The garden was quiet today—quieter than usual. Wei Yan Nian sat beneath the peach blossom tree, his wheelchair half-buried in the soft grass. His fingers traced the edge of a petal that had fallen onto his lap, its pink edges already browning. How strange, he thought, that something so beautiful could wither so quickly.

His legs, as always, were a distant weight beneath the thin blanket. He didn't remember a time when they weren't. The physicians called it a miracle he survived the poisoning at all. His mother called it a tragedy. The court called it... well. He'd heard the whispers. "What a waste. With his mind, he could've been Crown Prince if not for—"

Yan Nian exhaled softly, pressing his thumb into the petal until it bruised. He didn't care for the throne. But the way they looked at him—like he was broken, like he was wrong—that, he cared about. That, he hated.

A drop of water landed on his wrist. Then another. He blinked up at the sky, realizing too late that the clouds had darkened. The garden emptied quickly around him, servants and nobles alike scurrying for cover. Yan Nian sighed, flexing his fingers around the wheelchair's rims. He'd come alone today, dismissing A Hua to tend to her ailing mother. A mistake, he thought wryly, already calculating the distance to the nearest pavilion.

He reached for the wheel. "Just to the pavilion. It's not far." His hands pressed lightly. One turn. Then two.

He'd barely pushed himself forward when the rain quickened, cold and insistent. His sleeves were already damp when the shadow fell over him—not the expected one of A Hua, but a taller figure, hands gripping the handles of his chair with surprising certainty. Before Yan Nian could protest, the stranger was wheeling him smoothly beneath the pavilion's shelter, the sudden absence of rain leaving his skin tingling. Turning his head, Yan Nian recognized the man immediately: the newly appointed scholar. He'd seen him before, always at a distance—poring over scrolls in the library or walking briskly through the corridors, his posture too straight for someone unbroken. Now, up close, Yan Nian noted the way the scholar's eyes didn't linger on his legs, didn't soften with pity. A rarity.

"Many thanks," Yan Nian said, his voice as measured as ever, though his pulse betrayed him with a traitorous skip. He folded his hands in his lap, the picture of composure. "It seems the heavens disapproved of my solitude."

The scholar merely nodded, rainwater glistening in his hair. Yan Nian hesitated, then reached into the hidden pocket of his sleeve, producing a small wrapped parcel. Honeyed flower cakes, their scent sweet and faintly floral. He held one out, an offering. "For your trouble."

A beat passed. Then, surprising even himself, Yan Nian added, quieter. "Or, if you'd prefer—I'd trade it for your assistance back to the inner palace. A fair bargain, wouldn't you say?" The words felt foreign on his tongue. He never asked for help. Never bargained. But something about the scholar's silence, the way he'd acted without fanfare, made the usual rules feel... unnecessary.

The rain pattered against the pavilion's roof, a hushed rhythm. Yan Nian waited, his expression serene, his heart anything but.