She had come to him the night before she left.
The underground complex was quiet. The refugees had eaten their evening meal and settled into their sleeping mats. The fire had burned down to embers. The roots in the walls pulsed with their slow, steady light. The mountain breathed.
Shen Yi had been packing. She had gathered a small bundle of supplies—dried fish, a waterskin, a roll of bandages, a torch. She had checked and rechecked the golden lines on her palms, watching the way they pulsed, feeling the warmth that never left her now. She had done everything she could think of to prepare. And then she had come to him.
She sat beside his stretcher, her legs folded beneath her, her hands resting in her lap. She was not wearing the faded grey tunic anymore—it had worn through at the elbows, torn at the hem, stained beyond repair. She had salvaged a new tunic from the stores, a rough homespun thing the color of old moss. It was too large for her, hanging loose around her thin shoulders. But it was clean. It was warm. It was hers.
Gu Yao lay on his stretcher, his eyes open, watching her. The stone had spread further since the canyon. It had consumed his left arm and his right leg. It had crept up his neck and into his throat. It had taken his taste. It was working on his voice—he could feel it, the words coming slower now, rasping out of a throat that was half stone.
But his eyes were clear. They were always clear.
“You should be sleeping,” he said. His voice was a dry rasp, barely audible. “You have a long walk tomorrow.”
“I can’t sleep,” she said. “I tried. I keep thinking.”
“About what?”
She was silent for a long moment. Then she looked at him—really looked at him, her dark eyes searching his face, tracing the lines that pain had carved into his skin. He had aged. Not just in the years since Qingzhou, but in the weeks since the canyon. The stone had aged him. The pain had aged him. The endless, grinding weight of survival had aged him.
But he was still here. He was still her Gu Yao.
“Do you remember Qingzhou?” she asked.
He blinked. “Of course.”
“I don’t mean the forge. I don’t mean the tea. I don’t mean the fifty years.” She paused. “I mean the day you found me. The day you brought me back. Do you remember what you said?”
He was silent for a long moment. Then he spoke.
“I said you were half-frozen. I said you were a fool for being out in the snow. I said you needed tea.”
She smiled. It was a small smile, fragile and fleeting, but it was real.
“You said you didn’t know who I was,” she said. “You said you didn’t care. You said I could stay as long as I needed.”
“I remember.”
“Why did you say that? You didn’t know me. I was a stranger. I could have been anyone—a spy, a thief, a danger.”
He looked at her. His grey eyes were soft.
“You were cold,” he said. “You were scared. You were alone. And I had been alone for a very long time. I knew what it felt like.”
She stared at him. Her eyes were wet.
“You saved my life,” she said. “You gave me a home. You gave me a name. You gave me fifty years of something I had never had before.”
Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.
“What was that?”
“A reason to stay.”
He closed his eyes. He could feel the warmth of her hand on his—the golden light pulsing faintly against his skin.
“I didn’t give you anything,” he said. “You gave me everything.”
She leaned forward and pressed her forehead to his. Her breath was warm on his skin.
“I’m scared,” she whispered. “I’m scared of what’s down there. I’m scared of what I’ll find. I’m scared of what I’ll become.”
“I know.”
“What if I can’t open the door? What if I’m not strong enough?”
“You are.”
“What if I open it and something terrible comes out? What if I make things worse?”
“Then we’ll deal with it. Together.”
She pulled back. She looked at him—his broken body, his stone limbs, his pale face, his clear eyes. He could not fight. He could not walk. He could not protect her. But he was still here. He was still with her. That was enough.
“A-Yao,” she said. “If you could go back—if you could stand on that platform again, with the seven nails in front of you, with the choice in front of you—would you still do it? Would you still shatter the Sky-Ladder? Would you still fall?”
He did not answer immediately. He closed his eyes. He thought about the Ascension Platform—the white jade, the divine light, the voice of his Master. He thought about the cages beneath the peak, the mortals with needles in their spines, the river of Mortal Rhyme flowing up to the sky. He thought about the fifty years he had spent in Qingzhou—the pain, the isolation, the slow, grinding torture of the nails. He thought about the Blood Road, the bone field, the canyon, the cities of the Sects. He thought about the people who had died so that others could live.
He thought about Shen Yi. Her tea. Her hands. Her voice. Her warmth. The way she had stayed with him through everything. The way she had never given up. The way she had taken his death into herself and given him back his life.
He opened his eyes.
“Yes,” he said. “I would do it again.”
She stared at him. Her eyes were wide.
“You would?”
“Yes.”
“Even knowing what it would cost? Even knowing the pain? Even knowing the fifty years?”
“Yes.”
She was silent. He reached out with his right hand—the only hand he could still move—and took hers. His fingers were trembling. His grip was weak. But he held on.
“I would do it again because it brought me to you,” he said. “I would do it again because it brought me to them. I would do it again because it gave me something worth fighting for.”
He paused.
“I would do it again because it was right.”
She closed her eyes. Tears were streaming down her face. She did not wipe them away.
“I was so afraid,” she whispered. “For fifty years, I was so afraid. I didn’t know who I was. I didn’t know what I was. I thought I was a curse. I thought I was a weapon. I thought I was something that would destroy everyone I loved.”
She opened her eyes and looked at him.
“But you never treated me like a curse. You never treated me like a weapon. You treated me like a person. You treated me like your wife. You treated me like someone who mattered.”
“Because you do matter,” he said. “You’ve always mattered.”
She leaned forward and kissed him—not on the forehead, not on the cheek, but on the lips. It was a soft kiss, gentle and warm, the kiss of a woman who had loved a man for fifty years and was still learning what that meant.
When she pulled back, she was smiling.
“I’ll come back,” she said. “I promise.”
“I know.”
“I’ll open the door. I’ll find the heart. I’ll save us all.”
“I know.”
She laughed. It was a small laugh, a fragile sound, but it was real.
“You have too much faith in me.”
“No,” he said. “I have just enough.”
She stayed with him for a long time. They did not speak. They did not need to. They simply sat together in the darkness, her hand in his, the golden light pulsing softly between them. The fire crackled. The water dripped. The roots pulsed with their slow, steady light.
And then, finally, she rose.
“I need to sleep,” she said. “Tomorrow will be hard.”
He nodded. “Sleep. I’ll be here.”
She leaned down and kissed his forehead. Then she walked to her sleeping mat and lay down. She was asleep within minutes.
Gu Yao lay on his stretcher and watched her. He watched the rise and fall of her breath. He watched the golden lines on her palms, still glowing faintly even in sleep. He watched the way her face relaxed, the way the tension eased, the way she looked—just for a moment—like the young woman he had found in the snow fifty years ago.
He did not sleep. He could not. But he rested. He lay there in the darkness, listening to the drip of water and the rustle of roots and the soft breathing of the woman he loved.
And he was content.
The next morning, she left.
He watched her walk to the tunnel entrance. He watched her adjust the bundle on her shoulder. He watched her turn back and look at him one last time. Her eyes were clear. Her face was calm. The golden lines on her palms glowed faintly in the dim light.
“I’ll be back before you know it,” she said.
“I know,” he said.
She smiled. Then she turned and walked into the darkness. Chen Tie followed. Xiao Liu followed. The two fighters followed. They disappeared into the tunnel, their torchlight fading, their footsteps echoing.
Gu Yao lay on his stretcher and watched until they were gone.
Then he closed his eyes.
And he waited.