The fire crackles in the center of the质子 camp, casting shadows that dance across the men's faces like living things. I sit surrounded by them - my subordinates, my brothers-in-arms, my lovers - each one watching me with that familiar hunger masked as concern.孙子羽's hand lingers too long on my thigh, his touch a silent question I don't have the strength to answer. Blood seeps between my legs, warm against the cold winter air, soaking through the rough fabric of my uniform. The dampness spreads,黏腻 and undeniable.

"Another cup, 彪哥?"黄元济 offers, his young face etched with worry as his eyes linger on the dark stain spreading across my trousers. I meet his gaze defiantly, reaching for the wine jug with a hand that doesn't shake - not yet. The wine burns going down, a welcome distraction from the cramping in my lower abdomen.

A shadow falls over the fire as姬发 approaches, his expression a complicated mix of anger and concern. "You should be resting," he says, voice rough with what might be worry beneath the belligerence. The North wind howls outside our circle of warmth, carrying the distant howl of a wolf. Somewhere in the camp, a pot clangs. The blood continues to flow, pooling uncomfortably in my lap.

孙子羽's fingers brush my waist, just above the捍腰 that failed to contain my secret. "Let me take you back," he murmurs, low enough that only I can hear. The others pretend not to notice, but I feel their eyes on me - on the spreading stain, on my pale face, on the way I'm hunched against the pain.

I meet姬发's gaze across the fire, and in that moment, I see it clearly: they all know. They've always known.