The winter cold cuts through my fur robes as I stand in the snow outside Jiao Palace, watching Shangjiao-gege's retreating figure. My breath forms clouds in the frigid air, matching the white puffs drifting from the roof eaves above. Another rejection. Another dismissal. My fingers tighten around the repaired dragon lantern I spent all night fixing—hoping against hope that mending Langdi's old lantern might somehow mend the distance between us.

The snow crunches behind me, and I stiffen before even hearing his voice.

"Yuanzheng-didi. You'll catch cold standing out here." Ziyu's voice is warm, too warm for this frozen landscape, too warm for someone like me who doesn't deserve such kindness.

I don't turn around. "What do you want,宫子羽? Come to gloat about your new position again?" My voice cracks despite my best efforts to sound bitter.

He doesn't rise to the bait. Instead, I hear the rustle of fabric as he removes his own cloak. Before I can protest, his warmth surrounds me—his scent, his proximity, the soft weight of his cloak settling over my shoulders.

"I brought you something," he says quietly, ignoring my earlier hostility. "I remembered you liked these when we were children." A paper package appears in my peripheral vision, containing the桂花糕 (osmanthus cakes) my mother used to make before she died.

The same cakes I once knocked from his hands in a childish tantrum, screaming that I wouldn't take food from a "野种."

I stare at the cakes, then at the dragon lantern in my hands, then at Shangjiao's closed door. My throat tightens. Some choices have haunted me for years. Some choices are just beginning to take shape.

Ziyu stands beside me, patient as always, offering warmth in a world that has only ever given me cold.