The night was as dark as ink, wrapping Nalan Mansion's courtyard in silence. The evening breeze passed through the corridors, carrying the sweet fragrance of tuberose from the courtyard as it gently stirred the half-open carved window of Xiao Yan's room. Moonlight filtered through the pale window gauze, scattering fragments of silvery radiance across the blue-brick floor like a handful of crushed stars; on the table, the Glazed Lamp burned with half an inch of wick, its warm yellow halo spreading over the surface and tinting the inkstone, brush rack, and open cultivation scroll in a hazy glow. A faint herbal scent lingered in the air—the trace left behind when Xiao Yan had refined the "Concentrating Spirit Pill" during the day, mixed with Qing Lin's distinct freshness, like grass after rain. Together, they formed an atmosphere of peace of mind, as though even time had slowed within that warmth.
Xiao Yan sat in a Pear Wood Chair padded with dark brocade, the lingering warmth of pill refinement still on his fingertips as his thumb unconsciously brushed the flowing-cloud pattern embroidered on his cuff. Qing Lin nestled obediently at his side, her little head resting lightly against his shoulder, both hands tightly clutching his sleeve. Her knuckles had turned slightly white from the force, as though the warmth would vanish the instant she let go. She wore a pale green ruqun, its hem embroidered with tiny orchid patterns in silver thread that swayed like grass whenever she moved. Her jet-black hair draped softly over her shoulders, the ends still damp; from time to time, a droplet slid down and fell onto Xiao Yan's sleeve, leaving a faint wet mark. She had just washed by the old well in the rear courtyard. Upon hearing that Xiao Yan had finished cultivating, she had