The image of Guilin blood plastered itself to the back of Wenzhan’s eyelids. Viscous crimson spit pools, veined swollen eye. Violet and blue beneath cheek and jaw, a wrist bent to savage distortion. Fingers shivering over fragile ribs. Luxian had baited it, gotten it, and like a fisherman who would boil the wrecking shark, he would no doubt reap the rewards of his suffering.

The diverging paths out of Guilinhe village tempted Wenzhan in desperate whispers. But he could not face his brothers knowing that he had run, that he had left them to shoulder the consequences. So he forced himself back to the Guan estate. Arriving, he shut himself away in his room through the remainder of the afternoon, into the hours of the evening. He ignored the invitation to dinner. He ignored the pelting late summer rain, splattering in from his opened windows, scattering his college parchment. Along the wall, two intricately knotted birds fluttered where they hung. Anjie had made those with him when he was just a child.

Anjie. What would Anjie have to say on the matter of him beating an innocent man? No—his words had been anything but innocent, but they were words, harmless—cutting, boiling—words, only words. Anjie could not possibly remain as gentle-handed and soft-voiced as he had been through all of Wenzhan’s past behavior. Even if he wanted to, House Guan had always held duty before family.

A foreboding cold sank through his skull. Wenzhan closed his eyes.

Not yet. He wouldn’t think about it yet. When it happened, he’d take it. He would bear the punishment without excuses, without complaints, whether it was a shaming, a hand—hell, an exile. But for now, while he still had these moments, he simply stared at the fluttering birds. Blank-slated his mind and traced the knotted lines of their wings, the stray yarn that a younger Wenzhan’s clumsy fingers had mussed.

An hour after dusk, the knocking tapped at his door.

“Master Guan. Lord Guan requests your presence in the ceremonial hall.”

Wenzhan blinked, feeling dizzy. Wordless, he stood and opened the door. The young attendant kneeling outside bowed her head. Wenzhan passed her and went to the central hall.

He smelled the blood and pungent medical oils before he had walked through the entrance. In the southern center of the room sat Luxian, bandaged and grotesquely battered. He was not alone, for he was so beaten that the trip to the estate would have been impossible to make without aid. His drawn-faced father, his sobbing mother, and a pale young woman who could be his sister were all in attendance. Conversely, the Guan showing was merely Anjie, his righthand Ziyuan, and Jinyue. The others, Wenbo included, were starkly absent.

At least his little sister would be spared his shame.

The eyes that trailed his entrance were cold, righteous, violent, and pained. Only Anjie, sitting in his usual place before the calligraphy script, did not look at him. The deliberate ignorance wrung his heart.

Silent, Wenzhan approached his place between the western pillars, meaning to sit beside Jinyue. He was not particularly surprised when the motion was interrupted.

“Wenzhan.”

At his eldest brother’s call, he took three steps toward center and knelt facing the northern wall. He lowered his head.

“The Song family comes bearing their grievances against you. Is it true that you beat young master Song this afternoon, at the college?”

Wenzhan swallowed. “It is.”

A pause.

“Wenzhan, turn around. Look at him.”

Like his bones could splinter from the pressure, Wenzhan did this. Luxian glared at him with one hazed, reddened eye, the other half of his face disfigured. His left arm was bound, broken. His chest was wrapped with a compression for his ribs. Crutches laid by his legs. Displayed fresh from the crime, Luxian would have had to endure numbing pain to come to the estate tonight. But of course he would—Luxian had taken the beating for exactly this.

Seeing Wenzhan, that one reddened eye flickered with seething, ugly vindication.

Anjie said, “Is it true that you caused each of those injuries?”

Staring at Luxian, Wenzhan said, “It is.”

“Why?”

This question was softer than the rest. Wenzhan slowly turned back to face his brother. He stared at the floor in silence for a long while. “I was angry,” he whispered.

Silence.

Behind him, the mother sobbed quietly.

Wenzhan thought his knuckles would grind into the wood of the floor for how long he knelt there, waiting for judgment. At last, Anjie moved in his peripheral. He looked up.

Beneath the calligraphy, his eldest brother rose. His slender fingers reached for his sword. He removed it from his heavy holster belt, and then he set it on the ground.

“House Guan is sworn to protect the people of Guilin,” said Anjie calmly. “If we fail to do so, then we can only give the people justice.”

Breaths released behind Wenzhan. A louder sob, relieved.

Anjie curled his fingers around the thick wrap of his belt, removing it. They did not own whips in the Guan household. Here, this kind of slow, humiliating corporal punishment was never entertained—at worst, as for the rapist Chang Dazhe, it was a quick and clean cut. But even as the horror and shame crawled beneath his skin, Wenzhan understood. If he was to remain a member of the Guardian House, he could not afford to lose a hand, not after what had happened ten years ago. And yet, justice for what had been done to Luxian warranted nothing lighter than deep, lasting pain.

The Lord Guan folded the belt in his hands, a decorated and tough leather. In his peripheral, Jinyue tensed. Wenzhan curled his fists against the wood and leaned forward, resigning himself.

“It appears from these injuries that my brother did not withhold his strength. Is it true, Wenzhan?”

Wenzhan forced his body still against the threatening shiver. His voice came out a whisper. “It is.”

“Then neither will we. Will ten lashes suffice?”

Ten lashes at the hand of Guan Anjie, if truly without reservation, would easily cut to the bone. Wenzhan had the constitution to recover from it, but it would be brutal. As brutal as the damage to Luxian, if not more so. But if Luxian’s afternoon insults did not indicate his ignorance of the First Lord’s strength, the Song family’s silence showed it now.

The father bowed his head. “That should be…”

The mother interrupted him. “My lord,” she began, pulling back her tears with a hoarse voice, “please pardon us, but I might have lost my son today. His arm is broken. His ribs are broken. His face is broken! And for what? The doctor would not let him leave the sickbed, but he insisted… He said he could not live if he did not have justice. Please, my lord, if you truly have the people in your heart—you must know that ten lashes from a belt cannot possibly be justice.”

A pause.

“How many do you suggest?” said the Lord Guan.

The mother inhaled. “Fifty,” she said. “At least fifty.”

In his peripheral, Jinyue stood up. “That will kill him. Brother, you can’t.”

Anjie did not reply immediately. But when he did, it was as if he hadn’t heard Jinyue speak.

“Then it will be fifty.”

Wenzhan shut his eyes. A strange sound drifted from Jinyue.

“Let it not be said that House Guan exempts any abuses,” said Anjie. Then with the weight of those metallic eyes upon the bow of Wenzhan’s head: “And let it not be forgotten that our strength is granted only to protect.”

That soft reprimand lashed Wenzhan harder than any weapon could. Breathing through the cold thunder in his head, he waited to be called forward.

“Ziyuan.”

Wenzhan looked up. Confused, because his brother passed the belt to his righthand. Because fifty from Ziyuan would be lighter? Because Anjie couldn’t bear to beat his own brother? But even as he prayed that it was one of the two, he watched his brother remove his white outer robes. And in his thin black undershirt, pulling his hair over his shoulder, Anjie knelt.

“No. No, no—”

Jinyue grabbed him. Ziyuan lifted the belt. Wenzhan screamed. The first blow landed with a shrill, resounding snap. Ziyuan hesitated, a stripped expression as those copper eyes lingered on Anjie’s hidden back.

“My lord, no, please, this isn’t what we...”

Ziyuan lifted the belt again. The Songs fell into a shocked silence.

Nobody listened to Wenzhan, not when he yelled, not when he sobbed. But eventually, as Anjie lowered his head, his hair falling to hide his face, as the belt sprayed harsh splatters of blood across Ziyuan’s cold cheek, Jinyue’s grip on Wenzhan slackened. Wenzhan didn’t move. He couldn’t anymore. He understood. For the greatest transgression a man of House Guan could commit, fifty lashes were too lenient. They were never meant to be his punishment.

This was.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voiceless through the tears. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I will never do it again. Please forgive me. Please, no more...”

Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

When the lashes finally ended, Ziyuan dropped the belt like it burned their hand. Torn from the beating, it hit the floor with a heavy, wet thud. Anjie slowly pressed a hand to his stomach, silent.

“Jinyue,” said Ziyuan, toneless, “will you please escort our visitors to the gate.”

Shaking, Jinyue stood. Once he had gone with the Song family, Ziyuan collected Anjie’s sword, draped Anjie’s discarded outer robes over his body, and gently lifted their lord upright. As they left the hall, Wenzhan stared at his brother’s back. Red soaked through the crane white fabric.

Alone, Wenzhan curled in on himself. Trembling, he gasped against the floor, his tears streaking the wood. It was a long time before he realized he wasn’t crying alone anymore.

Little footsteps. Wenzhan looked up.

Wenbo stood by the bloody belt, her eyes red and her nose running. Her voice came in hiccups, stuttering and uncontrolled. She stared at Wenzhan, a look in her eyes as raw as his heart.

“I hate you,” she said.

“I…”

She picked up the damaged belt and ran away.

Some time after, a soft hand covered his shoulder. “Fifty would have killed you,” said Jinyue, later, as if that somehow lightened what they had just seen. But Wenzhan felt like execution would have been a kinder mercy.

----------------------------------------

“And here I thought the two of you had grown out of beating each other up,” said Sanhai, patting the medical oils into Anjie’s raw back. The lightness of her tone betrayed no concern, but then again, Sanhai had not so much as trembled when the Yulai army killed her husband and her son. She could not be bothered to rile over even the First Lord’s self-inflicted injuries.

Ziyuan sighed, leaning against the ward wall. “You’re villainizing me again, Doctor. He was the one who beat me up back then. And he was the one who made me do it today.”

Sitting on the bed, Anjie glanced sideways. “I’m sorry.”

His voice was still fainter than usual, but at least it was a voice. An hour ago, Ziyuan would have claimed magic if Anjie had spoken a word. Mercy to the boys—to the Songs too—that Anjie’s back had been facing Ziyuan alone. Fifty lashes, no bars held? It was impossible. For all the biological advancements of House Guan, even their old cranes were human on the surface. His shirt and skin had torn after one lash. The belt would have snapped after twenty. But even dealing the rest at half-strength, faint hints of Anjie’s silver bones had been visible by the end.

Blessings to the House for the endurance of the cranes. Ziyuan would not have known what to do if Anjie had collapsed before the end of the punishment.

Blessings for their expedited healing too. Now Anjie could be coherent while Ziyuan snarked at him.

“I don’t know if you’re too soft on or too cruel to your brother,” said Ziyuan. “That boy’s going to let anyone in Guilin pommel him into the ground now.”

Anjie made an irritated noise. Sounded like a growl. Uncharacteristic—probably the pain and the oils.

“What else was I supposed to do? The mother was right. Her son could have died.”

“If you wanted to be fair,” said Sanhai, “you should have beat the boy. If you wanted to teach him a lesson, you should have beat the boy.”

“I think I’ve done both just—ah—”

Sanhai had pressed a hot cell stimulant to his back, stamping it across the openings. Moments later, she pulled the bloodied device away and replaced it with a soft, medicated cloth.

“Anjie. You don’t get to hold their hands forever.” She cleaned his back gently now. “Your brothers and your sister will outlive you by a near century. What will they do in those hundred years if they’re still relying on you to protect them?” She paused, removing the cloth to stare at his back. Ziyuan glimpsed the peripheral span. The magnificent crane upon it was shredded by old scars and fresh, drying wounds. “Guilin as well,” said Sanhai, touching a white rift where there should be black ink. “I respect the decisions you’ve made, but you need to consider the future that comes after you. After us.”

“I have,” he said simply.

Sanhai sighed. “Pass me the bandages, Ziyuan.”

Ziyuan did this, then stayed to help Sanhai with the wrapping. Anjie’s skin was fevered to the touch, the result of overactive regeneration. This close, Ziyuan noted the details of the lashing. The House crane, with her beautiful body spread so proudly, now wore deep slashes across her throat. Blood still leaked from the cuts. Ziyuan repressed a shiver.

The wounds covered, Anjie pushed off the bed and pulled a set of fresh garments over his shoulders. He was tying the sash, straight-backed as ever, when a rapping came on the ward doors.

“Come in,” said Sanhai.

The door slid open. Ziyuan’s messenger boy glanced quickly at the trio, and then approached Ziyuan, offering a folded parchment. “News, Guardian.”

Ziyuan took the parchment. The boy bowed and left. The paper was light in Ziyuan’s hand, sleeker and paler than the traditional parchment of Guilin. Inside were uniform, machine-printed characters. A delivery from the outside world.

The ward was silent while Ziyuan scanned the message. Several bullets were less than relevant. A single point, flagged at the top, drew Ziyuan’s eyes for a linger. Afterward, Ziyuan folded the paper and slipped it in their pocket.

“Anzhou took Mosanguo last night. Xijia surrendered.”

Sanhai grunted. “That’ll do it. Quan Caihe might have her continental dynasty yet.”

Ziyuan looked at Anjie. After a moment, the First Lord said, “It is likely.”

Sanhai sighed. “Let’s hope she’s wiser than her predecessors.”

The corner of Anjie’s lips curved. “She is certainly smarter.”

“Why are you smiling about that? It’s not good news for us.”

“I’m impressed,” said Anjie, arching an eyebrow at the doctor. “She overthrew the sitting regent of Anzhou, re-established the Quan dynasty, and will probably unify the continent all within the span of two decades. I dare say she might rival the Tianxin Emperor in the histories.”

“He called it,” mused Ziyuan, unthinking.

Anjie fell silent. Ziyuan froze.

“Who?” said Sanhai, oblivious.

Ziyuan scratched the back of their ear. “Jun Musheng. Said Quan Caihe would have the continent within the second decade of the century.”

Sanhai laughed, a singular bark.

“Damn bastard. Wasn’t he clever. Shame he didn’t have a heart to go with that head.”

Anjie picked up his sword from the bedside and left the room.

Ziyuan frowned at Sanhai afterward. “That was cold, Doctor.”

“What? It’s true.”

Ziyuan shook their head and took their leave. Outside, Ziyuan caught up to Anjie in the corridor. He wasn’t walking toward his chambers.

“Where are you going? You need rest.”

“To see Ah-Zhan.”

Of course. The boy was a certain wreck right now.

“Go get some rest,” said Anjie. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

Ziyuan caught Anjie’s wrist. Anjie turned.

In the dim corridor, every imperceptible tell of the First Lord’s expression was laid bare to Ziyuan’s trained eyes. No truth ever escaped them. If Anjie said right now that he was as unbothered as he sounded, it would be a lie.

“I’m sorry,” Ziyuan said after a moment.

“For what?” said Anjie.

Ziyuan hesitated. That apology was weighted, weighted with curses and blood, with desperate pleas and helpless tears, with damning accusations beneath the old and unburnt lake trees, with a decade and a half of time. After thinking, Ziyuan could only reply, “I’m not sure.”

“Then don’t apologize,” said Anjie. He slid his arm free from Ziyuan’s grasp. The corner of his lips lifted, and yet the softness he intended for Ziyuan did not reach his eyes. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for, Ziyuan. You were right, were you not?”

Anjie turned around, adjusting the loose weight of his garment.

“In any case, it hardly matters anymore.”

Ziyuan looked at the ground, silent.

Lie.

----------------------------------------

When the wood rapped, Wenzhan was a half-dressed mess sprawled across the bed. Only when he recognized Anjie’s voice did he scramble to adjust his shirt and rub the wetness from his face. Heart pounding, he stumbled to the door and shoved it open.

Anjie stood in clean robes, as if untouched. Seeing him straight-backed and calm, Wenzhan fell to his knees. He wanted to clutch the soft fabric in front of him, but he dared not touch his brother. Curling near the ground, he said, “I’m sorry, An-Ge. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry…”

A sigh.

“Will you let me inside first, Ah-Zhan?”

Clenching his jaw, Wenzhan shifted back from the frame. Anjie shut the door gently. His brother moved away momentarily to light the nightstand candles, and then returned to the door. Perhaps seeing that Wenzhan was not going to move far from the frame, Anjie sat kneeling across from him. His soft fingers brushed Wenzhan’s chin and lifted his face upward. Wenzhan shut his eyes at the touch, his skin horribly electric.

“Look at me, Ah-Zhan.”

A cold washed down his bones. Wenzhan opened his eyes, willing the lump in his throat to dissipate on its own. No chance, not when he saw that painfully beautiful face caressed by the firelight.

Anjie folded his hands back in his lap. With a faint frown, he said, “You didn’t answer me properly in the hall. Why did you hurt that boy, Ah-Zhan?”

Wenzhan swallowed. At the first chance he got, his eyes flickered downward again.

“I was angry,” he said, because it was the first thing that came to his unsteady mind.

“You would not hurt someone merely because you are angry.”

“Does it matter? I beat him. He was vulnerable. Does it matter why?”

Anjie paused.

“It does not matter by the oaths of our house,” he said after a while. “But it matters to me.”

Wenzhan’s fingers dug into his legs.

“He said you were the reason I turned out like this,” whispered Wenzhan. When he heard his own words, he shook his head fiercely, looking at Anjie. “It isn’t true. It isn’t your fault. I’m just—I’m just fucked up. I shouldn’t be here, I shouldn’t be in this house...with you, I...”

Love you.

“Oh, Ah-Zhan.”

Anjie stood. Took two steps forward. Wenzhan looked up.

Before he could blink in the shadow, his brother had knelt again. Arms encircled his back, pulling him into a warm embrace. Wenzhan could feel the fevered heat of his brother’s skin, the hard rhythm of his tried and tired pulse. He could smell the blood and the oils, the faint undertone of lily ginger. Taste the gentle brush of those lips in his hair.

But his delusional want was staggered by a quiet whisper.

“I’m sorry, little brother.”

“Why are you apologizing?” He paused. “Why...why are you crying?”

Anjie did not respond immediately. At last he said, “Because my family was made to protect Guilin, and yet I don’t know how to protect my family from this place.”

The zither beneath young Jinyue’s fingertips, trembling that moonless night.

“I don’t understand.”

The embrace tightened. Wenzhan slipped his hand within the soft folds of Anjie’s robes, drinking in the vulnerable warmth. He rested his head against Anjie’s shoulder, breathing the gentle scent of his pulse.

“It’s okay. You don’t have to understand it.”

“An-Ge?”

Anjie pulled away. In the candlelight, the remnant tears that glistened along his cheek struck Wenzhan breathless. Pain swallowed his chest, and shame, his gut.

Please, Heavens, spare me this.

“I don’t want you to fight anyone for me,” said Anjie softly. “If you fight, it must be to protect. Do you understand?”

Wenzhan nodded numbly.

“I don’t want you to say those words. That you are fucked up. That you don’t belong here.” Anjie shook his head, his eyes not leaving. “There is nothing wrong with you, Ah-Zhan. And none of us belong here. We were simply born here.”

“How do you know there’s nothing wrong with me?”

How did he know, if he didn’t know that his voice broke softly in the most vivid of his brother’s dreams? If he didn’t know that his lips were feather-soft and spring mint in those same dreams? If he could not even see that in this very moment, Wenzhan would give a decade of his life to lean forward and kiss him, hold him, have him?

Anjie gripped his shoulders. His copper eyes burned.

“Because you are good. And in this world, that is all that matters.”

Wenzhan blinked.

Anjie withdrew and rose. A slow motion, perhaps tinged with the ache of his wounds. But he spoke gently anyway. “Tomorrow, will you come have breakfast with us?”

Wordless, Wenzhan nodded.