimo didn’t intrude on their moment.
Leading his horse, he approached Xie Qinghe to escort him back.
Xie Qinghe, without guards and untrained in martial arts, wouldn’t be safe returning to the camp alone.
“Let’s go,” Xia Zimo said.
“I’ll see you back.”
Xie Qinghe’s eyes lingered on Lin Ting and Duan Ling before shifting to Xia Zimo’s heavily bandaged neck.
“What happened to your neck?”
“Don’t ask.”
The pain still throbbed, barely dulled by the salve he’d applied.
Lin Ting watched their retreating figures, hesitating briefly before tugging at Duan Ling’s wrist guard.
“Let’s head back too.”
Duan Ling nodded.
In the next instant, he drew his embroidered spring dagger and hurled it through the night.
The blade sliced through the evening breeze, carrying a lethal intent, aimed straight at Xie Qinghe, who hadn’t yet gone far.