Every step Lin Qianshan took after leaving the study felt as if she were walking on cotton—light, unreal, almost detached from the ground.
The night wind blew down the corridor, pressing her damp inner garments against her skin and sending a shiver through her.
She clasped her hands tightly, the chill in her fingertips helping her barely maintain her composure.
Back in her cramped quarters, she closed the door and leaned against it, finally allowing herself to relax.
Her body trembled slightly.
The suffocating sense of life-or-death pressure from the study only now hit her fully. Sliding down to sit on the floor, she buried her face in her knees, breathing deeply in an attempt to calm her racing heart.
She had won the gamble. Not only had she avoided punishment, but it seemed… she had drawn closer. Xiao Yu’s eyes—those that seemed capable of seeing through everything—kept flashing in her mind. Was his quiet acknowledgment just a budding trust, or a deeper test?
Over the next few days, Lin Qianshan became even more cautious in speech and action.
She no longer inquired about the prince’s condition; instead, she devoted herself to meticulously preparing his soups.
While following the basic principles of strengthening the spleen and stomach, she began experimenting carefully, incorporating ingredients that were gentle in nature but also subtly capable of invigorating blood and resolving stasis: black fungus, small amounts of hawthorn, or a touch of angelica root (using only the strands to gain its blood-moving effect while avoiding its harshness).
Each addition was measured precisely, and she always “reported” her soup composition and the effects of the ingredients in advance to Leng Feng or, occasionally, Master Fu, who would stop by for inspections.
She no longer acted on her own initiative; she positioned herself as both executor and advisor.
One day, the autumn chill deepened, and the wind cut sharply. Lin Qianshan thought of Xiao Yu’s old injuries, and knew this weather would be hardest on him.
She decided to make a black pepper pork-stomach chicken soup. Selecting tender chicken pieces and a meticulously cleaned pork stomach, she added generous amounts of old ginger and warming white pepper, simmering slowly.
The broth turned milky and rich; the spice of the pepper blended perfectly with the savory depth of the chicken and pork stomach. Each sip warmed from throat to stomach, dispelling the damp chill completely.
During dinner, when Leng Feng came to collect the meal, Lin Qianshan explained in her usual soft tone: “Today is particularly cold. This black pepper pork-stomach chicken soup should warm the stomach and dispel chill. It may also ease the discomfort in the prince’s body.”
Leng Feng glanced at her, noting her slightly reddened cheeks from the kitchen heat, and gave a small nod.
That night, the wind grew fiercer, moaning through the corridors. Lin Qianshan slept lightly, drifting between dreams and wakefulness, as if she again heard the familiar, faint sound of footsteps pausing outside the door. She awoke with a start, holding her breath—but it was only the wind.
Was it an illusion? Or… had he come again?
A sudden impulse made her wrap herself in her coat, light a small lamp, and quietly head to the small kitchen. The kitchen still retained the residual warmth of the day’s cooking and a faint trace of peppery aroma.
Skillfully, she rekindled a small flame, reheating the remaining black pepper pork-stomach soup. Steam curled upward in the yellow lamplight, carrying a comforting, warming scent. She stared at the bubbling surface, lost in thought. What was she doing? If he didn’t come… this soup…
“What are you cooking?”
The low, slightly hoarse voice sounded from behind.
Lin Qianshan’s hand trembled, the ladle nearly slipping from her grip. She turned swiftly, and there he stood at the kitchen doorway—Xiao Yu, in his dark regular attire, shoulders damp from the night air, his face pale in the flickering firelight, lips slightly colorless.
He had indeed come.
“P-Prince…” Lin Qianshan quickly set down the ladle and knelt, heart racing. “Your servant… seeing that tonight is cold and windy, thought this pepper soup might dispel the chill… so… I reheated some for you.”
Xiao Yu’s gaze swept over her slightly flustered face, lingered on the few strands of hair loosened by her hurried movements, and finally fixed on the bubbling soup. He did not approach as before, leaning instead against the doorframe, eyes partially closed, as if bracing against discomfort somewhere in his body.
Lin Qianshan noticed that his hand hanging by his side had slightly curled fingers.
“Serve me a bowl.” His voice was low, carrying a subtle, almost imperceptible weakness.
“Yes.” Lin Qianshan responded, lining the bowl with cloth, carefully ladling it to eight-tenths full, and held it before him.
This time, Xiao Yu did not immediately take it. His eyes, deep and shadowed in the lamp light, studied her. Then he asked unexpectedly: “You seem… very concerned about my old injuries?”
Lin Qianshan’s heart tightened.
Her hands instinctively gripped the bowl more firmly, the warmth from the ceramic helping her regain composure. She lowered her eyes, long lashes casting shadows across her cheeks, and replied clearly, softly: “Your Highness is my master. Only if you are well can your servant be at ease. Moreover… whenever Your Highness is unwell, seeing it… pains me as well.”
The last words were whispered, carrying genuine concern, though even she could not distinguish how much was survival instinct and how much was heartfelt.
Xiao Yu studied her for a long moment before slowly reaching out his hand.
His fingers were even colder than before, lingering longer on hers as he took the bowl—a chill that traveled like an electric current to her chest, making her shiver slightly.
He sensed her subtle tremor, his eyes flickering, yet he said nothing, drinking slowly, deliberately.
The steaming soup, infused with the warmth and spice of pepper, quickly drove out the chill from his body. Even the subtle ache from his old injury seemed to ease. He drank deliberately, savoring not just the flavor, but also the rare warmth of this late-night, illicitly shared moment.
Lin Qianshan stood quietly beside him, watching as he finished the bowl, even eating a few bites of the pork stomach and chicken. When he set down the bowl, a faint color returned to his pale face, and the furrow in his brow eased.
“Good cooking.” His voice was calm, betraying little emotion, yet warmer than his usual coldness.
“Thank you, Your Highness,” Lin Qianshan said, lowering her gaze.
Xiao Yu said no more. He looked at her intently, his expression unreadable, as if trying to discern something in the lowering of her eyes. Finally, he turned, disappearing once more into the night outside the doorway.
Lin Qianshan remained rooted in place for a long time. The chill of his fingers lingered in her own, and the faint scent of night air and soup clung to her.
That question, that gaze… Was he doubting her motives, or had he sensed something deeper?