She remembered his breath on brow, tinged with faint celestial energy fragrance, more soothing than any pill or elixir in the world.
“Mr. Chance…” Gathering courage, Lyra tipped chin up until eyes met the smile hiding in his. “What does Earthly Immortal Realm feel like to you?”
“It feels like this…” He raised his hand toward a boulder half a dozen paces away and closed his fingers in the air. The iolite, waist-high, shattered without a sound into neat, even slabs.
“I used to look at a mountain and see only a single mass. Now I can read the veins inside every rock.” Jared’s fingertips brushed cheek. “Just as I can sense the flutter in your spiritual energy right now. Thinking about the tower again, aren’t you?”
Heat flooded Lyra’s face. She yanked hand free, stepped back, and gave a mock-glare. “You’re teasing me again, Mr. Chance!”
But protest held no real bite; it drifted over like spring wind rippling across a lake, leaving only soft rings of warmth. She turned toward the sect, walking slower than before, deliberately leaving half a step for to catch up.
Jared watched hurried little retreat, shoulders shaking with a low laugh. He lengthened his stride until was beside her, gravel crunching beneath their boots in companionable rhythm.
Lyra halted, rummaged in item pouch, and offered a tiny brocade sachet. “Here. Dried Unity Flower. Keep it on you. Old texts say the flower helps cultivators fight with a single united mind.”
She had stitched the sachet with threads drawn from own primordial spirit yarn. At one corner, hid a minute sword-shaped motif, the quiet badge of every disciple of Sword Sect.
Jared accepted the embroidered sachet. It weighed no more than a petal, yet its delicate warmth spread through his fingers as If Lyra had pressed a living heartbeat into his palm.
He raised it to his nose. Cool mountain-bloom mingled with the faint trace of skin, a scent steadier than any warding magical item had ever had. He tucked the sachet behind the inner fold of his robe, letting it rest against his chest.
“I’ll hold on to this,” said, voice low. “When I’m back from Darkwind Gorge, I’ll teach you a new sword technique, one I grasped during my last breakthrough. It should fit the flow of your spiritual energy perfectly.”
Lyra’s eyes flared with light, and nodded hard. “Deal!”
They continued along the forest path without further words. Yet every accidental brush of an elbow, every shared glance while ducking beneath a low branch, rippled like secret stream, water-quiet, constant, impossibly gentle.
Near the sect gate, Lyra halted, remembering something. She drew a thumb-sized jade vial from sleeve and offered it, almost shyly, across the narrowing space between them. “Keep this on you as well…”
Inside shimmered a soft pink ointment had brewed from Snowskin Herb.
“I won’t need it,” Jared said with a grin, trying to push the vial back.
“Take it…” Her voice, usually gentle, carried a sudden steel. Color flooded cheeks. “Darkwind Gorge crawls with foul spirits. I-If you’re hurt, this salve draws out poison.”
Words spent, spun and hurried through the archway. Her skirts skimmed the stone steps, leaving a dotted trail of dusty footprints that faded almost as soon as they appeared.
Jared lingered, the still-warm vial resting in his palm. He watched until silhouette vanished among the Cloisters, then slipped the vial into his item pouch with exaggerated care and a quiet smile.
A gust threaded the gate, carrying distant sparring shouts from the practice yard. Jared inhaled the wind, squared his shoulders, and strode toward Sword Sect.
Lyra reached dormitory walkway, legs trembling. The simple act of walking felt wrong; every step drew a small wince could not completely hide.
“Ms. Snowdon, are you hurt?” a younger disciple asked, alarm widening his eyes at unsteady gait.
He hurried to side, concern outweighing protocol in a single breath. Lyra’s face flushed crimson. Words tangled in throat. She shot a pleading glance toward Jared, hoping would help.
