Lan Xueyi's Reflection
"There are loyalties colder than love. And they cut deeper."
— Frostveil Saying
The Ember Pavilion was quiet at night. Too quiet.
Even the flame lotuses in the pool flickered cautiously, their firelight subdued by the rising mist.
Lan Xueyi sat alone on the edge of the stone railing, her robes trailing like silk shadows in the water.
The scroll from Frostveil lay open beside her, its message committed to memory—its threat still burning in the marrow of her bones.
"If the heir cannot extinguish the fire, we will."
No name. No warmth. Just a cold truth wrapped in authority.
She had always known this moment would come. That the sects would stop pretending civility once the Emberheart heir stepped into real power. That if Shen Li faltered, the other sects would move in—not to save, but to divide.
She stared at the message.
Folded it once.
Twice.
Then lit it with a small flick of inner frost.
It burned slower than fire ever would. A soft, white-consuming flame, quiet as snow falling.
She didn't want to see the words anymore.
Didn't want to feel the hollow growing inside her chest—between her duty and her heart.
"If it comes to that," Shen Li had asked, "would you stand with them?"
She hadn't answered the way she wanted to.
Because the truth was messy.
Messy like frost seeping into cracked earth.
She had watched him grow into the fire, step by step, breath by breath. Watched the heir who was supposed to break—refuse to. Again and again.
He bore his father's legacy like it weighed more than any blade, and still, he walked forward.
He didn't ask her to follow.
But he hoped she would.
And that was worse.
Because she was Frostveil. Bred and trained to observe, to calculate, to never fall into what she was sent to watch.
And yet…
When Shen Li stood bleeding and defiant before the council…
When he knelt before the fire mirror, not to command, but to learn…
When he looked at her, not as a tool or spy, but as someone he needed…
It had shaken something loose.
Something dangerous.
Lan Xueyi pressed a hand to her chest.
It still beat steady. Cold. Composed.
But just beneath it—beneath the cultivation, the missions, the walls—there was something warmer.
You're not supposed to love the match you're meant to unmake.
But maybe… just maybe…
She didn't want to unmake him anymore