The night was thick as ink. At Shadowvale's margins it was dark enough that you could not see your own hand before your face.
Lu Xingchen followed Shen Ye through jagged rocks. He could feel a strange pressure in the air—the particular breath of shadowfolk territory, subtly at odds with the light spirit power in his body, like two invisible strings pulling against each other.
"There's a stream up ahead. Cross it and we're on the outer edge of Shen family lands," Shen Ye said from ahead, calm as if discussing the weather. "Your light will keep weakening here. Use it sparingly."
Lu Xingchen hummed agreement. The light in his palm was indeed dimmer than before. He looked at Shen Ye's straight back and spoke suddenly: "Your family… what's the situation, exactly? You mentioned your mother before. I've been thinking about it."
Shen Ye's steps faltered.
The pause was brief—barely noticeable. But Lu Xingchen caught it. For an instant the man's shoulders seemed to stiffen.
"Nothing worth saying." Shen Ye walked on, voice level. "Clan politics. You wouldn't understand."
"I could understand."
"You couldn't." Shen Ye's voice cooled. "Shadowfolk family politics are ten times fouler than you imagine."
Lu Xingchen did not push. He was not someone who gave up easily, but he knew when to hold his tongue. If Shen Ye did not want to speak, he would wait.
They walked in silence a stretch. The stream grew nearer. Moonlight leaked through gaps in the canopy and fell on Shen Ye's pale profile. Lu Xingchen noticed how long his lashes were—when they lowered, they cast a small shadow beneath his eyes.
He almost asked: Aren't you cold? But the words died on his tongue. Shen Ye was shadowfolk. Shadowvale was his domain. How could he be cold?
"…You want to hear?" Shen Ye spoke suddenly.
Lu Xingchen blinked. "What?"
"My story." Shen Ye's voice was so quiet the stream nearly drowned it. "You've always wanted to know."
Lu Xingchen walked to Shen Ye's side and sat on a large stone by the water. Shen Ye stood a moment, then sat down too. They were closer than usual, yet still half an arm apart.
"My mother was a serving maid in the Shen household," Shen Ye said, watching the water, voice flat as if reading someone else's history. "She came from nothing. After my father forced her, she bore me. In the Shen family, she and I were the lowest of the low."
Lu Xingchen listened without interrupting.
"The mistress of the house—the legitimate wife—hated us. She had her own son, Shen Ming. Everything Shen Ming had, I did not. Everywhere Shen Ming could go, I could not. My father…" Shen Ye paused. The corner of his mouth curved faintly. "My father treated me like air. Worse than air."
"Why?"
"Because he didn't care." Shen Ye said. "In his eyes I wasn't a son—only a mistake. He never looked at me directly. Never asked whether I lived or died. When my mother died, he didn't even attend the funeral."
Lu Xingchen's fist tightened at his side. He thought of his own father—the man who swung a hammer in the forge, sweat pouring, yet always smiled the moment he came home and saw his son. Were those two men even the same species?
"Your mother…" Lu Xingchen asked softly, "how did she die?"
Shen Ye was silent a long time.
The stream glittered under moonlight. Somewhere distant, birds cried—sharp and long.
"Internal clan struggle," Shen Ye said at last, voice coming from very far away. "She was only a serving maid with no backing. When someone moved against her, no one stood up. I was still small. By the time I reached her—"
He did not finish.
Lu Xingchen's heart clenched tight. He wanted to touch Shen Ye's shoulder, to say anything at all. But he did not know what to say. Any comfort would feel hollow.
"Before she died, she said one thing to me." Shen Ye's voice went suddenly very calm—so calm it was frightening. "She said: Never trust anyone in the Shen family."
The air froze.
"So I trust no one," Shen Ye turned. Those deep eyes were ice in the moonlight. "Not the Shen family. Not the Light Spirit Hall. Not anyone. Until—"
He stopped. Did not go on.
Lu Xingchen looked at him and said: "I'm not one of the Shen family."
Shen Ye startled.
"I'm a light spirit wielder from Dawnlight Town. My parents are a blacksmith and a farmer. I don't carry the Shen name." Lu Xingchen was serious. "So if you don't trust them, that's fine. But I'm not them."
The stream filled the silence between them.
Shen Ye looked at him a long time—so long Lu Xingchen thought he would not respond. Then he turned his gaze gently away, toward distant mountain shadow.
"Understood," he said.
The tone was still flat. Yet Lu Xingchen felt, somehow, that the wall had loosened—just a little.
That night they camped by the stream. Shen Ye lit a fire without being asked—which surprised Lu Xingchen. Were shadowfolk not supposed to prefer darkness?
"Shadowvale is too cold," Shen Ye seemed to read his thought, voice flat. "When I lived in the Shen house, my mother would light a brazier in our room. That was the only warmth she could give me."
Lu Xingchen wanted to say something, but Shen Ye had already turned away, pulled his cloak tight, and leaned against a stone with his eyes closed.
Firelight painted Shen Ye's pale profile with a faint warmth. Lu Xingchen watched him and thought: maybe he had once been a child who craved warmth too. Only no one had ever given it to him.
Lu Xingchen quietly took off his outer coat, hesitated, and draped it over Shen Ye.
Shen Ye's lashes fluttered. He did not open his eyes. He did not move.
The night deepened. Starlight scattered across the stream in broken fragments. Lu Xingchen leaned against another stone, watching fire and stars weave together, and a strange feeling rose in him.
He wanted to protect this person.
Not because he was shadowfolk. Not because of the mission. Simply because he did.
Lu Xingchen woke to a cold wind the next morning.
He opened his eyes. His coat was still on Shen Ye, who was already standing with his back to him, looking toward Shadowvale in the distance.
"Awake?" Shen Ye did not turn, voice returned to its usual flatness. "Let's go. While there's still light."
Lu Xingchen took back his coat. A faint chill clung to the fabric—the particular breath of shadowfolk—but he did not find it unpleasant.
"Sleep well?" he asked.
"Average." Shen Ye said. "Your coat is too thin. Next time bring a thicker one."
Lu Xingchen blinked, then laughed. "Next time? So you're saying I'll lend you my coat again?"
Shen Ye paused, as if only now realizing what he had said. The tips of his ears might have reddened slightly, but the light was too dim to tell.
"…Said without thinking." He walked faster. "Let's go."
Lu Xingchen followed, smiling. Next time, he thought, there will be a next time.