The clapping was slow. Deliberate.

Ji Ming’s hand flew to his sabers. I froze, my breath caught in the spiral we had just broken. The herb shed walls seemed to lean inward, pressing us toward the sound.

Then she appeared.

Kang Ya Zhen, framed by the pale lantern light at the alley’s edge. Vermilion silk brushed the ground like fire trailing behind her. Her fan rested closed against her palm, but her eyes glittered with something sharper than steel.

“You chose a dangerous hour for a tryst,” she said, voice soft but slicing.

I stepped forward. “This is not—”

“Not what it looks like?” She tilted her head, lips curving. “Lotus girl, it looks exactly like what it is. A bond that should not exist.”

Ji Ming’s jaw tightened. “If you intend to expose us, then say it now.”

Her fan flicked open with a snap. “Expose you? And unravel the pact my clan worked so hard to bind? No, Ge Ji Ming. Not yet.”

The words twisted, both threat and shield.

She stepped closer, eyes never leaving mine. “I saw the way your qi spiraled. The hairpin. His afterimages. Do you know what it means?”

I swallowed. “Shuangxin.”

She smiled faintly. “Good. Then you know it kills as often as it saves. If your elders discover it, both your sects will burn you before the moon wanes twice.”

The fan shut again. Silence stretched, heavy with warning.

Then, almost gently, she said: “If you want to live, hide it better. Fate may bind you, but politics will crush you long before destiny has its turn.”

Her footsteps faded into the night, leaving only the scent of incense and fear.

Ji Ming exhaled slowly. “So now she knows.”
“She’s not the only one who will,” I whispered.

The lotus hairpin burned like a brand.