Hóng Yè looked at her then, his eyes lingering on the color of her eyes. There was a small, patient smile on her lips, waiting for him to catch up.

He felt something shift in his chest. Something that made him want to look away and keep looking at the same time.

"I do not know," he said. "I have never seen it."

Lì Jìng let out a laugh, surprised by his rather blunt response.

"Maybe I will see it someday," she said softly, eyes lingering on his tail.

Hóng Yè’s face went hot. He looked away, staring at the fire, at the dancers, at anything that was not her.

"Why are you here?" he asked. "Why are you talking to me? You don’t have to be here, and yet you’re here to talk to me. Is it because of the festival?"

Lì Jìng considered the question. She did not answer right away. She let the silence stretch between them, the way silence stretched in the marshes when the sun was setting and the frogs were just beginning their evening song.

"It’s not because of the festival. I came here because you looked lonely," she said finally. "And because my cousins said you were weird. I wanted to see for myself if there was truth to what they said. "

"And?"

She tilted her head again, studying him the way she might study a map, tracing the lines of his face.

"You are not weird," she said. "You are just careful."

Hóng Yè did not know what to do with that. No one had ever called him careful before.

They called him cold. They called him distant. They called him the cursed female’s son, as if that explained everything and required nothing more.

But not careful.

"What do you like to do?" Lì Jìng asked.

"Read," he said.

"What do you read?"

"Everything."

"Everything?"

"Scrolls. Histories. Maps. Whatever I can find."

Lì Jìng’s eyes brightened. The firelight caught them, turned them from jade to gold.

"I like maps too," she said. "My father used to draw them. He would chart the marshes and mark where the best fishing spots were. He said a good map was worth more than gold."

"Your father sounds wise," Hóng Yè said.

"He was."

The past tense hung in the air between them.

Hóng Yè did not push for more.

"What about you?" he asked.

Lì Jìng looked at him, surprised. "You are asking about me?"

"You asked about me first."

"That is different."

"How?"

She did not answer. She looked down at her hands, at the pale green scales on her knuckles, and when she looked up again, her expression had softened.

"I like swimming," she said. "In the marshes. The water is warm and the reeds are tall and no one bothers you. I like the quiet."

"That does not sound quiet," Hóng Yè said. He had never been to the marshes.

"It is quiet to me," she said.

Hóng Yè thought about this for a long moment.

"Maybe," he said slowly, "you could show me sometime."

Lì Jìng’s cheeks went pink. The color spread across her cheekbones, over her pale green scales, warm and soft in the firelight.

"Maybe," she said.

~

The music faded. The dancers slowed.

Elder Feng stepped onto the central platform, his fur the color of autumn leaves. He raised his staff, and the crowd quieted.

"Tomorrow," he announced, his voice carrying across the clearing, "the games begin. At dawn, the hunt. At midday, the trials of strength. At sunset, the dance of cords."

The crowd murmured with excitement.

"And," Elder Feng continued, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth, "I am pleased to introduce my son, who has traveled from the eastern territories to join our celebration."

He gestured, and a young man stepped onto the platform.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, with fur the color of burnished copper and eyes like molten gold.

His hair was dark and thick, pulled back from his face in a style that showed the sharp lines of his jaw.

He looked extremely confident, and when he smiled, several of the young females in the crowd actually gasped.

Hóng Yè did not gasp. He crossed his arms and watched.

"My name is Fēng Láng," the young man said. His voice was deep, warm, the kind of voice that made people want to lean closer. "I have come to dance, to compete, and to see if the rumors of Thousand Fang’s beauty are true."

He looked out over the crowd, his golden eyes sweeping across the faces, the furs, the lanterns.

"They are," he said, and his smile widened.

The females swooned. Even some of the mated ones looked away, their cheeks pink.

But Hóng Yè was not watching Fēng Láng.

He was watching Lì Jìng. 𝙛𝒓𝒆𝙚𝒘𝒆𝓫𝙣𝓸𝙫𝓮𝒍.𝒄𝒐𝓶

She was not swooning. She was not gasping. She was being very still, her jade eyes fixed on the copper-furred wolf, and her scales seemed to have brightened, just slightly, catching the light in a way they had not before.

Hóng Yè’s chest did something strange. Tight. Uncomfortable. Like someone had reached inside him and squeezed.

He did not know what the feeling was. He had never felt it before.

But he did not like it.

Fēng Láng stepped down from the platform and immediately began moving through the crowd. He greeted the elders with easy charm, complimented the dancers with grace, and accepted a cup from a female who looked like she might faint.

His path, Hóng Yè noticed, was curving.

Toward Lì Jìng.

Hóng Yè’s jaw tightened.

Hmph, he thought.

But his tail was already flicking, and his hands were already curling into fists, and he did not understand why.

Lì Jìng was not his.

So why did the sight of Fēng Láng walking toward her make him want to step in front of her and snarl?

He did not know.

He did not like not knowing.

Hmph, he thought again, and looked away.

But his eyes kept drifting back.