Late at night in the Lord’s Manor, Xue Yin tossed and turned in bed.
The quilt was soft, but it could not soothe the agitation in her heart.
Ailia’s joke at the banquet was like a tiny thorn — bloodless, yet aching faintly in the gaps between every heartbeat, pricking her so she could not sleep.
‘Maybe I just drank too much,’ Xue Yin thought, pressing her throbbing temples before finally getting up.
She pushed open the door and walked aimlessly, her bare feet treading on the cool stone floor of the corridor.
Passing the east side rooms, her footsteps suddenly stopped.
The door was not tightly shut, leaving a sliver of warm yellow light.
The air held a mix of sweet blood, the lingering scent of red wine, and a certain indescribable, thick ambiguity.
She intended to turn and leave, but her feet seemed to have grown roots.
A very light gasp came through the crack — not a groan of pain, but a sob of near-indulgence, the trailing note trembling slightly, like a silk thread soaked in moonlight, gently plucking at the nerves of the night.
“…More… please…”
It was Ailia’s voice.
Husky, soft, carrying a raw longing Xue Yin had never heard before.
Guided by an unknown impulse, Xue Yin took half a step closer and peeked through the narrow gap.
Inside, candlelight flickered, casting the shadows of the two onto the stone walls.
Laine leaned against the headboard, his wine-red hair cascading like a waterfall, veiling most of his figure.
The glass monocle he usually never went without was set aside on the table, revealing eyes deep as a sea of blood.
He stared deeply at the person in his arms.
His skin, pale to the point of being translucent, shimmered like cold jade under the candlelight, and his faint pink lips were now stained with a bit of dark red — her blood.
And Ailia —
Her light flaxen-blonde hair was scattered like flowing morning light, the neckline of her snow-white, moon-linen dress slightly open, revealing a stretch of porcelain-white, fragile neck.
The Rose Mark glowed with a faint red light, pulsing with her breath like a living thing.
Her eyes were closed, lips slightly parted, eyelashes trembling wetly, her hands clutching Laine’s collar tightly.
Each time Laine drank, she would involuntarily tilt her head back, tiny moans spilling from her throat.
The sound did not seem to be from enduring pain, but of a soul soaring in tremors, nearly touching the edge of heaven.
Laine’s movements were exceedingly restrained yet suffocatingly affectionate.
The moment his fangs pierced her, only a ripple of numbness surged through her spine.
The subsequent suction was slow and gentle, as if he were not taking blood but kissing her life, tasting her soul.
His left hand steadily supported the back of her neck, his thumb softly stroking her jawline, while his right hand circled her slender waist, pulling her whole body flush against his, like protecting a fragile lamp in a gale.
“Does it hurt?” he asked in a low voice, husky as sandpaper rubbing against the heart.
Ailia shook her head, teardrops hanging precariously on her lashes.
“No… it is very… comfortable.”
Her voice was choked up with a sense of exhaustion like a butterfly breaking its cocoon.
“It is like a place in my heart that has been empty for a long time has finally been filled.”
Laine gave a low chuckle and lightly licked the wound.
Under the influence of magic, the bloodstain healed rapidly, only to bloom again the next second due to a new craving — this was the highest ritual of a symbiosis contract: a vow of blood, a pact of pain, and love through surrender.
Ailia trembled all over, her fingertips digging deep into his firm shoulder blades.
In this moment, she was no longer the Southern Chief Priestess, no longer a martyr of the scriptures, no longer burdened by the weight of the common people.
She was simply a woman held in a sincere embrace.
The sense of transgression still flickered in a corner of her heart, but it had been completely overwritten by a deeper sense of belonging — what he wanted was not her faith or her sacrifice, but her complete, flesh-and-blood self.
“Laine…” She opened her eyes, her gaze shimmering with moisture, reflecting his crimson image.
“Am I being too greedy?”
“No.”
He cupped her face, his thumb carefully wiping the tear tracks from the corners of her eyes, his gaze so tender it could melt stones.
“You just finally dared to want it.”
In the next instant, he leaned down again.
This time, Ailia proactively tilted her neck, welcoming that fatal tenderness.
A nearly inaudible sigh escaped her throat —
Like a surrender, like coming home, like a long-wandering soul finally finding its only anchor.
Outside the door, Xue Yin froze, her fingertips icy.
She had seen Ailia’s solemn holiness when casting protective blessings for her companions, and her firm resolve after questioning her faith, but she had never seen her so vivid.
It was not a fall from grace, but a deeper kind of surrender — handing over fear, desire, weakness, and her entire self to one person without reservation.
But the scene was too private, too scorching, burning so much that Xue Yin could hardly breathe.
She felt the Demon Rose mark on her lower abdomen suddenly grow hot, and a strange heat surged from her spine to the tips of her ears.
Her silver hair moved despite the lack of wind, and her skin emitted a faint silver glow.
She snapped back a step, her heart pounding so violently it nearly shattered her chest.
“Who is it?” Laine barked, his voice husky but instantly alert.
Xue Yin turned and ran, her footsteps hurried in flight, fearing she would be swallowed by the atmosphere of the room if she were even a second slower.
—
The cold wind on the terrace hit her face, making her thin clothes flutter.
She leaned against the cold stone railing, panting heavily, her fingertips digging hard into her palms, trying to use pain to calm herself.
But the image remained unshakeable — the curve of Ailia’s neck, Laine’s focused gaze, the glow of the Rose Mark…
“Master?”
Jin’s voice came from below the stone steps, deep and steady, like an anchor that instantly fixed her drifting mind.
Xue Yin was startled and quickly pulled up her collar, trying to hide her heavily flushed ears. “What are you doing here?”
Jin walked closer slowly.
Under the moonlight, his black hair was loose, his dark red pupils reflecting the starlight.
The old scar on his left cheek flickered in the shadows, adding a touch of weathered charm.
His newly changed leather armor made his figure look even leaner and taller.
Beneath the black silk on his left wrist, the red-gold patterns lay dormant.
His aura was much steadier than during the day, yet held a trace of subtle tension.
“I couldn’t sleep,” he said, stopping beside her.
He did not get too close, maintaining a proper distance.
He paused, his gaze sweeping over her silver-glowing skin and her rapidly rising and falling chest.
“What did you run into?”
Xue Yin looked away, staring into the distant darkness, her voice tight.
“Nothing. I just saw something I shouldn’t have.”
Jin did not press her.
He silently took off his outer robe, his movements smooth and natural as he draped it over her shoulders.
Just as the fabric slipped down, his fingertips seemed to brush past the tips of her hair.
The touch was extremely light, as if afraid to disturb a resting butterfly, yet it held an undeniable presence.
“The night wind is cold,” he said softly.
His body heat remained on the fabric, scalding like a branding iron, instantly piercing through the chill.
Xue Yin trembled, and the Demon Rose on her lower abdomen throbbed violently again.
The heat did not fade; instead, the moment it touched his warmth, it strangely transformed into a warm current, flowing through her blood to her limbs.
This was different from the panic when witnessing Laine earlier; it was an instinctual desire to lean on someone, to be wrapped up.
She suddenly realized — she was actually comparing.
Comparing the warmth of Ailia being held, comparing the peace in that low gasp, comparing her own current panic and emptiness to the silent yet heavy protection of the man beside her.
“Jin,” she suddenly spoke, her voice very soft as if afraid to shatter the night.
“Do you think I’m too cold?”
Jin looked at her sideways.
The moonlight fell on her silver hair, swirling with a stardust-like shimmer.
Her eyes, like cold stars, were cast down, and her lashes were like frost, yet they could not hide the rare confusion and fragility in her gaze.
“Master isn’t cold.”
His voice was gentle, his gaze lingering briefly on her reddened ears before slowly moving away to the starry sky.
His eyes flashed with a deep attachment.
“You just haven’t learned to accept others getting close. You’re used to being the one holding the umbrella, but you forgot that you can get wet in the rain too.”
She wanted to say ‘I am Zhou Yao’ and tell herself ‘I shouldn’t feel this way,’ but when the words reached her lips, all that remained was: “Should I go back?”
“Yes,” Jin nodded, but he did not look away.
His voice was deep and certain, like a silent promise.
“But next time, don’t hide.”
Xue Yin was stunned, her heart jumping.
The wind swept across the terrace, dispersing the subtle silence between them, but it could not blow away the scent lingering on the robe.
***
In the distant room, Ailia leaned against Laine’s chest, her fingertips lightly stroking the side of her neck.
The Rose Mark was as warm as before, pulsing with her heartbeat.
“She saw,” she said softly, her tone lacking panic, only a frank calm.
“I know,” Laine kissed the top of her head, his gaze tender as water deep within the crimson.
“But she will understand. Just like us.”
Ailia closed her eyes, the corners of her lips turning up slightly.
Though tear tracks still hung at the corners of her eyes, her smile was incredibly bright.
This time, there was no more shame, only an honest surrender.
Meanwhile, Xue Yin wrapped the robe tightly around herself in her room and looked at the star-filled sky.
Not a single word was written on the new page of the ledger in her hand, but her heart felt strangely hot.
It was as if in that shop named Moonlight and Fire, what was about to be ignited was not just the flames on the alchemy table, but also some feelings she did not dare name, which had already quietly broken through the soil.
The night was still long, and some answers perhaps did not need to be written in a ledger; they only needed to be felt with the heart.