The sound of my name cuts through the darkness. "A-Jin! A-Jin! Wake up!"

I gasp awake, chest heaving, still feeling the phantom weight of the broken halberd at my throat. The ceiling above me is familiar—not the battlefield of my nightmares, but the modest sleeping quarters in Uncle's household. Zhuge Dan's face swims into focus, his expression a mixture of concern and something darker I can't quite name.

"You were screaming again," he says, his fingers gentle as he pries my bloodied palm open. The crescent-shaped scars from my nails are fresh and raw.

"Another nightmare about A-Liang?"

His purple eyes search mine, seeing far more than I want to reveal. The room feels too small, the air too thin. I can still smell the battlefield, the metallic tang of blood, the sickly sweet stench of death. Outside, the sky is just beginning to lighten, but I already feel the weight of the day pressing down on me.

"It was just a dream," I say, pulling my hand away and sitting up too quickly. Dizziness washes over me, and I have to steady myself with a hand to the mattress.

Zhuge Dan doesn't press further, but I feel his gaze on me as I swing my legs over the side of the bed. The silence between us hums with unspoken words—guilt, accusation, grief—all the things we can't say aloud, even to each other.

I glance at my reflection in the small mirror on the dressing table. Gray hair at the temples, drawn face, eyes that carry too much weight for someone my age. I smooth my robes, trying to compose myself. We may be living in reduced circumstances, but we are still Zhuge family. We must maintain dignity.

Zhuge Dan's hand settles on my shoulder, warm and solid through the thin fabric of my sleeping gown. "He wouldn't want you to do this to yourself," he says softly.

The words hang in the air between us, a challenge I don't know how to answer.