Shen Mingxiu approached her after training ended.
The courtyard had begun to empty, servants moving in to collect practice weapons and sweep the ground. Shen Qingyu remained seated beneath the shade, breathing slowly, allowing the faint trembling in her legs to subside.
A shadow fell across the stone at her feet.
"You shouldn't be here," Shen Mingxiu said flatly.
Shen Qingyu looked up.
Her eldest brother stood straight-backed, sweat still clinging to his brow, expression tight with restrained irritation. He had always embodied what the household admired—discipline, strength, visible achievement.
"I had Father's permission," Shen Qingyu replied calmly.
"That doesn't make it appropriate," Shen Mingxiu shot back. "You distract the servants. You interrupt training."
She studied him quietly, taking in the tension in his shoulders, the impatience in his stance. For someone so confident in his strength, he seemed unusually unsettled by her presence.
"I sat and watched," she said. "Nothing more."
"That alone is enough," he snapped. "This courtyard is not a place for—"
"For the weak?" Shen Qingyu finished gently.
The words were not accusatory. They were observational.
Shen Mingxiu's jaw tightened. "You know what I mean."
"Do I?" she asked softly. "If my sitting quietly causes disruption, then perhaps the problem is not my presence."
Silence fell between them.
Shen Mingxiu had expected tears. Or resentment. Or at least embarrassment. What he found instead was calm—steady and unyielding.
"You've changed," he said at last.
"I survived," Shen Qingyu corrected. "Change followed."
That answer struck deeper than he liked.
"You should focus on recovery," Shen Mingxiu said, turning away abruptly. "Don't chase attention you can't maintain."
Shen Qingyu did not rise to the provocation. "I don't chase attention," she replied evenly. "I simply refuse to disappear."
He paused mid-step, then left without another word.
Shen Qingyu watched his retreating figure until it vanished beyond the archway. Her heart rate remained steady. There was no satisfaction in the exchange—only clarity.
So this was the source of his anger.
Not contempt.
Unease.
As she slowly stood to return to her room, her legs protested sharply. She leaned on Chunhua's arm briefly, then straightened again, refusing assistance beyond what was necessary.
Pain flared—and faded.
Behind her, whispers resumed, softer now, tinged with uncertainty.
Shen Qingyu walked on without looking back.
Strength, she had learned, did not always announce itself through force.
Sometimes, it revealed itself simply by remaining where one was told not to stand.